10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Annie
The late spring sun filters through the enormous glass windows of Robbie’s school as I step into the front lobby, the air cool and tinged with the faint smell of fresh wax on the tile floors. The space is as fancy as you’d expect from a private academy where tuition probably costs more than my annual salary used to be.
Hell, it probably costs more than what my salary is now.
Polished wood accents frame the walls, and a chandelier that looks like it belongs in a five-star hotel hangs in the center of the room.
Everything is pristine, from the velvet ropes separating the check-in area to the impeccably dressed woman manning the front desk, her blond bob sleek and her smile professionally practiced.
“Good morning. Here for Field Day?” she asks as I approach.
“Yes,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my crossbody bag. “I’m Annie Fox. I’m one of the volunteers.”
She scans her clipboard and then nods. “Ah, yes, here you are. The volunteer coordinators are meeting in the auditorium. Just follow the signs down the main hallway. ”
“Thank you.” I give her a polite smile and follow her directions, my flats making soft thuds against the gleaming tile as I walk.
The school is just as extravagant on the inside as it is on the outside. Wide hallways stretch ahead, each lined with custom-built frames painted in the school colors with portraits of what must be prominent people. The walls are adorned with framed artwork and plaques that showcase decades of academic and athletic achievements.
I shake my head as I pass a display case filled with trophies, thinking about how different this place is from the schools I grew up in. It’s not just another world; it’s another universe.
The auditorium is buzzing when I step inside, filled with volunteers gathered in small groups, chatting and laughing. Some of them look like they belong on the cover of a magazine—perfect hair, designer clothes, and an air of ease that comes from having more money than they know what to do with.
But it’s not just parents. There are plenty of nannies and other household staff here, too. You can tell by the way some of them hover, quiet and deferential, their hands folded neatly in front of them as they listen to instructions.
The wealth in this room is staggering, but what stands out more is the lack of actual parents.
I sigh, my chest tightening as I think about Robbie. This is supposed to be a fun day for the kids, a chance to run around and let loose. But for so many of them, their parents couldn’t even bother to show up.
Like Cole.
What’s the point of all that money if you can’t take one day to spend with your kid?
I force the thought away, scanning the room for the coordinators.
“Hi, excuse me,” I say, approaching a woman with a clipboard who looks like she’s in charge. She’s middle-aged, with curly dark hair and a kind smile.
“Hello,” she says, looking up. “You’re here to volunteer?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “I’m Annie Fox. I actually wanted to talk to you about a small adjustment, if possible. Robbie, Robbie Wagner, the student I’m here with, is very shy, and I don’t think he has many friends.” I lower my voice when saying that, though Robbie is nowhere near. “I promised him that if he doesn’t have anyone to do some of the events with, I’d step in. Would that be okay? I know we’re volunteering, but…”
Her face softens, and she nods. “Of course. That’s no problem at all. Just let us know when and where, and we’ll make sure to have someone cover your station.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved.
“It’s no trouble. Field Day is about fun, after all.” She winks before turning to greet another volunteer .
I step back and find a spot near the wall, watching the room while I wait for the meeting to start. The chatter is loud and lively, with volunteers swapping stories about their kids or catching up on gossip.
I glance at my phone, checking the time. The students are still in their classrooms, which gives us some time to prepare.
My thoughts drift to Cole as I tuck my phone back into my bag. I haven’t seen him in a week—not since... that night.
My cheeks heat at the memory, and I shake my head, willing it away.
It’s probably deliberate, his absence. And honestly, I’m fine with that. It’s not like I’m eager to have a conversation about what happened.
But Robbie? He hasn’t mentioned seeing much of his dad either. Sure, I was at my apartment last weekend packing up my things, so maybe they had time together then. But somehow, I doubt it.
Cole doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who clears his schedule for family time. He’s too busy running a billion-dollar company, too consumed by work.
I try to imagine him here, wearing one of the bright blue Field Day T-shirts they were handing out to volunteers, maybe manning the water station or cheering kids on at the relay race.
