Page 64 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Dinner. Athena’s careful voice. Her question about being a father that I treated like a trap. Her face tightening when I answered. The silence afterward that I accepted as closure.

She wasn’t asking for what could happen if we continued the relationship. I thought, at the time, she wanted to know if there was a chance we could ever have kids.

She was looking for safety, and I offered cruelty dressed up as honesty.

Athena wipes strawberry off the child’s wrist and says something that makes the little girl beam again. The child’s curls are dark and stubborn like her mother’s, and Athena’s fingers move through them with automatic tenderness. The more I look, the more I see how much she’s got in common with me. She has the same mouth, the same eyes, the same stubbornly angled brows. Everything about her face reminds me of myself, except the hair and her smile. Those are Athena’s.

A father pushes his son on the swings across the park, and the little girl watches for a moment with a thoughtful expression. She turns back toward Athena and asks something that makes Athena’s pencil slow slightly, then Athena answers.

The child brightens instantly.

Athena’s smile appears and disappears quickly, like she doesn’t allow herself to sit in it for long.

The park stays ordinary around them while my head turns into a room full of alarms. I stand there and take in the details with the same attention I use in surgery, except this is not a body on a table, it’s a life I never knew existed. The child leans into Athena’s shoulder, sticky and confident, and Athena doesn’t flinch.

I feel anger rise, and it has nowhere clean to go.

It aims at Athena for hiding this, then it swings toward me for earning the silence in the first place. It settles on the version of me who sat at a table and talked about women using children as leverage while Athena tried to decide whether to trust me.

The child hops off the bench and runs toward the grass with a squeal, joining a pack of kids attempting to organize chaos into a game. Athena watches her with an expression that looks both exhausted and proud, then she turns back to the sketchbook and keeps drawing like this is a normal afternoon.

I keep my distance. I don’t want this to become a scene in front of families and strangers and children. I stand at the edge of the path and watch Athena pack up the sketchbook, fold the blanket, and gather the tote like she’s done this a thousand times.

The sky shifts toward that softer color that signals dinner time, and the park begins to empty in slow waves. Athena calls out, and the little girl comes sprinting back with the reckless confidence of a child who believes her mother will always be exactly where she left her.

Athena takes her hand.

They start walking.

I let them get far ahead before I move.

I follow at a distance that keeps me out of her line of sight, and I adjust my pace when she pauses to fix the child’s shoe. I cross the street when they cross, then I slow when they slow, and I keep my hands in my pockets so I don’t look like a man reaching for anything.

I hate this.

I hate the part of me that feels forced into it, and I hate the part of me that still wants answers more than it wants to be polite. Still, I keep going, and I keep my distance, and I watch Athena lead her daughter through the neighborhood like she’s walking a route she trusts.

The building they enter is a few blocks from the park, and the moment I see it I understand why she chose this city. It’s quiet. It’s anonymous. It’s full of people who don’t care about Hawthorne’s hierarchy or Nathan Clarke’s name. Athena unlocks the door, the little girl darts inside, and Athena follows with a practiced glance down the sidewalk.

She doesn’t look far enough back to find me.

I stay on the opposite side of the street and watch the entrance close, then I stand there longer than I should. My body feels full of motion and restraint at the same time, and I don’t like either.

I return to my hotel without thinking about the route.

The lobby smells like cologne and polished wood. The front desk staff greets me like I’m harmless. I nod, step into the elevator, and let the doors close while my mind keeps replaying storm-gray eyes and strawberry smeared cheeks.

In my room, I drop my keys onto the desk and sit on the edge of the bed without taking off my shoes. My phone lights up with conference updates and text chains from colleagues, and I ignore every one. My hands rest on my thighs, then I lace my fingers together like I’m trying to keep myself from doing something reckless.

I’m in Portland for work.

Athena lives here with a child who looks like me.

Both things are true.

I don’t know how to hold them at the same time.

I stand and pace once across the room, then I stop and force myself to think in sequence. Athena has a routine. Athena has a child. Athena deserves privacy. I am not entitled to crash into her life and demand anything, even if the child’s eyes make my throat tighten every time I picture them.