Jace runs off with the truck. I close the door, but I don't walk away yet. Something keeps me still. I peek through the window as Gabe heads down the path toward his car. That's when I hear a voice from across the yard, loud enough for the whole street to hear. "Well, look at that," Sarah calls from her porch. "Looks like someone has a sugar daddy situation."
I freeze on the spot as my breath stops and my face goes hot. There are a lot of ways I could respond to this comment, but none of them sound fitting enough. I settle for just trying to tire Jace out until bedtime and hopefully get some sleep.
11
LENA
I wake up in full crisis mode, which is honestly rude because I went to bed with the clear goal of unconsciousness. My eyes open, and my first thought is not coffee or breakfast or "where is my child?" It is:Did my neighbor just accuse me of having a sugar daddy?Followed by:Do I technically have a sugar daddy?Followed by, even worse:Would having one be the worst idea in the world right now?
With a groan of despair, I bury my head in my pillow. Jace kicks me in the ribs because at one point, he came to my room after a nightmare and we stayed up awhile reading from his favorite book of jungle animals. He somehow turned sideways in his sleep and now claims ninety percent of the bed. I poke his foot, to which he wiggles but does not wake up. Classic.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling like it owes me answers. It does not. I get none. Instead I get a running list in my head.
Gabe saw my son.
The neighbor saw Gabe.
The whole street probably heard her.
Jace has a toy truck now.
I fucked Gabe like a starving woman.
My life is a mess.
I need coffee.
I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, doing the standard morning routine while mentally screaming into the void. My reflection in the mirror looks exactly how I feel—hair everywhere, shirt crooked, and face showing the stress of someone whose past walked straight through her front door and said hello to her future. "Perfect," I mutter. "Beautiful. Thriving."
I splash cold water on my cheeks until I can pretend to be functional. Halfway through brushing my hair, the doorbell rings and makes me freeze. No one rings my doorbell this early unless it is a package. Or, God forbid, a person. Risking the exact look of a cartoon burglar, I tiptoe to the door and peek through the peephole. The sight makes me squint, because it looks to be a grocery delivery comprising a mountain of bags, the kind of haul you'd get if you were planning to feed a family of twelve.
With a frown, I open the door and step outside. The delivery guy lifts a clipboard.
"Order for Lena M.?"
"That's me," I answer, confused.
He hands me the bags one by one. Fresh berries. Cheese. The brand of pasta I love but refuse to buy because it is too expensive. A box of cereal Jace adores. Milk. That fancy oat barbrand I only buy on my birthday. Nuts I'm not allergic to. The exact jam I use on everything.
"Wait," I say, shaking my head in bewilderment. "This is a mistake."
He checks his little screen. "It says paid online. Special instructions say to handle the dairy bag gently."
"That is very specific."
He shrugs. "People have their quirks."
"Who placed the order?"
"Notes say it was from a Gabe."
My stomach drops like it is trying to run away.
Of course it was.
He stands there patiently, waiting for me to sign. I do it with a shaking hand. He waves and heads back to the van.
I stare at the bags.
