Chapter 13
FAYE
The Switch controller slips in my sweaty hands as I pivot into another hip thrust, following the on-screen dancer through a move that I would be embarrassed to make if anyone could see me.
My living room has become a one-woman dance club, complete with enthusiastic flailing and selective coordination—exactly how I planned to spend my Friday night.
Not at the Moonshine. Definitely not hoping to run into a certain cowboy with eyes that give nothing and promise everything.
That I’m even holding a controller again is a small miracle.
For months after everything fell apart, I couldn’t even look at a console without my lungs clamping down, air skittering uselessly against my throat.
But Blue Crescent Harbor has worked its quiet magic on me.
Six-year-olds who hug my knees at dismissal and leave crayon drawings on my desk.
New friends who keep inviting me out even when I act like an insufferable grump.
The lake at dawn, mist clinging to the surface until the sun burns it away.
Like this town has burned away the darkness inside me. Somehow, it healed me.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, barely audible over the thumping bass of whatever pop song the game is torturing me with. I ignore it, throwing myself into a series of arm movements that must look like I’m trying to swat invisible bees.
Sweat trickles down my spine, soaking into my sports bra. This is good. This is healthy. This is me not thinking about last night’s parents meeting or the way Ryder Evans’s eyes held mine when I gave him my number. He hasn’t texted me yet, not even to give me his contact.
That phone buzz from a second ago suddenly takes on a different possible meaning.
I pause mid-kick, the game freezing on a “PERFECT!” that feels like a mockery given how imperfect everything in my life is right now, and set the controller down.
I grab my phone where a message banner from an unsaved number glows on the screen.
Missouri area code, but that could be anyone. A telemarketer. A wrong number.
Even so, my heart does a little dance routine of its own. In my gut, I know it’s him.
I grab my water bottle from the floor, taking a long sip.
Water dribbles down my chin. I wipe it with the back of my hand, then pull my oversized hoodie on over my sweaty body.
The fabric sticks uncomfortably, but if the message is from who I think it is, it won’t be a one-text kind of night—better to face it hydrated and warm.
I drop onto the couch cushions with a soft whoosh and open the message.
Unknown
For research purposes, what are the duties of a parent chaperone?
My heart doubles down with a ridiculous skip-hop-jump combo more complicated than anything Just Dance could throw at me.
I save the number before responding, typing “Ryder Evans” with unsteady fingers.
Then, because I’m a coward who needs plausible deniability even in my own contacts list, I add (Rhys’s father) in parentheses.
As if there’s any universe where I could forget which Ryder Evans this is.
But this way is better, more clinical. A reminder that he’s a parent in my class and nothing else.
Or it is pathetic. A fig leaf over my growing obsession. Still, it makes me feel less like I’m losing my mind over a man I can’t develop feelings for.
How do I reply?
Faye
Mostly ensuring no one gets lost or injured
I keep it simple. Professional. I’d answer Bettany Harlow the same way. I send it before overthinking it. Then I ruin it with a follow-up message.
Faye
Luckily, they’re still too young to worry about accidental pregnancies
The moment I hit send, I get a full-body cringe.
Why did I say that? Why would I make a pregnancy joke to a single father?
I want to throw the phone into the lake.
Follow it and hide underwater where no light or sounds can reach me.
So many reasons that text could land wrong.
Was Rhys an accident? Is that why his mother left?
Because she had a baby when she wasn’t ready?
I don’t know how old Ryder is—early thirties, if I had to guess.
He would’ve been in his mid-twenties when he had Rhys.
Young, but adult enough to handle the responsibility.
But his ex might have been younger. By how much?
Was she still college-aged when her life got derailed by an unplanned pregnancy?
I want to know more about Ryder’s past. But I also never want to picture him with another woman. Just the thought of him with Rhys’s mother—or any woman—makes a crippling ugliness twist in my stomach. Which is insane. I have no claim on him.
The contradiction sits heavily in my chest, uncomfortable and unwelcome.
My phone buzzes in my hand, jerking me out of my spiral.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
I’m severely unprepared to handle a teenager
The response makes me exhale in a laugh. He’s not offended. He’s joking back.
I’m still smiling as I type an unsafe reply.
Faye
If things get rocky, you always have that lasso
I’m flirting. Blatant, obvious flirting. The kind I swore I wouldn’t do with Ryder Evans.
He replies quickly.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
Still talking about the kids, right?
My entire body goes warm, my internal thermostat cranked up to a hundred degrees.
We’re in dangerous waters now, the kind that could drown us both if we’re not careful.
But the distance helps. The fact that we’re not face to face makes it easier to pretend this is innocent. Just banter. Nothing serious.
So instead of swimming to shore like a sensible person, I dive deeper.
Faye
Why? What other uses do you have for that rope?
I bite the pad of my thumb, waiting. The three dots appear. They disappear. Reappear. Disappear again. He’s writing and deleting, figuring out how to respond. The anticipation is killing me. My heart pounds hard in my throat until the next ping.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
So many possible answers to that question, Miss Rose
The formal address shouldn’t be hot. It’s how we call each other in front of other people, maintaining a professional distance.