The image is laughable.
Cole Wagner at a Field Day? Not a chance .
I sigh, my gaze drifting to the window where the sun is shining brightly over the school’s immaculate courtyard.
“All right, everyone,” the lead coordinator calls out, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Let’s get started!”
She steps up to the podium at the front of the room, her clipboard in hand. The crowd quiets, and I shift my focus back to the task at hand, determined to make today a good day for Robbie—even if his dad couldn’t be bothered.
***
The warmth of the mid-morning sun beats down on the school grounds, a reminder that summer is just around the corner. The green fields stretch out ahead of me, dotted with clusters of kids laughing, running, and shouting as they move between the colorful event stations. A faint breeze cuts through the warmth, ruffling my oversized T-shirt and offering some relief.
Robbie is glued to my side, his small hand clutching the edge of my shirt as we navigate the field. His grip tightens every time we pass a loud group of kids or an enthusiastic volunteer calling for participants.
“You’re doing great so far,” I tell him with a smile, hoping to ease some of his nerves.
He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly, his messy brown hair flopping into his eyes.
Robbie hadn’t lasted five minutes before retreating to my side. I’d barely managed to finish setting up the beanbag toss station before he came over, his wide hazel eyes scanning the crowd nervously.
His quiet, “Can I stay with you?” was enough to melt me, and I quickly flagged down another volunteer to take over my spot.
We’ve already tackled the wheelbarrow race and frisbee golf. Well, tackled might be a stretch. I mostly encouraged, and he mostly hesitated. But he did both, and that’s a win in my book.
Now, as we weave through the event stations, I can feel how tense he is, his small frame practically glued to me.
“Robbie,” I say softly, crouching down to his level so we’re eye-to-eye. “You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, right? We can just watch for a while if you’d rather.”
He nods again but doesn’t say anything, his gaze fixed on the ground. I know he’s wishing Rexy was with him by the way he’s clutching his arm tightly to his side.
“Okay,” I say gently, standing up and ruffling his hair. “How about we get something to drink and figure out what we want to do next? Deal?”
He peeks up at me, his grip on my hand loosening slightly. “Deal,” he murmurs .
We make our way to the refreshment table under a striped canopy a few feet away.
The table is surrounded by bright coolers filled with juice boxes, water bottles, and sliced fruit. The scent of fresh oranges and strawberries lingers in the air. A group of volunteers stands behind it, handing out drinks to a small crowd of kids and a few adults.
As we wait in line, I scan the field, trying to spot an event that might catch his interest. We’ve already skipped the sack race and the three-legged race, both of which Robbie insisted were “too loud” and “too hard.”
“What about the egg-and-spoon race?” I ask, pointing to a quieter station nearby. “That one looks fun.”
Robbie glances over but doesn’t respond.
“Two juices, please,” I say to the cheery volunteer.
Robbie stays close to me as we wait. His eyes dart nervously toward a group of kids who’ve just joined the line beside us, their excited laughter filling the air.
“They’re doing tug-o-war next,” one of the kids says loudly. “We just need one more person.”
Robbie inches closer to me, his hand now gripping the fabric of my shirt like a lifeline.
I glance down at him, watching as his hazel eyes flick toward the kids before darting away. He looks like he’s hoping they won’t notice him.
“Here you go,” a volunteer says, handing me two cups of juice. I thank her and crouch down, holding one cup out to Robbie.
“Here you go, bud.”
He takes the cup with both hands, his grip careful but firm. He doesn’t drink right away, just holds it like he’s using it as a shield.
The kids at the table keep talking about their tug-o-war plans, their voices lively and filled with anticipation.
“We’ll be the strongest team out there,” one boy boasts, puffing out his chest.
“Not if we can’t find one more person,” a girl points out, rolling her eyes.
I glance at Robbie again. His head is down, his focus seemingly fixed on his juice, but I can tell he’s listening.
I take a sip of my drink, an idea forming in my mind.
“How about we check out the tug-o-war station next?” I say casually.
