Chapter Eight
DECLAN
The house is quiet.
No hair dryer blowing. No singing drifting out of Sophie’s room.
Just me, the steady tick of the kitchen clock, and the bitter steam curling up from my coffee mug.
Sophie stayed the night at Maya’s after the BBQ. She has sleepovers all the time; it shouldn’t feel strange.
But the quiet this morning has an edge to it. Too still. Too reflective.
I take a slow sip of coffee, lean my elbows on the counter.
And my mind goes where I don’t want it to.
Charlotte.
The porch last night. The way she looked in the moonlight. The way she stepped in to fix my knee brace when she didn’t have to.
How easy it was to let the words tumble out before I realized I was handing her pieces I don’t give anyone else.
That kiss—if you can even call it that—wasn’t supposed to happen.
I shouldn’t have leaned in. Shouldn’t have let the moment stretch.
It was the way she listened—no fixing, no judging—until the room felt safe enough that I forgot to hold the rest back.
But I did.
And now I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from Sophie.
Mom says she’s DEFINITELY coming to my musical! She promised again this morning!!! ??
Shit.
I stare at Sophie’s text, thumb hovering over the screen.
She’s excited. Hopeful. It’s written all over the exclamation marks and that little pleading emoji she always uses when she really wants something.
I want to believe Vanessa will show up this time.
For Sophie’s sake.
But hope is a risky thing when it comes to her mom.
My phone buzzes again, and I see it’s Mom calling.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Morning, sweetheart. How’s the knee?”
“Still attached,” I say, leaning back in the chair.
She laughs softly. “Well, that’s something. You rehabbing hard?”
“Always.”
In the background, I can hear the faint creak of the back door and my dad’s voice calling something about the paper.
Mom lowers her voice. “Your dad’s been worried about you. Keeps saying that Blake girl must have the patience of a saint.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.”
“She always was a determined little thing,” Mom says, fondly. “Sounds like you’re in good hands.”
There’s a pause, and I hear my dad cough in the background. It’s rough, the kind that makes my gut clench.
“Is Dad okay?” I ask.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she says, but her tone softens. “Just his usual morning struggle. The cardiologist just adjusted his meds again. You know your father. He thinks following instructions is optional.”
“Tell him to take it easy,” I murmur.
“I do, every day. He listens about half the time.”
I can picture her smile through the sigh. Then she says gently, “We’re proud of you, you know. Tell Sophie we’ll be watching the livestream of that musical if we can’t make it up. Your dad’s hoping the doctor will approve him for travel before then.”
“That’ll make her day,” I say quietly.
After a beat, she asks, “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just a long week.”
“I know,” she says. “Hang in there. Things have a way of working themselves out, even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too.”
The call ends, and the kitchen feels a little less empty. But thinking about Sophie’s musical makes something tighten in my chest.
She deserves that night to be special, uncomplicated.
Which means I need to remind Vanessa.
I open a new message and type.
Sophie’s musical is May 29th at 7 PM.
I wait.
A few seconds tick by.
Then the three dots pop up.
And vanish.
Then finally, Vanessa’s response:
??
One emoji.
That’s it.
My stomach knots.
I set the phone down, a little harder than necessary, and drag a hand over my jaw.
That’s the problem with Vanessa. She doesn’t lie outright. She just makes promises sound easy—until she doesn’t follow through.
And Sophie? She always believes her. Every single time.
I let out a slow breath and stare into the coffee like it might give me answers.
It never does.
I lean back in the chair, the ache in my knee flaring as I shift.
It’s been three years since the divorce, and it still hits like a punch every time Sophie hangs her hopes on someone who’s already let her down.
We got married because she got pregnant.
It wasn’t some grand love story.
I thought I could make it work because of Sophie. Because I wanted to be the kind of dad who showed up.
But Vanessa was always chasing something else.
First, it was photography. Then digital marketing. Then brand coaching. Then “entrepreneur empowerment retreats.”