But in this context, with that sentence?
It feels like a leash on his manners, one he uses to conceal dirty, dirty thoughts.
It ignites a spark low in my spine that rolls up my back to my nape.
I want to hear him say it out loud, or whispered in that gravelly voice that scrapes across my skin.
Would he do it if I asked? With him, it’s hard to tell.
He gives me enough to keep me hooked, but never enough to know where I stand.
Dancing with me at the Moonshine, then walking away the second the song is over.
Sending texts with double meanings but keeping just on this side of proper to be reasonably innocent.
Never revealing himself. Never committing. It’s maddening. It’s intoxicating.
I decide to push. Just a little.
Faye
Any favorites, Mr. Evans?
His reply pops in quickly.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
Are you trying to get me in detention?
The three dots appear again before I respond. I wait, breathing hard, to see what he’ll say next.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
I wouldn’t mind too much if you were the supervising teacher
I nearly drop the phone. That’s not so subtle anymore. It’s a direct hit to the chest. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like I might combust right on this couch.
I should stop this. Shut it down. Remind him—remind myself—that I’m Rhys’s teacher and this can’t happen.
But I’ve been on edge all night. The book club ladies invited me out again, and I said no to prove to myself that I wasn’t going to the Moonshine hoping to see Ryder. Which begs the question.
Faye
Are you out?
A beat passes before his response comes through.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
Are conversation pivots your specialty?
I huff a laugh, typing back.
Faye
Are you out or not?
Another pause, even longer…
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
No. I’m sprawled on the couch with Rhys on top of me
He passed out mid-movie
The image slams into me with the force of a battering ram. Ryder on his couch. Rhys curled up on his chest, small body rising and falling with sleep. Ryder’s large hand resting on his son’s back, protective and gentle. The movie playing to an audience of one while the other dreams.
This is worse than if he’d said he was at the Moonshine surrounded by women. It’s a different side of him. The devoted father who stays in on Friday nights. Who lets his son use him as a pillow. Who’s probably been watching some animated movie on repeat because that’s what parents do.
Another text arrives.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
You?
Faye
At home, blowing off steam on the Switch
“Blowing off steam” is a polite way of saying “trying to sweat out inappropriate feelings for you through vigorous virtual dancing.”
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
What game?
Faye
Just Dance
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
Practicing for our next one?
Is that an invitation? I don’t ask him; instead, I do as I do best and deflect. I can play a game of chicken as well as he does.
Faye
Do you have something else you need to apologize for?
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
Is that the only reason we can dance?
What is he asking? Permission for me to end up in his arms again?
I can’t answer that. Can’t open that door, no matter how much I want to. So, I deflect once more.
Faye
I thought you didn’t go out much
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
Only if it’s worth it
Does he mean me, or the band? I’m pretty sure he means me. I want him to mean me.
He texts again.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
I have to put this tiger to bed. I’ll let you know if I have more questions before our trip. Goodnight, Miss Rose
And there it is. The shutdown. The careful step back just when things are getting heated. He gives me glimpses of possibility, then retreats before either of us can do something we might regret.
Or might not regret, which is the scarier option.
It’s confusing. This push and pull, the way he draws me in and then steps back, leaves me wanting.
Or I waited too long to reply, and he was worried he’d pushed too hard. Who knows? With him, nothing is certain. The ground keeps shifting.
Faye
Night, Mr. Evans. Any doubts, I’m always available
I leave that door open on purpose, subtext: It’s okay to text me.
Faye
Kiss Rhys goodnight for me
I don’t know why I add that last part. It’s too familiar, too intimate. Asking him to kiss his son for me implies a level of connection we don’t have. But the words are already sent, hanging in the digital space between us.
Ryder Evans (Rhys’s father)
Lucky him
Two words. That’s all.
I sag against the couch, hugging the phone to my chest like a teenager with her first crush. The screen dims, then goes dark against my hoodie.
A teenage crush is what this buzz feels like. Same dizzy anticipation, same terrible, wonderful ache of wanting someone you’re not sure you can have.
Interacting with Ryder is a tricky thrill.
A rush that I shouldn’t want but can’t resist. I crave more of it and less of it in equal measure.
Less of the confusion, the uncertainty, of this push-and-pull that leaves me off-balance.
More of his attention, his humor, more of the fire he lights up in me, the blaze that fizzes over my skin until I turn into the human version of New Year’s sparkles.
The TV screen has gone dark, the game long since timed out. My workout is abandoned, endorphins replaced by a different high. The kind that comes from flirting with disaster via text message on a Friday night.
I should get up. Shower off the sweat and the confusion and the want that’s taken up permanent residence under my skin. I should do something productive with my evening that doesn’t involve mooning over Ryder Evans.
Instead, I stay right where I am, staring at that last “Lucky him,” desperate to decode the secrets behind those words.
I can’t bring myself to care if it’s wrong.
I want more texts. More dances. More sparks.