Page 53 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

I scroll anyway, for proof she was real, for proof I didn’t imagine how open she looked when she trusted me. I type a message then delete it.

Nothing I can write at midnight will undo what I did at dinner, and nothing I can write will be clean enough to say what I actually mean.

I want you in my life, and I’m afraid of what that costs.

I don’t send anything.

Instead I set the phone down again and pace the length of the kitchen, then the living room, then back. My mind keeps building the same picture of the evening and trying to fix it in hindsight.

Her hands around her water glass.

The way her eyes watered, then she looked down like she was trying to hold herself together.

The way she said she was tired when I asked if she wanted to tell me something.

That was the moment I should’ve stayed.

I should’ve taken her hand. I should’ve told her I’d listen, and I should’ve made it impossible for her to think she had to carry anything alone.

I didn’t.

I drove her home and told myself it was respect.

It was fear.

I change into sweats and a t-shirt then sit at the edge of my bed with my elbows on my knees and stare at the floor. My house is quiet enough that I can hear the refrigerator click on and off, and it makes the silence feel staged.

Athena asked about family.

She didn’t ask casually.

She asked like it mattered.

I run a hand through my hair and let my thoughts go where they want to go, even though I don’t enjoy it. If she’s thinking about family, if she’s thinking about children, then something brought that question to her mouth tonight.

It could’ve been Nate.

It could’ve been fear.

It could’ve been a moment where she suddenly realized life moves fast and people lie. Or it could’ve been something else entirely, and I sat there and bullied her into saying nothing.

Tomorrow I’ll fix it. I’ll meet her after her shift, and I’ll talk to her like a man instead of a cautionary tale. I’ll ask what she meant, I’ll listen to the answer, and I’ll be honest about my own boundaries without turning them into a weapon.

I want her, and I want the way she looks when she laughs like she forgets she’s been hurt. I’m not naïve enough to pretend that means instant commitment, and I’m not arrogant enough to pretend I can keep her without giving something back.

But I can give her honesty. I set an alarm for early.

Sleep comes in pieces, not a clean stretch.

When the morning arrives, I’m already awake.

I move through the house with routine speed, dress in a suit but pack scrubs, knot my tie, check my phone, then hesitate with it in my hand like it’s heavier than it should be. There’s no message from Athena. No good morning. No sharp little line that tells me she’s recovered from last night’s conversation.

I tell myself she’s asleep as I get in the car anyway and drive to get some errands done. My shift at Hawthorne doesn’t begin until later, so when I walk in, it’s already busy. Security waves me through. The elevators are full of nurses with clipboards and residents pretending they’re not tired.

I step onto the trauma floor and the day starts moving at full speed. A consult request comes in. A resident wants approval for imaging. A nurse asks for a call back to pediatrics about a transfer.

In the next hour, I’ve already been in one bay and reviewed three charts, signed a stack of paperwork that shouldn’t exist, and I’ve spoken to administration about staffing like they aren’t asking for miracles with half a budget.