“How do you know that?”
“Aunt Becky sent Grandma a video.” He grins, proud of this intelligence. “She showed me. You were fantastic.”
Textbook Rebecca to film it and send it to Mom. My family knows no boundaries.
“Dancing with someone doesn’t mean you date them, bud.”
“But you could. She’s not married. I asked.”
“You asked Miss Rose if she’s married?”
“Yeah. She said no.” He drags a piece of pancake through the syrup lake on his plate. “So you could marry her. Then she could live with us, and I’d get to see her all the time, not just at school.”
Pressure builds behind my sternum. Rhys has never brought up the absence of his mom or the possibility of me dating someone. He’s never seemed to care or notice. And now he’s plotting to matchmake me?
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Why?”
Because she’s your teacher. Because I can’t stop thinking about her, and that terrifies me. The last time I let myself want someone, she left me holding a baby and a note that said she wasn’t cut out for this life.
“It just is.”
Rhys considers this, chewing. “Aunt Becky says you need to get, mmm…” He scrunches his nose. “I forgot the word. But it was a bad one, so I can’t say it, anyway.”
“Good call.”
I sit across from my kid with my coffee going cold, more destabilized than when Abigail left. Sunday mornings are my favorite part of the week, when it’s just the two of us. No rushing to get him to school or me to the fields.
Except today, there’s a third person with us. And Rhys seems as obsessed with her as I am. My mind keeps circling back to the shock of having Faye pressed against me when I yanked her out of that fight. To the way her hands dropped to my chest—small and warm and gone too fast. To the dance and how I walked away right after to prove I still had some self-control left.
Turns out, I don’t.
We finish eating, and I rinse the plates, watching soap bubbles swirl down the drain. I dry my hands on a dishtowel, checking the hour. “Come on, time to head to Grandma’s. Go brush your teeth.”
Today I have to change the AC filters at the cottages. Normally, I’d do it during the week, but since we have a long-term tenant, I scheduled the appointment ages ago for them to be around. It would’ve felt weird to be in someone’s home without them present. Only at the time, I didn’t realize Faye was staying in cottage four. And how could I? I didn’t know her a week ago.
Rhys mutters a few protests, but shuffles to the bathroom and comes back once he’s ready. I help him gather his favorite toys in a small backpack, different from his school one.
Five minutes later, we’re in the truck, windows down, morning air still cool enough to be pleasant. Rhys chatters about his plans for the day: helping Grandma with her garden and convincing Uncle Remy to let him ride one of the gentler horses.
He asks me when I’ll be back. I tell him in time for lunch, and that if he doesn’t convince Remy, I’ll give him a riding lesson in the afternoon.
This earns me back daddy points after refusing the parrot and the lizard. I drop him off with my mom and drive off quickly to avoid being interrogated about that video. The cottages are a ten-minute detour off the main road, nestled along the lakeshore where the land flattens and opens up to the water. We renovated them last spring—new roofs, updated kitchens and bathrooms, full interior and exterior overhauls, and decks added to every unit.
They’re small but functional, each house with two bedrooms and two baths. Close to town but with enough privacy the renters can pretend they’ve escaped civilization.
Three cottages are empty this weekend, normal since it’s still low season. Two are rented to weekenders from St. Louis. I’ll come back on Monday for those.
And then there’s cottage four.
Faye’s cottage.
I save it for last, like a kid saving the best Halloween candy. It’s silly.
I sit in the truck outside her place for a full minute, staring at the front door as if it might offer answers. My toolbox sits on the seat beside me. Why am I so nervous? The appointment was scheduled weeks ago through Rebecca. This isn’t some excuse I made up to see her. It’s just work.
Except my palms are sweating. My heart is beating too fast. And I feel like a teenager about to ask a girl to prom, not a thirty-two-year-old man doing routine maintenance.
