2. Melanie #2
I follow him, deliberately keeping my head turned and focused on our place and not next door.
“You’re always staaarving,” I mimic teasingly. “Heads up.” He spins around, walking backward as I toss him the keys so he can let himself in. He’s just disappeared inside when my phone rings, and I pull it out, checking the local number before answering. “Hello, Melanie speaking.”
“Melanie,” a gruff voice responds. “This is Garth Jackson, the owner of Rough Oak Construction. We had a call about a bathroom floor?” His voice lilts in question.
My fingers tighten around the phone, uncertainty crashing through me. “Um, I do have an issue,” I admit, “but I haven’t called you…” My stare flickers over to Cale’s house, realization dripping down my spine. “Rough Oak, you said? Look, Garth, thanks for calling, but I’ve already talked with—”
“Don’t say Hennessy Builds,” he interrupts brusquely.
I pause before asking suspiciously, “How did you know?”
“They’re a competitor,” he admits. “But Hennessy cuts corners and overcharges for the privilege of it. Look, let me come take a look, no expectations, and we’ll talk.” He pauses. “You’d be doing me a favor. Cale called in a marker, and I don’t like having them hanging over my head.”
I grind my teeth at the confirmation before echoing, “A marker.” I blow out a breath, rubbing the back of my neck. “Fine. Just an estimate, though. No guarantees you’ll get the work.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.” He hangs up before I can protest, my arm falling to my side as I glare over at Cale’s place.
Shaking off my irritation at his high-handedness, I stalk toward the house when an engine revving around a corner has me automatically turning, eyes searching for the source of the noise.
My stomach lurches as a familiar car comes down the street, slowing down as it approaches our house.
I stare at it, hoping he’ll just keep driving, but the hopes are dashed when he pulls into the curb and gets out, rounding the hood, his eyes narrowed on me with intent.
Davis Daniels looks every bit of his thirty-one years.
The skin under his eyes sags, and his thinning hair is peppered with gray.
He’s lost a lot of weight since leaving us, but it just makes the bulge of his stomach more pronounced where it hangs over the waistband of his dark green chinos.
A name tag is clipped to his shirt, clearly having come straight from the car dealership.
I don’t move any closer, letting him come to me, glad that Oakley has already gone inside. No good can come from an unannounced visit, especially since my ex has made bailing on his weekends with our son an Olympic sport in the last six months, an excuse always ready on his lips.
I’m working extra shifts. Don’t you want your child support?
Clarissa is home this weekend. I don’t want to intrude on her and Marcy’s time together. It is her house, after all.
I’m just too tired. I’ll take him next weekend, alright? Stop nagging.
“Mellie,” he greets now, and I scowl at the nickname he knows I hate. He looks around, wondering idly, “Where’s Oak?”
A muscle under my eye twitches, but I force my expression into something neutral and less…homicidal. “Inside. What do you want, Davis?”
“What?” he demands self-righteously, his shoulders going tight. “I can’t come see my son now? There’s just no winning with you, is there?”
I count to four in my head before I blurt, “No, you can’t.” He sighs heavily, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “That’s what being divorced means, Davis.”
His mouth drops open, getting ready to spew more bullshit excuses, but the front door opens.
“Dad!” Oakley’s voice is hesitantly surprised, but there’s an underlying current of hope that’s a straight hit to my chest.
Davis shoots me a smug look before turning to our son. “Hey, kiddo. I thought I’d take you out for pizza. Whaddya say?”
Oakley has always had a path to his heart through his stomach, so I’m not shocked when he bounces back on his toes with a wide grin.
“Yeah!” He looks at me, all gap teeth and dimples. “Mom, can I?”
I wait a beat, but as absent as Davis has been ever since he moved in with Marcy, I’m not the kind of person to interfere with his and our son’s relationship—especially when it’s clear that Oakley wants to go.
The fact that my ex is standing here right now is suspicious as hell, but I won’t deny my boy time alone with his father when it’s offered.
They’re both watching me, Davis with a smirk and Oakley with wide, pleading eyes. He sidles up to me, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist in a hug, whispering, “Pleeeease.”
“Okay, bug,” I whisper back, and he stills against me, like he didn’t expect me to cave.
“Will you come?” His voice is still only loud enough for me to hear. Davis is watching us with impatience stamped across his face.
I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing I’d do almost anything for this kid. I’d bury a goddamn body without blinking if I had to…but spending an evening with my smarmy asshole ex is right at the top of my never again list. I run a hand over Oakley’s head, smoothing down wayward strands of hair.
“Not tonight.” Before he can argue, I tack on, “You need to spend time with just you and Dad, hm? You can tell me all about it when you get home.” He doesn’t notice the warning glare I level on Davis, who only huffs in response.
“Go get a hoodie.” I shoo Oakley inside, hardening my expression as I face my ex-husband. “Bring him back by eight. It’s a school night.”
Davis’s eyes flash with annoyance. “I’ve been his parent just as long as you have, Mellie.”
Bitter amusement has my lips kicking up. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His face darkens, mouth flattening into a thin line, but then Oakley is back. A minute later, the two of them are in Davis’s car and pulling away, my boy waving at me from the passenger seat. I force a smile as I wave back, watching until they disappear around the corner at the end of the street.
My shoulders slump, wondering how this became my life. I was married to that man for nine years, but now…
It feels like I never knew him at all.
And what does that say about me?
Swallowing hard, I turn to head into the silent house, but freeze in my tracks, eyes locking on the man standing on the porch of the house next door. He’s leaning against the wooden post, ankles crossed. A beer bottle dangles from his fingertips, his dark stare firmly locked on me.
I blink rapidly, wondering how long he’s been watching, just as he lifts the brown bottle in a casual greeting. I give a jerky nod back, and then I’m stepping into my home with calm, even steps, and not at all like my ass is on fire.