Faye.
She’s stationed near the window, arms crossed, wearing her teacher uniform of a pencil skirt, soft cardigan, hair in that low knot I’ve fantasized about undoing. Her expression is serious, but when our eyes meet, heat gathers in her irises, the honey deepening to gold. Her gaze skims over me in a way that’s 100 percent not professional. Is she checking me out?
Her stare drags down my legs, taking in the chinks, the dust on my jeans, then back up to the work shirt that’s faded and worn thin at the seams.
She wets her lips in a quick, unconscious gesture that—fuck, not now.
When she glances up again, I raise my eyebrows in a silent question: How much trouble is he in?
She gives me the tiniest nod. A reassurance.
I greet the room with a tense, “Good afternoon.”
Principal Hughes replies on behalf of the adults and thanks me for coming, just as the door opens again behind me. I step aside as two more people file in. Ford and Julie Beeman. Julie takes one look at her son’s black eye and gasps.
“Jordan! Oh my gosh, what happened?”
The kid swats her off as Ford hisses, “Stop fussing, Julie.”
“Now that everyone has arrived,” Principal Hughes says, his voice carrying an edge of authority that makes even the adults straighten to attention, “we can discuss what happened.”
He launches into a lecture about Harbor Point’s zero-tolerance policy on violence, how fighting is never acceptable, and how we need to model better conflict resolution for our children.
Yeah, okay. But I want to know who started it and why.
“I hope proper punishments will be given for such acts,” Julie Beeman cuts in, shooting a venomous look at my son. “This is assault.”
“He started it!” Rhys bursts out.
“That’s not true!” Jordan fires back, his voice high and indignant. “He wouldn’t let me use the swing!”
“Because I was using the swing,” Rhys protests. “You can’t take it when someone else is on it.”
“You’d been on it forever?—”
“I was on it for five minutes.” Rhys’s voice cracks, frustration bubbling up. “And you shoved me off and said?—”
He stops. His mouth snaps shut, and he looks down at his hands.
“Said what, Rhys?” Faye’s voice cuts in, encouraging.
My son doesn’t answer.
Apprehension coils behind my ribs. Whatever the kid told him was bad enough that Rhys doesn’t want to repeat it.
“Rhys,” Hughes prompts gently. “What did Jordan say?”
Rhys’s hands curl into fists on his lap. When he speaks, his voice is small. “He said I’m a crybaby, and that’s why my mom abandoned me.”
The admission is a fist to the stomach.
Everything in me goes still. Cold. My chest seizes with hurt and white-hot protectiveness. It roars up so fast I have to lock my jaw to keep from saying something I’ll regret. I’m furious at Abigail for leaving, for creating this damage just by being absent. Furious at this kid for weaponizing my son’s pain. And furious at myself for not knowing how to fix it, for not having the right words to explain to Rhys why his mother walked away.
Because how do you tell a seven-year-old that it wasn’t his fault?
How do you make your kid see that he’s enough—more than enough—when the person who should’ve loved him most decided he wasn’t worth staying for?
“And then Rhys told me I was stupid and couldn’t tell my ass from my mouth,” Jordan adds quickly.
