Chapter 5
Chapter five
Kate
Evie dozes off before we reach our street, her head tilted toward the car window, a chocolate smudge stamped on her cheek like a souvenir from the day.
She’s still clutching the baseball card Cam slipped her after practice, fingers curled tight around it as if someone might try to take it.
The man knows exactly how to win her over.
I’m trying very hard not to think about how good he is at winning me over, too.
I ease her out of the car, her little body warm against my shoulder, and carry her inside.
She settles into the couch the moment I lay her down, curling into her blanket and pulling her stuffed dinosaur close.
She doesn’t stir—not even when I brush the hair from her forehead.
She’s grown so much this year, but in these moments she feels impossibly small, and I feel impossibly responsible for keeping her whole.
Our house greets me with its usual mix of charm and chaos.
Two bedrooms tucked into the corner of downtown Cedar Falls.
Dishes crowd the sink, crayons spill across the coffee table, and the same basket of clean laundry sits unfolded on the armchair like it’s waiting for a miracle to put itself away.
It’s home. I love it with every tired, hopeful piece of me.
But when the day has wrung me out, the quiet carries its own kind of ache.
I kick off my shoes and move through the motions that keep us afloat—start the dishwasher, clear the table, gather the mail.
The stack grows with its usual collection of responsibilities: a gas bill that’s higher than last month, the camp payment reminder I’ve been avoiding, and a glossy flyer from the community center advertising swim lessons.
Evie would love them. I already know I’ll find a way to make it work, even if it means rearranging something else and pretending I don’t notice the pinch later.
The math of single motherhood never balances neatly, no matter how many times I rewrite the numbers.
The refrigerator clicks when I pull it open, the kind of small mechanical protest that reminds me this house is held together by appliances older than Evie.
There’s half a bottle of white wine on the top shelf, the cork pushed back in at an angle.
It’s been open too long to be worth drinking, but I pour what’s left into a glass anyway and brace one hip against the counter while my eyes travel to the whiteboard stuck to the fridge.
Groceries. Library budget meeting on Friday. Oil change. Evie’s birthday planning. Mortgage due.
It’s a simple list that I continue to tell myself is manageable because it has to be. There’s no committee here, no backup plan or partner to divide things with. Just me deciding which task becomes a priority and which one waits its turn.
People love to tell me I make it look easy.
But they don’t see the five a.m. mornings when I cling to a cup of coffee just to feel human.
They don’t see me stretch paychecks, or count out crumpled receipts on the kitchen table after Evie’s asleep.
Exhaustion blurs into routine so seamlessly that sometimes I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.
Love is the one thing that keeps me moving, and even on the hardest days, it still feels like work I’d never trade.
I finish the wine, rinse the glass, and leave it beside the cereal bowls sitting in the sink.
When I walk back into the living room, Evie hasn’t moved except to drape an arm across her dinosaur.
Her curls spill across the pillow, her cheeks flushed.
My heart squeezes in that familiar combination of tenderness and worry—the push and pull of watching her grow faster than I can prepare for.
I kneel beside her and brush a stray curl from her forehead. “You’re my whole world,” I say, voice low. “You always will be.” She mumbles something about hitting a home run and shifts deeper into the blanket.
The smile comes easily, even as my throat tightens. She deserves a mom who feels lighter than this. A mom who isn’t juggling every piece of life in a constant rotation, hoping nothing slips through the cracks.
My back protests when I stand to go set the timer on the coffee maker for the morning.
I think about how I used to imagine a life bigger than Cedar Falls, a version of me with open horizons and no responsibilities tugging at her sleeves.
But that version didn’t know Evie. Or the kind of strength that comes from being the sole provider for a tiny human.
The woman I am now carries more than she ever planned for, but she also doesn’t know how to let anyone take even an inch of that weight.
Cam keeps offering, though. Fixing things.
Bringing little gifts for Evie. Showing up in ways he probably thinks I don’t notice.
Maybe I shouldn’t notice. Maybe I shouldn’t care.
But it’s becoming harder and harder not to, and that’s exactly why I keep space between us—needing someone is dangerous when your whole life depends on staying upright.
Still, his face drifts through my mind, refusing to disappear. I shut the thought down, stuffing it into the tidy little box that I tend to keep my feelings.
When I return to the couch, I pause and graze my fingers along Evie’s cheek.
She sighs softly, settling again. I turn off the lamp and lean down to lift her into my arms. She’s heavy in the way only sleeping kids are, her head tucked against my shoulder.
In her bedroom, I lay her on the mattress and ease her shirt up over her head—it’s streaked with dirt from where she slid into first base earlier—and swap it for a clean one.
I slip off her little jeans, leaving her in soft cotton shorts, then pull the quilt over her legs and press a kiss to her hair.
She should’ve taken a bath, should’ve been tucked in hours ago, but we’ll save the rest for morning.
I go to my room, brush my teeth, wash my face, strip out of my clothes. I lie down, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Cam’s name.
I type before I can second-guess it.
Kate:
Mom’s keeping Evie tomorrow afternoon.
The dots appear almost instantly.
Cam:
Yeah? You need help with something?
My stomach twists. He knows exactly what I mean.
Kate:
Maybe.
Cam:
Maybe doesn’t sound convincing.
I take a breath and type slower.
Kate:
I just meant…I’ll have the house to myself.
There’s a long pause. Then—
Cam:
Don’t play coy, Katie.
Kate:
Who says I’m playing?
Cam:
Use your words. Tell me what you want.
I stare at the screen, pulse tripping.
He’s always like this—direct, calm, the kind of sure that makes it impossible to hide behind small talk. I bite my lip and answer anyway, not spelling it out, but not hiding either.
Kate:
You. Here. Tomorrow. In my bed.
His reply comes faster than my heartbeat that I’m trying to slow down.
Cam:
Good. Because I’ve been thinking about that since brunch.
Kate:
Brunch?
Cam:
You kept crossing your legs under the table. Drove me crazy.
A small, involuntary sound leaves my throat.
Kate:
You’re impossible.
Cam:
You like it. I’ll see you tomorrow, Katie.
It’s the same pattern we’ve had for months—this pull, this quiet, reckless wanting. We both know what tomorrow means.
I plug my phone into the charger and flop back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, breath caught somewhere between nerves and anticipation.
We said we’d keep it simple. We’re doing a terrible job.