Chapter 42
Forty-Two
Lainey
I look at my phone—no response.
Then to the door of the preschool’s amphitheater—no Sawyer.
Then at my boy—who’s clearly searching the room…and whose face fills with disappointment when there’s no sign of Sawyer.
My stomach clenches.
Because I’m disappointed too.
But I just slap a smile on my face and nod encouragingly at Ollie.
His bottom lip wobbles, and my body tenses, ready to swoop forward and get my baby out of here.
Then the music starts and after a beat, he starts singing along with the rest of his classmates.
They sing about a fish counting to ten and about a shaky egg and then about a snowman. They do the hokey pokey and give us a full rundown of their heads and shoulders and knees and toes.
And finally, they go to town ringing some bells and singing about how they jingle.
Then the show is over and the kids are giggling as they’re shepherded off-stage—which is just really into the adjacent room.
I look to the doors…just in time for them to swing open and Sawyer to rush in.
He’s sweating, clutching a bag and—
I frown as he hurries over.
“Did I miss it?” he asks, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple.
“Yes,” I say tersely.
His eyes slide closed. “Fuck—”
“Language, Sawyer,” I hiss. “We’re in a school.”
Pain ripples across his face. “You’re right. Fu—shoot. I’m sorry. I had that lunch for Bri’s charity thing and it ran long. Then my tire blew and I ran here—”
“Ran here?” I blink at him. “Why—”
“I was late, Pages. And I needed to get here for Ollie’s show,” he finishes with a wince.
“Only you didn’t,” I say quietly.
He winces again, opens his mouth.
“Sawyer!”
We turn as one and see Ollie running across the room.
“Did you see?” he asks, throwing his arms around Sawyer’s waist. “I got every word of “Jingle Bells” right.”
“I—”
“I didn’t see you, ’cause I was looking next to Mom. She was in the front row,” he says. “Were you in the back because you’re so tall?”
Sawyer winces. “I—”
“I told Aparna you were coming. She didn’t believe me.” He runs off, returns a few seconds later, holding the hand of an adorable little girl in a red velvet dress. “This is Sawyer. See? He came.”
Aparna’s mouth drops open and I might have laughed if I wasn’t so mad.
And confused.
And hurt.
“Hi, Aparna,” Sawyer says softly.
“You’re tall,” is the only reply.
We all stare at each other for a few heartbeats. Then Aparna and Ollie run off to play.
“I’ll tell him.”
I turn to look at Sawyer.
“I’m not planning on lying to him,” he whispers. “I’ll tell Ollie I missed it.”
My temple throbs. “Don’t.” I sigh. “Don’t hurt him like that.”
“But—”
“Don’t,” I grit out. “Just…don’t.”
Quiet falls between us but the hum of the conversations all around doesn’t fade away.
“What are you doing, Sawyer?”
He jerks, his hands tightening on the bag. “It’s just a little something for Ollie.”
“I’m not talking about the present. Which is super sweet but probably too much.” I look at him. “And it’s also why I need you to explain it to me.”
“Explain what?” he asks evenly.
But the fear’s there in his eyes.
“Why you do this?”
A pause. “Do what?”
Take on too much. Spread yourself too thin. Buzz around like a frenetic bee. Act as though you have to do it all in order to prove you belong here, belong with us.
Belong with me.
But this isn’t the right place for that conversation.
“Never mind,” I say quietly. “Let’s get Ollie and we’ll drop you at your van, take care of that tire.”
His gaze shoots to mine. “I can do that.”
“What? You’ll run back?”
A shrug. “I’ll jog. It’s not that far.”
My brows drag together. “Sawyer—”
He passes me the bag. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
And a moment after that…he’s gone.
I take a step, intending to follow—
“Mom!” Ollie says. “Can we get hot chocolate now?”
I freeze, sigh, and turn to my son, to the thing that matters the most.
Then I push my anger, my worry, my hurt aside.
And I say, “Yeah, kiddo. We can.”
“This is really good, Mom,” Ollie says, taking a huge sip. He puts the mug down and grins at me wearing a hot chocolate mustache.
“Sawyer taught me how to make it,” I tell him, glad I managed to get a little food in him (even if it was from a fast-food place) as I add a dollop of whipped cream to my mug and glance out the window over the sink, half-expecting the man in question to pull up in his van, just because I spoke his name.
It’s been weeks of that.
Maybe months of it.
Him being here so often I’ve gotten used to it, that I expect him to be here, no…that I’ve come to want it.
Want him. Need him.
And ache when he’s not.
Even if I’m furious at him for this afternoon.
“It’s yummy,” Ollie says.
Smiling, I lift my mug, carry it over so I can sit next to him, then softly tap the rim of mine against his. “Cheers, honeybun.”
“Cheers, Mommy Mom,” he sing-songs.
Laughter in my chest as I take a sip. “Definitely yummy.”
