“He told me,” I say, trying to match their excitement. “Sounds like fun, huh?”
Blakey nods, beaming, just as thrilled as Max. Which says everything.
This isn’t about go-karts.
It’s about spending time with their dad.
And just like that, the anger flares again. Because who was it that stopped showing up? Who decided late nights and weekends away were fine, like we weren’t waiting, missing him? Like he could just... fade out of our lives?
“That’s awesome, honey,” I say to Blakey, voice too bright. “I’m sure Dad’ll take you to do all sorts of fun things. You’ve got six whole days together. The entire cruise.”
I turn to Beckett, jaw tight. “Right, Dad?”
He meets my gaze, an answer and its own challenge. “They get me for longer than that.”
Don’t go making any more promises you can’t keep.
NOT SLEEPING
ASHLEY
Later that night, after helping Mom tuck the boys into their bunks and listening to their overlapping bedtime stories—“Hulk vs. Thor: The Final Battle,” revised aggressively by Max—she shoos me away with a tired smile.
“Go find your husband, sweetheart. I’ve got them.”
Your husband.
My stomach lurches, because someday—soon—she’s going to learn the truth. And she’s going to be so disappointed.
But not tonight.
“Thanks, Mom.”
I linger in the hallway outside her and the boys’ shared cabin, just for a second. It’s quiet now that Max and Blakey have been put to bed, but if I strain a little, I can barely make out the sound of hushed conversation and their boyish giggles. Not sleeping yet, but safe. Happy.
I walk away. Up a flight of stairs, and then down the long corridor to our suite.
When I open the door, the scent shifts immediately—blue jasmine, clean and cool, hotel-perfect.
The door closes behind me with a quiet click.
All around, the ship hums. Distant music drifts in through the balcony door. Laughter. The sounds of celebration floating up from somewhere below—everyone else enjoying their happily-ever-after.
But in here… Beckett is standing near the sofa bed, already pulled out.
Wearing those gray sweatpants.
He’s had them since college—soft and worn thin at the knees, dangerously familiar in all the wrong places. I’ve seen him in them hundreds of times, maybe a thousand.
They represent lazy Sunday mornings. Coffee. Cartoons. The boys tumbling into bed with us while we pretended to sleep.
Now, they just look... intimate.
I stop.
Completely still, because I’ve forgotten what’s supposed to come next.
This room is meant for romance. A king-sized bed. Soft lighting. An elite retreat.
