But even as I throw myself into my work, I can't shake the feeling of his hands against my skin, the memory of his whispered words still echoing in my ears. I know that this is the end of our story, the last chapter in a brief but intense affair.
As I steal one final glance in his direction, I can't help but wonder if the memories of our time together will be enough to sustain me in the days to come.
Only time will tell. For now, all I can do is move forward, focusing on the things that truly matter—my son, my marriage, and the life I've vowed to protect at all costs.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I toss a box of Cheerios into my cart with more force than necessary. Two weeks. Two weeks since I last saw Caine, and I'm still a complete mess.
"Mommy, can we get the chocolate ones?" Liam tugs at my sleeve, pointing at the sugary cereal with cartoon characters plastered across the box.
"Not today, buddy." My voice comes out sharper than intended, and I immediately regret it when his little face falls. "I'm sorry, sweetie. Maybe next time, okay?"
I ruffle his hair and try to focus on my shopping list. Milk, eggs, bread—the mundane staples of a life I used to find comfort in. Now everything feels... flat.
Colorless.
As I push my cart down the produce aisle, I can't help wondering where Caine is right now. Is he at somefancy tournament? Is he thinking of me at all? I imagine his hands, those long, elegant fingers wrapped around a cue, his intense concentration as he lines up a shot.
God, I need to stop this.
I grab a bunch of bananas, mentally calculating how many days they'll last before turning brown. This is my life now—counting banana days and clipping coupons while daydreaming about a man I have no business thinking about.
"Jenna?” A voice startles me from behind. It's Melanie from down the street, looking concerned. "You okay? You've been staring at those bananas for like two minutes."
"Just tired," I lie, forcing a smile. "Liam had a rough night."
She nods sympathetically.
We chat for a brief minute or two, and when she leaves, I continue shopping on autopilot.
Before Caine, I was... what? Content? Not exactly, but functional at least. Now I'm irritable, distracted, snapping at my son over cereal. What kind of mother does that make me?
Last week, when Reeves confronted me about the extended session with Caine, I nearly lost it. "I'm not your property," I'd hissed, while he stood there looking both angry and hurt. "Greg isn't my babysitter." Stupid,annoying Greg. Of course, he reported me to Reeves… what a dick.
The fight that followed was ugly. We said things we shouldn't have. Things that can't be unsaid.
I reach for a carton of eggs, checking each one carefully for cracks—a metaphor for my marriage.
Two weeks without Caine feels like an eternity. I check my phone compulsively, hoping for... what? He's not going to call. He's probably forgotten all about me already, moved on to his next tournament, his next conquest.
But still, I find myself scanning YouTube late at night, hoping to catch a glimpse of him playing, winning, being the brilliant man I know he is.
This has to stop. I have a life—a real one—with responsibilities and people who depend on me. I can't keep living in this fantasy world where Caine and I have any kind of future.
But god, I miss him. I miss him so much it physically hurts.
I fold another one of Liam's small t-shirts, smoothing the wrinkles with my palm before placing it in the neat pile on the coffee table. The mindless rhythm of folding laundry usually soothes me, but today my thoughts areelsewhere. It's been three weeks since I last saw Caine, since his beautiful eyes have left me both breathless and confused.
I've been trying to convince myself that it's better this way. Better to focus on my family, on Reeves, on Liam. Better to forget the way Caine's eyes light up when he smiles, the way his voice drops to a whisper when he says my name.
The doorbell startles me out of my thoughts. I glance at the clock—too early for Reeves to be home from the pool hall. I toss the half-folded towel onto the couch and head to the door.
A deliveryman stands on my porch, holding a large open box. Another box sits at his feet.
"Delivery for Jenna Sullivan?"
"That's me," I say, confused. I haven't ordered anything.