He slurps. “Definitely yummy,” he parrots, making me smile as my gaze drifts out the window again, as uncertainty twines through my belly.
Where is Sawyer?
How long does it take to change a tire, anyway?
“Do you think Sawyer liked my singing?”
That knot in my stomach grows. “I think—”
“I looked for him during ‘Jingle Bells’ but I couldn’t see him.”
“I—”
“Why does that bag have my name on it?” Ollie asks, popping over to another subject with all the aplomb of his four-year-old attention span—one that practically makes my head spin as he pushes his mug away and rushes over to the bag Sawyer gave me at the concert.
“Sawyer brought that for you,” I say.
A glance over his shoulder. “Why?”
“I think it was his way of saying congratulations for all your singing.”
Ollie’s face lights up. “Can I open it?”
“I think we should wait for Sawyer.”
He considers that then sighs. “You’re right,” he says, sounding far too old as he traipses back over to the table and snags his mug. Some hot chocolate spills over the rim but he just licks it off the back of his hand and asks, “Can I watch my show before bed?”
“Sure, bud,” I murmur. “But hot chocolate first.”
“’Kay, Mom.”
He makes short work of his drink then zips into the family room and less than a minute later, his show’s theme song is playing on TV.
Exhaling, I finish my hot chocolate then clean up.
And do it watching for Sawyer.
Same as I do while I pack lunches and meal prep and throw a load of laundry in.
Then as I give Ollie a bath and read him stories and tuck him into bed.
It’s only as I walk down the stairs, intending to lose myself in The Book That Shall Not Be Written that I hear the soft scrape of the key in the lock.
Sawyer pushes inside, his expression…
Sends cold sliding down my spine.
“Where have you been?”
His gaze avoids mine and he shoves his hair back with a grease-stained hand, rubbing at that spot on his neck again. “I changed the tire then I had to do a couple of things for—” He presses his lips together. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
Except, I think it does.
Of course it does.
In fact, I’m finally realizing precisely how much it does matter.
“Is he awake?”
“No,” I say quietly.
Sawyer’s eyes close. “Oh, right. I’ll just…go.”
I frown. “You just got here. Why would you go?”
“You’re pissed,” he says. Like that’s a complete explanation.
And maybe in another life, it would have been.
Tonight, though, it’s not enough.
“I’ll explain to Ollie tomorrow,” he says. “Apologize and take him somewhere to make up for it.”
“Don’t you have practice tomorrow? And that photo shoot?”
He freezes. Then curses softly. “Shit, yeah. The day after, I’ll make it up to him.”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
“Did he like the present?”
“We agreed to wait until you were here.”
Pain ripples across his face. “Right.”
“You know,” I tell him. “I’m not pissed about you missing the concert.”
He goes statue still. “You’re not?”
“No, I’m not. Tires blow. Lunches run late and schedules go sideways. People miss things.” A beat. “You miss things, no matter how hard you try to prevent that from happening.” I sigh. “We all screw up sometimes, Sawyer.”
“I’m really sorry—”
“I know. But you need to know that what I’m really mad about is because you keep killing yourself to make everyone happy.”
“How is that a bad thing?” he asks, his eyebrows dragging together.
“Because you’re so worried about disappointing one person that you’re going to end up disappointing everyone—including yourself. Today it was me, was Ollie. Tomorrow…”
“That’s not fair,” he says. “I fucked up and double-booked. I’ll just be more careful with scheduling in the future, make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
“Except it will happen again.” I touch his jaw. “You made a mistake. It happens. Ollie and I can forgive that.”
His eyes cloud. “Why do I hear a but coming?”
Because there is.
Because I lived a different pattern before…albeit one with the same results.
If Sawyer is trying to be there for everyone, how can he be there for me? For Ollie? And when he inevitably struggles to keep all the plates spinning—and one or more fall—what toll will that take on me? On us? On Ollie?
How can I do this again?
“But,” I whisper, “I’m not sure I can end up there again.”
Hurt sliding across his face. “I’m not like Ben, Pages.”
“No, you’re not anything like him.” I sigh. “Hell, you’re basically his polar opposite. And yet…” I close my eyes. “I’m terrified we’ll end up in the same place anyway.”
He staggers back a step, the expression on his face absolutely killing me. “I made a mistake.”
“I know.”
“So why are you making this into some huge thing?”
“Because this isn’t about a scheduling mistake or one missed concert.” I exhale. “I need you to sort out your head, figure out why you practically kill yourself to please everyone else but you.”
He retreats another step, pain etched so deeply, I want to take the words back.
But I can’t.
Because we can’t do this if he—
“I need to go.”
“I wish you’d stay,” I tell him as he takes another step back. “But if you need to, I get that.”
He nods jerkily, turns for the door.
“Sawyer?”
He pauses but doesn’t look back at me.
“I need you to think about what will make you happy.”
I settle my hand on his arm, murmur…
“Because I don’t think you’ve ever learned how.”