Chapter 31 Rhea
THIRTY-ONE
RHEA
By the time I get to Laney’s to pick up Esme after work on Monday, I’m so tired I can barely see straight. My eyes burn, my feet ache, and my heart is heavier than it’s been in months.
Laney opens the door with Esme on her hip and a knowing smile. “So,” she says, arching a brow, “how was the weekend with Prince Charming?”
I drop my bag, throw my arms around her, and burst into tears. Not dainty, pretty tears—ugly, heaving sobs that shake my whole body.
“Oh my God, girl,” Laney whispers, pulling me inside. “You told him? He didn’t take it well?”
I manage to shake my head. “No,” I choke out. “I never told him. And to make matters worse… the weekend was more perfect than I could’ve imagined. And I ended it by being a total bitch.”
Laney blinks. “What happened?”
“He invited me to Sedona. For next weekend.”
She waits for more. “And…?”
“And I can’t go. I’m a mom. And he had the audacity to suggest his assistant could arrange for a nanny.”
Laney gasps theatrically. “Oh no! A man who offers support? Who dares to help make things easier? What a monster.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Don’t make fun of me. I can’t just leave Esme every weekend. He doesn’t get it. He has no idea what it means to be a parent.”
Laney hands me a tissue and softens. “Okay, fair. But in his defense, he also has no idea that he is one. You haven’t given him a chance to understand.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side. And I think you're scared. Scared by how good the weekend was. Scared by how good he is. But Rhea… you have to tell him. You have to. Soon. Like now. It only gets harder the longer you wait. And trying to drive him away? That’s not the answer.”
Her words echo in my head hours later—after mac and cheese, after bath toys and bedtime stories, after Esme is finally asleep, her curls damp and her breath even.
Spencer hasn’t done anything wrong. Except try to be with me.
So I pick up the phone and call him.
It goes straight to voicemail.
I don’t leave a message.
Tuesday, I can’t focus at work. Everything reminds me of him—of us. His hand in mine as we crossed the Pont Alexandre III. The way he looked at me over dinner, like I was the only thing in the room. The feel of his body pressed to mine in the quiet darkness of that hotel suite.
At lunch, I finally text him.
I would love to see Sedona. Maybe some other time. Just… not this weekend.
That evening, he replies with one word:
Maybe.
That’s it.
I can read the room. I don’t text again. And neither does he.
But the memories—God, the memories—won’t stop. They follow me everywhere. In the steam of the shower. In the scent of Paris still clinging to my scarf. In the silence between turning off the light and falling asleep.
Friday morning, I cave and send one more message.
Thinking of you. Enjoy Sedona.
No reply.
By Friday night, I’m barely upright.
The last four days have stretched like four years. I should be packing a bag, wrangling a toddler, boarding a plane bound for Sedona. With Spencer.
But instead, I’m here. In socks that don’t match, preheating the oven for a frozen pizza and trying—really trying—not to cry again.
It’s raining.
Of course it is.
A perfect match for my mood.
Esme toddles around the living room, clutching a book in one hand and a juice cup in the other. When the doorbell rings, she squeals with delight and claps both hands.
She loves the doorbell. Loves the idea of visitors. Of surprises.
I scoop her up and carry her with me, expecting a late UPS drop or maybe Laney with leftovers.
But when I open the door, it’s not a package. Not Laney.
It’s Spencer.
Right here. Right now. On my porch in the pouring rain.
“Hi,” he says, his hair damp, his voice warm and just a little uncertain.
“Hi,” Esme says.
“Hi,” I whisper, tears already spilling.
He offers a crooked, hopeful smile. “I thought I’d swing by,” he says, “see if maybe you had time to teach me a bit about real life. Your real life.”
He glances past me, and I cringe to think of the clutter and mess in his view.
“What about Sedona?”
“Sedona can wait,” he grins. “I’ve cleared the whole weekend.”
“Hi!” Esme chirps again, bright as ever.
“Well, hi to you, too,” he says, lighting up. Then to me, “She’s got your eyes.”
“She does,” I laugh through tears.
He reaches for her little hand and shakes it gently. “Esme, I’m Spencer. Good to finally meet you.”
“Yes,” she responds, and we both laugh.
And just like that, she wiggles down out of my arms and straight toward the living room, as if this is totally normal. As if Spencer Devereaux shows up at our door every Friday night.
The second I set her down, he pulls me into his arms. All of me, held tightly against all of him. No space between us.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling back just enough to look at him. “I was such a bitch. I was just…”
He gently presses a hand to my cheek. “Scared,” he says. “You were scared.”
I nod, blinking. “Yeah.”
“You have every reason,” he adds with a soft, self-deprecating smile. But of course, he has no idea how really scared I am.
Because now I know, without a doubt, tonight he will learn the truth about Esme.