Page 55 of Dancing in the Dark

Sera.

Too intimate. Too friendly. Too familiar.

Sera.

That cocksucker.

I slouch into the sofa and wedge my shoulders between cushions, my knees spread wide and my hand wrapped around a beer that long ago turned warm.

I should go to bed. Fuck knows, I hardly slept last night. Or the night before. Or really, any night in the last five years since my baby came into the world. I should take this opportunity to crawl under the covers, maybe even swallow a sleeping pill or two to ensure eight consecutive hours.

But I can’t do it yet. Not until my mind slows and my stomach stops twisting around details I have no right to obsess over. Mia’s allowed to care about people other than me, and Sera’s allowed to know people, even the adult male kind, and I get no say in the matter.

Who she speaks to while wearing a gown and heels and really beautiful fucking hair is none of my business, and staying inside a grand hotel in the penthouse suite, where she could simply invite someone else up for a drink and conversation is…

Fuck. It’s enough to make my blood boil. But who the hell am I to push ‘my wife cheated and I’m a jealous idiot’ trauma onto someone who doesn’t deserve it?

I’ve already hurt Sera in the past with my toxic Jada bullshit. That one argument, a single loss of control, landed me with months of complete silence from the only woman I truly wanted to confide in.

So I lock it all in now. I swallow it down and vow never to repeat my mistakes.

Groaning, I scrub a hand across my face and tip my head back, and because I’m desperate for time to pass, I check my phone again and absorb the devastating realization that only forty-six minutes have passed since our call ended.

Forty. Six.

I swear, they feel like a thousand.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text, Cato’s name lighting up my screen, so I tap on his message and pull up a new photo not all that different from the one he sent me an hour ago; Mia’s chubby cheeks, her fat, pouty lips, and the red bear tucked under her chin. But unlike last time, she wears a silky eye mask.

Cato:

The flashing lights from my TV woke her up, so I improvised and bossed the hell out of this dad’ing gig. No clue why people complain. Parenting is easy!

She thinks the mask is cool as hell, so now you’ll have to buy her a dozen.

I’m gonna stop texting after this one, since they’re becoming kinda redundant and you’re probably headed to bed soon, anyway.

If she wakes up or freaks out, I’ll contact you. Otherwise, we’ll see you in the morning.

Me:

Where the hell did you get that mask? It better not be a souvenir left behind by one of your fuck buddies.

If I find out it is, I’m gonna wring your fkn neck. Secondly, she’s only five. What if the mask slips down her face and tangles around her neck? You can’t let a kid her age have these things.

Ya know what? Take it off her, then wake her up and tell her I’m on my way. She’ll wanna sleep in her own bed anyway.

Cato:

The mask was in a pamper pack thing I bought for Aubree. Since she might be pregnant soon, I wanted to buy her something nice to help her relax. It had all sorts of shit in it, like face creams and wheat bags and… I don’t even know. Random girly shit.

I thought it was a nice thing to do.

So, no, Detective, the mask isn’t a sex trophy I gifted to a FIVE-YEAR-OLD!

Chill the fuck out. Second, the strap is stretchy, and if she tugs on it, the little Velcro ends will pop apart. It would be impossible for her to choke herself.

Third, I’m literally sitting on the floor beside her, dipshit. You need to stop being such a fkn bitch. It’s gross. I’m not saying you can’t come here and grab her, since she’s your kid and all that, but I’m saying if you come here and wake her up, she’ll panic. If she panics cos her dad’s a bitch who decided to traumatize her in the middle of the night, then I’m gonna cave the side of your skull in.