Robbie finally looks up at me, his brow furrowing. “I thought you wanted to do the egg-and-spoon race.”
“We can do that after,” I say with a smile. “Then, when it gets hotter, we can do the water balloon toss. We have plenty of time.”
He hesitates, his fingers tightening around the cup .
“Let’s just go see what’s up,” I add gently.
Reluctantly, Robbie nods.
Together, we make our way toward the tug-o-war section, following the group of kids as they laugh and joke with each other. Robbie stays close, his steps slower than mine, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
The station is set up on a stretch of grass marked off with bright orange cones. A thick rope lies coiled in the center, its frayed ends resting on the ground.
A volunteer stands nearby, clipboard in hand, explaining the rules to a small group of kids.
“Two teams, five people each,” she says. “First team to pull the rope across the line wins.”
Robbie’s grip on my hand tightens as we step into the line. The same kids ahead of us are bouncing on their heels, their excitement practically vibrating off them.
When it’s our turn, I approach the volunteer with a friendly smile.
“Hi,” I say. “We’d like to join in.”
The volunteer looks at me apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry. This event is for kids only. No adults allowed.”
I feign a dramatic pout. “Aw, shoot. I was really looking forward to it.”
Robbie tugs on my arm. “It’s okay,” he says quickly. “We can do something else.”
But his eyes are glued to the scene in front of him.
The kids on one side of the rope cheer loudly, trying to pump themselves up. The other team, short one player, looks around hopefully.
“That team needs one more person,” the volunteer says with a smile for Robbie.
As expected, Robbie shrinks back into me with a wide-eyed look of fear.
“What if you joined that team? They could really use your help,” I suggest, crouching down to Robbie’s level.
His eyes are still wide, and he immediately shakes his head. “No, I can’t.”
“Sure, you can,” I say gently. “It’s just a game. And we’ll do the egg-and-spoon race right after, I promise.”
He hesitates, his gaze darting between me and the group of kids.
“We already waited all this time in line,” I remind him. “It’d be a shame to leave now.”
Robbie bites his bottom lip, uncertainty written all over his face.
“It’s just one game, okay?” I say, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “And I’ll be right here the whole time. ”
Finally, he nods, though he looks like he’s about to be tortured.
I stand and guide him toward the kids, my heart swelling with pride at his bravery despite how scared he is.
“This is Robbie,” I say to the group, smiling. “He’s going to join your team.”
The kids cheer, happy they have their five-person team. Robbie looks nervous but manages a small smile as he takes his place at the rope.
The sight makes my chest ache in the best way.
I step back, watching as the volunteer organizes the teams and explains the rules to them.
“All right, everyone ready?” she calls.
The kids nod, gripping the rope tightly.
“On your marks, get set—pull!”
The rope stretches taut as the kids dig their heels into the grass, their faces scrunched in determination. Robbie is at the back, his small hands gripping the rope with all his strength.
“Come on, Robbie!” I cheer from the sidelines, clapping my hands.
The kids strain and pull, their team slowly gaining ground. The other team stumbles, losing their footing, and with one final heave, Robbie’s team pulls the rope across the line.
“We did it!” one of the kids shouts, throwing their arms in the air.
Robbie looks up at me, his face lighting up with a shy but genuine smile.
“You were amazing!” I say, clapping as he runs back to me.
But before he can reach my side, the group of kids surrounds him.
“Hey, Robbie,” one of them says. “Wanna play Animal Tag with us?”
Robbie freezes, his gaze darting to me, suddenly uncertain again.
I nod encouragingly at him and gesture for him to go. “Go ahead. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates, his fingers twitching nervously.
“They’ll show you how to play,” I add gently. “And I’ll be right here if you need me.”
After a long pause, Robbie nods and turns back toward the kids.
The kids chatter excitedly, pulling him along as they run toward the next station.
I watch him go, my heart swelling with pride and relief. For the first time today, Robbie isn’t clinging to my side. He’s just a kid, laughing and playing like he’s meant to.