She built an audience fast—travel, style, aspirational lifestyle stuff—and she was good at it. Slick captions, glowing skin, those carefully curated moments that looked like presence but never really were.
She missed Sophie’s third-grade concert because she was speaking on a panel about “authentic connection.”
The irony still makes my teeth clench. I can still see Sophie onstage, craning her neck toward the back row every time the door opened.
She forgot her ninth birthday entirely. I covered for her. Took Sophie to the zoo. Told her her mom sent the flowers late.
She was always saying “this opportunity could be huge.”
But huge for who?
When she cheated three years ago, it was almost a relief. The final straw I needed to walk away.
Not that I told Sophie.
She just knows her mom and I didn’t work. That we grew apart. That sometimes people who care about each other can’t stay together.
I told her the sanitized version. The one that wouldn’t make her question everything.
Because the truth?
The truth would hurt more than it would help.
And I’d take the hit a thousand times before letting her carry it.
I stare at Vanessa’s thumbs-up reply until the screen goes dark.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and exhale slow, steady. My knee throbs beneath the brace, a dull reminder of everything that’s out of my control right now.
But I can at least control this:
I’ll be at that musical.
Front row. Flowers in hand. Camera ready.
Even if Vanessa flakes, Sophie will look out and see me.
And as for last night?
That near-kiss?
I tell myself it was the beer. The late hour. A moment of vulnerability.
Nothing more.
And for one second I let something slip.
It won’t happen again.
I’ve got enough mess to navigate without adding that to the pile.
She’s my physical therapist. My best friend’s little sister.
That line is thick, bright, and non-negotiable.
I reach for the ice pack, strap it tight over my knee, and push to standing.
Time to get my head on straight.
PT starts in an hour.
Last night didn’t just cross a line; it shook one loose. She made it feel safe to talk, and that’s what I can’t stop replaying.
By the time I walk into the training room, I’m ten minutes early, but she’s already here.
Charlie stands at the counter, reviewing something on her tablet. Long blonde hair up, team jacket zipped, twirling her pen, calm as ever. She doesn’t flinch when I enter—just taps the screen, then glances over her shoulder.
“Morning,” she says.
“Hey.”
That’s it. No reference to last night. No shift in her tone. Just clinical professionalism.
I sit on the table, adjusting the strap on my brace as she approaches. My knee’s already stiff. Everything else? Stiffer.
She doesn’t bring up the kiss—or whatever that was. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe she’s just better at pretending than I am.
She starts warmups without hesitation. Light mobility checks. Measured cues.
I go through the motions like a machine, giving short, clipped answers to her questions.
Then she steps closer to recheck alignment. “Okay, let’s see where you’re tracking today.”
She crouches beside the table, fingers braced just above my kneecap as she checks how it’s tracking.
Just pressure. Just protocol. Nothing else.
But the second her fingers graze my skin, something tight sparks through my chest.
It’s still here. Quiet. Heavy. Dangerous.
And I hate how much I feel it.
Her hand lingers for half a second, then she straightens.
“All good,” she says, tone smooth. Controlled.
She moves on like nothing happened. I nod like I believe her.
But I feel it everywhere now.
Every time she brushes past me. Every time she holds a stretch a second longer than necessary. Every time her voice dips to explain a new sequence.
I’m hyper-aware of her.
But she’s unreadable.
Toward the end of the session, she adjusts the outer strap of my brace.
“How’s that feel?”
“Fine.”
Lie.
It’s too tight. Or too loose. Or maybe just that she’s touching me again and I’m not built to handle that today.
I grit my teeth, keep my mouth shut, and finish the damn protocol.
She logs notes on her tablet like I’m just another patient.
I should be grateful for that—neutral is clean, neutral is safe—but it grates anyway.
I tell myself that’s a good thing.
That I need her to stay neutral.
That I want her to act like last night never happened.
But the truth?
It’s messing with my head.
And I don’t know how the hell to shake it off.