Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I lie on the bed, staring up at the sparkly chandelier while Reeves paces the room like a caged lion. His heavy footsteps echo in my ears, a reminder of the tension crackling between us.
The familiar weight of anxiety settles in my chest. I turn my head and watch him, trying to get inside his head. This has got to be hard for him. I can see the muscles in his jaw working as he grinds his teeth—a habit he's had since I met him years ago. His face is flushed with anger.
"The fucking gall of that man," he seethes, running his hands through his hair. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"
"I know," I say, though my heart beats a little faster at the thought of Caine's intense green eyes. "It's like I'm some object he can just... purchase time with."
Reeves stops pacing and looks at me. "The whole thing is weird. He's so fucking weird."
I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. "How do you know him anyway? You two seemed to recognize each other."
He turns away, adjusting the blinds unnecessarily. "Just from around."
"Reeves."
He sighs. "Fine. I knew him from the pool hall years ago. We got into it once."
"A fight? Over what?"
"Does it matter?" He shrugs. "Ancient history."
"Who won?" I ask, genuinely curious.
A cocky smile spreads across his face. "Who do you think?"
I roll my eyes but can't help smiling back.
Still, I can't shake the thought of Caine's offer. As insulting as it is, something is thrilling about it, too. It would just be pool, after all. A spark of excitement flickers deep within me. A small voice warns me it’s a bad idea—but part of me is intrigued by him. I quickly shove those thoughts aside.
"We could really use the help with the rent," I say carefully. "Just until we figure something else out."
Reeves’s expression darkens. He crosses the room and kneels beside the bed, his eyes searching mine.
"Are you attracted to him?" he asks bluntly.
The question catches me off guard; heat floods my cheeks.
I think of Caine's elegant movements, his measured words, the way he studies everything with those penetrating eyes. I shake my head too quickly, forcing a laugh instead. “He’s a little too flamboyant for me,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “Seems cocky as shit.”
Reeves laughs, tension leaving his shoulders. "Yeah, he is cocky as shit.”
He takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "I don't trust him, Jenna. Not one bit. But I do trust you."
We talk for what feels like hours, weighing the pros and cons, the absurdity of it all. Eventually, logic wins out over pride. We need the money—desperately.
"Okay," Reeves finally says. "We'll do it. But at the first sign of anything weird, we're done."
I nod, relief and something else—excitement?—washing over me.
He leans in, his lips finding mine with an urgency that's both familiar and unsettling. The kiss deepens, his hands slipping beneath the fabric of my shirt, tracing the familiar contours of my body.
As we make love, I close my eyes tightly, trying to focus on the sensation of Reeves’s touch, the solidness of our relationship, the life we've built together.
But despite my best efforts, Caine's face keeps intruding—his slow, knowing smile. Guilt twists like a knife in my stomach, a painful reminder of my betrayal. I chastise myself for these wayward thoughts, but they come unbidden, as if my mind is a traitor to my heart.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, tugging at my messy bun. My eyes look tired, and I take in the slight crookedness of my incisor, visible when I smile. I turn sideways, pinching the softness around my waist.
"Nothing to write home about," I mutter.
Why would someone like Caine even look twice at me? He's tall, successful, sophisticated—everything I'm not. I'm just... average. Five-foot-four and perpetually ten pounds over where I'd like to be.
God, I’m being way too hard on myself. Reeves says I’m beautiful, and I should believe him. I do like some things about me. I’ve inherited my mom’s Bette Davis eyes, and my long red hair always draws compliments. So, there’s that.
I slip on my favorite flowy skirt and pink top, then immediately pull them off. Too much. Too obvious. I want to seem casual, like I don't care, even though my racing heart proves otherwise. For some bizarre reason, I want to look good for Caine. The thought makes my stomach twist with guilt.
Liam sits cross-legged on my bed, watching me with those big brown eyes of his.
"Mommy petty," he says, his little face serious.
My heart melts at his innocent compliment.
His speech therapy is helping, but he still can't pronounce his Rs, turning "pretty" into "petty" in that adorable way that makes me want to scoop him up and cuddle him forever.
It's the sweetest sound in the world, one that reminds me daily how blessed I am to be his mom, even when times are tough.
"Thank you, baby," I whisper.
I finally settle on worn jeans and a plain work t-shirt, my usual uniform. I apply minimal makeup, debating the mascara before skipping it. The lipstick, though—I hesitate, then swipe it on quickly. Immediately, I feel ridiculous. Why am I trying so hard? This is just a few pool games, not a date.
I wipe a smudge from the corner of my mouth with my pinky finger.
The lipstick looks good—the soft pink color brightens my face, but the guilt creeps in again.
It's not like Reeves would notice anyway—he barely looks up from his paperwork these days—but something about putting on lipstick for another man makes my stomach knot.
I toy with my messy bun, debating whether to wear my hair up or down. Jesus, listen to me. I'm overthinking everything like a teenager.
"God, this is exhausting," I sigh, grabbing my bag.
I gather Liam's things—his communication notebook, lunch box, extra clothes, and his favorite dinosaur toy he refuses to leave home without—and usher him to our ancient car parked in the cracked driveway.
The check engine light has been on for weeks, glowing orange like a persistent reminder of our financial situation, but there's no money for repairs.
One more thing on the endless list that keeps me awake at night, right between ‘pay the electric bill’ and ‘find money for Liam's next therapy session.’
Liam's Montessori school appears around the corner, its cheerful playground visible from the street. The sight of the bright yellow slide and rainbow-colored climbing structure makes my heart lift, even through my exhaustion.
The place specializes in children with special needs, and the difference in Liam since starting has been miraculous.
He's making friends, communicating more.
Just last week, his teacher, Miss Fiona showed me a drawing he'd made with another little boy—stick figures holding hands beneath a lopsided sun.
It was the first time he'd willingly participated in a shared activity.
These small victories keep me going, even when the tuition bills make my stomach clench with anxiety.
Yes… it also costs a fortune we don't have.
Just last week, Reeves brought up pulling him out. The memory still stings. I couldn't bear it—watching my son lose the one place where he's thriving. So as bizarre as Caine's offer is, if it means keeping Liam in this school, I'll shoot pool with the devil himself.
I arrive at the pool hall, my heart pounding like I'm sixteen again.
The familiar smell of beer and pine cleaner greets me, but today everything feels different.
Caine stands by our usual table, racking the balls.
He's traded his usual business attire for distressed jeans and a vintage Metallica t-shirt that hugs his chest in all the right places.
I don't know a single Metallica song, but suddenly I'm their biggest fan.