Chapter 12
TWELVE
LUCY
Cord crouched beside a spread of turnout gear, explaining how each piece worked like he’d been born to do it.
His voice carried just enough to command attention over the general chaos of sixty or so first graders trying very hard not to explode with excitement.
One kid gasped when Cord let him try on a helmet, and Cord grinned, adjusted the strap, then showed him how the thermal camera worked with an exaggerated importance that had the whole group giggling.
I stood near the back of the group with my clipboard, doing the third headcount in five minutes to make sure we didn’t have any sneak-aways, but my eyes kept drifting toward him.
Of course, he was good with kids. Calm. Warm. Effortlessly in control of the chaos. Of course, he’d crouch down to their level and explain things like they mattered. Of course, he’d flash that devastating smile without even realizing it was devastating.
God, I was in trouble.
Behind me, one of the other teachers—probably Ms. Fields from 1C—leaned over and whispered, “Okay, the tall one? Total superhero vibes. Like he stepped off the back cover of one of those romance books with a fire axe.”
I managed a soft, “Mm-hmm,” and tried to keep my face neutral.
But inside?
I KNOW. I know.
He’d looked at me like I was something rare. Kissed me like it was his favorite hobby. I had very fresh, very vivid memories of what that mouth could do.
I crossed my arms and focused very hard on one of my students unwrapping a granola bar like it was a bomb he’d been trained to defuse. Anything but Cord.
But it didn’t matter.
He was still Cord. Still charming and competent and maddeningly hot—and somehow worse now that I knew how good he felt under my hands. How good he made me feel.
This field trip was going to kill me.
I hadn’t meant to ghost him.
It wasn’t regret. God, it wasn’t anything close to regret.
But Sunday night I’d curled up on the couch, phone in hand, and stared at his text like it was a pop quiz I hadn’t studied for.
I wanted to reply.
I started to reply. Twice.
I even saw the damn dots pop up when I chickened out and closed the screen.
Then Liam came home from Grandma’s, bouncing with stories and sticky with syrup, and all that warm, dizzy, woman energy I’d been floating in vanished like it had never existed.
He’d needed me. He always needed me. And somewhere in that swirl of mom-guilt and mental math about lunches and laundry, it started to feel… selfish.
And later? It felt too late.
And now? Now it felt impossible.
Cord crouched in front of a knot of kids, his back to me as he explained something about fire hoses, his hands gesturing with calm assurance. I watched one of the kids reach for his arm and ask a question, and he smiled as he answered—like he had all the time in the world.
Like he hadn’t texted and heard nothing back.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, hugging my clipboard to my chest like it might shield me from how much I wanted to press rewind. Or fast forward. Or do something besides stand here pretending I hadn’t dreamed about that man’s hands for two nights straight.
I didn’t know what I was doing. But I wanted to.
I wanted to figure out a way to make this work. I just didn’t know how.
The kids rotated stations in a blur of noise—mini tornadoes in Velcro sneakers and jelly-stained hoodies. I stayed at the back, pretending I was focused on anything besides Cord.
Then he looked up.
Just for a second. Just long enough.
Our eyes met across the chaos, and the world stuttered. The chatter, the clatter of helmets, the exaggerated “whoooooosh” of the hose demonstration—it all faded under the weight of that look.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just… saw me. And there was something in his face I couldn’t quite read. Not anger. Not exactly hurt. But something searching.
Why didn’t you text me? Was I wrong about what that night meant?
My throat tightened. I wanted to. I tried. I didn’t know how.
He glanced away before I could decide whether to speak. Before I could figure out what I’d even say if there weren’t several dozen tiny humans everywhere.
The noise surged back in—a chorus of little voices demanding turns and explanations—but all I could hear was that look, echoing in my chest.
Loud. Unmistakable. Unfinished.
Cord made his way over just as the kids broke for water and the other teachers got busy doling out snacks and redirecting mini chaos. My heart tripped over itself. I hadn’t expected him to come to me—not like this. Not with everything unspoken still hanging between us.
“Hey.” He stopped just close enough that the air between us felt charged again. His voice was soft. Gentle. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
I gave him a rueful smile, nerves tangling under my skin. “Field trip surprise. I forgot this was even scheduled.” Because in all the lead up to our date, I hadn’t once thought about what was happening after, once I got back to my normal world.
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that makes two of us.”
A beat passed—too full of everything we weren’t saying.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted before I could stop myself. “For not texting back. The last couple days just…” I shook my head. “Got away from me.”
His expression didn’t shift. If anything, it softened. “I figured.” His eyes held mine, steady and unreadable. “I was gonna wait a few more days before sending a really awkward follow-up text.”
I laughed, a small, nervous sound. “You’d have earned it.”
The moment stretched—warm and uncertain. And something in it tilted.
Because he looked at me the way he had that night in the doorway. Like he was remembering the feel of my mouth under his. Like maybe he wanted to do it again.
I wanted to do it again. Even swayed toward him a couple of inches, pulled into his orbit. But there were kids. Parents. Teachers. A whole town’s worth of eyes.
His voice dropped slightly. “I was thinking maybe we could?—”
“Mommy?”
I froze.
Cord’s words died on his lips as we both turned.
Liam. Pale. Sweaty. His small hand curled into a fist against his belly. And that scared, watery look in his eyes—God, it gutted me.
I dropped to one knee instantly. “Hey, baby. What’s wrong?”
“My tummy hurts,” he whimpered.
I pressed my palm to his forehead. Hot. Too hot.
Behind me, I heard Cord’s breath hitch. Heard him repeat the word. “Mommy?”
Not a question, not really. More like… realization.
I didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Because I didn’t need to see his face to know that this—this—was the moment everything changed.
I scooped Liam into my arms, his hot little face pressed against my collarbone. He whimpered something about his stomach, and I kissed his temple. “We’ve got to get you home, sweet boy.”
I turned, and there was Cord. Still standing there. His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something. But nothing came out.
The other teachers had started calling names, corralling kids toward the bus like a slow-moving parade of chaos. It was time to go. It was past time.
I shifted Liam’s weight and met Cord’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it in more ways than one.
Sorry for not texting .
Sorry for letting this happen when I should’ve known better.
Sorry that this moment—this messy, too-real moment—was the one that told the truth.
He nodded. Just once. His face unreadable. He didn’t move.
I turned and followed the others to the bus, climbing the steps one careful foot at a time. Liam sagged into me, too tired to do more than whimper. I slid into a seat and tucked him against my side, brushing hair from his sweaty forehead.
And then, against my better judgment, I looked. Out the window, across the parking lot, through the sun-glare and dust. Cord was still there. Watching. As if rooted to the spot. As if trying to make sense of something that had just knocked the wind out of him.
I looked away.
Of course. Of course, this was how it ended.
I’d known it all along.
You don’t get fire without burn.