PARIS
ONE
“No, sweetheart. You can’t wear your baseball cleats to daycare. Can you please go put on a pair of normal shoes, then we’ll see if Uncle Memphis will take you to play catch later?”
“This sucks,” my six-year-old son, Rhys, says, his little shoulders slumping as he hangs his head. “How will the Renegades players know I like sports if I look like a regular kid?”
“First of all, watch your mouth,” I reply, giving him the sternest look I can muster when he’s so damn cute.
“And secondly, Mommy works in the owner’s office, and that’s where the daycare is, but I don’t think you’ll get to see any of the players yet.
That’ll come Saturday at your first football practice.
The pamphlet said that sometimes they drop by to help the coaches. ”
His eyes go wide. “I hope Maddox Dane is there! Did you know that he passed for four-thousand five-hundred yards last year? That’s the second best out of everyone!”
I do my best to look shocked, my jaw dropping dramatically, even though I have no idea what the hell he just said. “That’s amazing! I bet he practices a lot.”
“He does!” he replies, his adorable smile—which is currently missing a top tooth—on full display as he talks about one of his idols. “His girlfriend is a coach! Did you know that, Mom? Her name is Olivia!”
I can’t help but grin back at him, impressed by all the names and statistics he’s able to recall at his age.
But the kid is all about sports, spending hours watching replays of games and committing them to memory, so he can spout them off to anyone who’s willing to listen.
He’s just like my brother, Memphis, who plays professional baseball here in Cleveland.
They’re two peas in a pod. They have been since the day Rhys was born.
In fact, Memphis has been more present in my children’s lives than their own father, which I’m eternally grateful for, even though I want to slap myself for ever marrying a man who could be so complacent in all the ways that matter most.
Braxton Bellamy was my high school boyfriend, who I was certain I was in love with by the time we hit the eleventh grade.
Both of us were raised in very strict households, with a list of rules that spanned miles.
We weren’t allowed to stay out past dark or go to parties—and there was certainly no tolerance for experimentation with alcohol or drugs.
Sex was taboo, as well, our parents teaching us that it was meant to be shared between a husband and wife after their wedding.
The birds and the bees talk was never had, nor was any conversation about safety and condoms. So, when I got pregnant at seventeen, our families were shocked, to say the least.
Immediately, my parents and the Bellamys decided that Braxton and I would get married and live separately until we graduated high school, where he would use the money his wealthy great-grandfather left him to buy a house, pick up his own college tuition, and pay our bills until he finished his bachelor’s degree.
I was to stay home with our son, Rowan, and raise him while Braxton built a future for us.
It was what my mom and dad did, and what they wanted for me, despite any big dreams I had for myself that said otherwise.
I was content for a while, the whirlwind of motherhood keeping me occupied enough to not realize that it was the only thing I had going for me. My social life was abysmal, my name disappearing from everyone’s invitation lists the moment I told them I was pregnant.
Rhys was born just two short years after Rowan.
He wasn’t exactly planned any more than his brother was, but Braxton and I were in a much better place financially by the time he arrived.
With his inheritance and some extra help from his parents after they got over their initial disappointment, he was able to finish school and start his own accounting firm, affording us the luxury of buying a home at just twenty-three years old.
And because I didn’t know any better, I thought I was happy.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Braxton and I never had that explosive kind of connection—the one you read about in romance books and see in movies.
We went from two clueless virgins to married with a child in just over a year, and everything got more monotonous as the days went by.
He never bought me flowers or pulled me into empty rooms at parties simply because he couldn’t keep his hands off me.
In fact, I felt like most of the time, sex was just an obligation for us both.
I had my suspicions toward the end of our marriage that maybe he was getting what he needed from someone else.
But either I was just being paranoid, or he was really good at hiding things, because I never found any evidence to support the idea.
He had completely pulled away, despite my desperate efforts to fix things.
It got to a point where we were nothing more than strangers who just happened to live in the same house.
One random quickie after he came home from a night out with friends led to the conception of our daughter, Lennon, but after that, I don’t think we even slept together again.
She’s about to be fifteen months next week, which tells you just how long it’s been since I was touched at all.
It’s not that I’m trying to be celibate.
In fact, the moment I took my wedding band off, leaving it on the kitchen counter the day I left Braxton for good, I vowed that I would give myself all the experiences I never had.
I’d take a little time to grieve my failed marriage, but eventually dust myself off and get back into the dating game. Sounds easy enough, right?
Wrong. So fucking wrong.
Turns out, moving on—even from a relationship where I was undervalued and treated as a second thought—isn’t nearly as simple as you’d think it would be.
I spent so many nights crying myself to sleep, wondering if I was the problem like Braxton said I was.
Not only was it scary as hell to think about putting myself out there, but as a single mother to three kids—whose ex-husband is no help when it comes to co-parenting—who would even want me?
I’ve got more baggage than an airport Lost and Found.
I may only be twenty-six years old, but I have little people that depend on me to make the right decisions every day, so I can’t screw up.
There’s no way I can date casually, confusing my children with a revolving door of men that I might not actually be compatible with.
I’d have to get to know them really well first before I’d even introduce them to the kids.
Then what happens if they don’t like the guy?
It’s not like I could ever continue seeing someone they weren’t one-million percent comfortable with.
We’re a package deal, and in situations like that, they have just as much of a say as I do.
Good luck, random suitors. Rowan doesn’t like anyone.
“Hey, Mom,” the little man in question says, breaking me from my own self-loathing.
My sweet, caring first-born, who instinctively took on the role of man of the house from the very first day we moved into our modest three-bedroom home just outside of Cleveland.
I’ve assured him time and time again that I’ve got everything covered, and that he should only be worrying about normal eight-year-old things like playing and schoolwork, but he still begins and ends every day making sure that I’m okay.
I love him with my whole entire heart, and I hate how my broken marriage has made him feel like he has to be a grown-up already.
“Hey, buddy,” I reply, scurrying to the stove, where I’ve prepared him two pieces of French toast. “Did you sleep okay? Are you excited for your first day at the Renegades facility?”
He shrugs as I set the plate down in front of him, picking up his fork and cutting into the fluffy stack. “I guess. I don’t see why I can’t just stay here while you’re at work. I could clean the house and stuff.”
I lift a brow. “Baby, you’re eight years old.
I’m pretty sure I could get put in jail for that.
Plus, don’t you want to make some new friends for the summer?
I bet there will be lots of fun stuff to do there.
Rhys will be in the same room as you, too, so at least there’ll be one familiar face until you get to know everyone. ”
He nods, shoving a small piece of French toast into his mouth and chewing. “What about Len? She’ll be with the other babies. What if she gets scared? Will they let me go see her?”
My sweet, protective boy. Always worried about me and his siblings, even when his anxiety is turned up to the max.
“I’ll make sure they know that you’re her favorite person, and to come get you if she cries. But she’ll be okay. I just want you to try to have some fun.”
He nods, his big brown eyes lifting to mine.
He resembles Braxton so much, and it only gets stronger as he grows.
I hate myself for thinking it, but sometimes I look at Rowan and feel like such a failure.
Here he is, a carbon copy of a man who should be willing to walk across hot coals to get to him—to get to all of them—yet they go months without hearing a word.
Braxton even missed Rhys’ last birthday, only calling after I had texted him a reminder.
I need to do better for my kids. Because they deserve a hell of a lot more than I’ve given them so far.