Chapter 4
Sadie
By Friday, I’ve spent more time talking to Tyler than I have to any other adult all week, possibly all year.
I’m twenty-nine years old, divorced, and somehow grinning at my phone like a hormonal teenager every time it buzzes.
It’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. The worst part?
I don’t even try to stop myself anymore.
Somewhere between the late-night sexting, the constant teasing, and the way he always seems to know exactly what to say, hours have started to disappear as we talk.
We don’t even talk about anything important half the time.
We chat about music, storms, movies, food, childhood anecdotes, sex, the gym, more sex, random bullshit, anything that pops into our minds; it comes easily and naturally, like slipping into warm water.
I don’t think twice about texting him whatever pops into my head, and he always responds right away, making me smile.
The strangest part is the contradictions.
Sometimes, Tyler is cocky and shamelessly flirty, pushing my buttons just to get a reaction out of me.
Other times, he’s quieter, sharper, and more observant.
Sometimes he types in short, rough sentences that make heat curl low in my stomach.
Other times, he sends long, teasing messages that make me laugh so hard that Owen pauses what he’s doing and asks what’s funny, his expression a mixture of bemusement and happiness.
It should feel weird, this constant shifting, but instead it just makes him more interesting. Like there are layers to him I never noticed before.
Rain taps steadily against the kitchen windows while I stand barefoot at the counter on Friday morning, trying to answer emails with one hand and make pancakes with the other.
My laptop sits open beside a bowl of pancake batter while Owen zooms toy garbage trucks across the floor, making dramatic engine noises.
My phone buzzes again. Immediately, my gaze drops to it, like an addict unable to wait even a moment to scratch the itch. It’s him.
Morning, trouble.
Heat blooms stupidly fast in my chest. I bite back a smile as I type my reply.
“Mommy,” Owen says seriously from the floor, “the pancake is burning.”
I look down. There’s smoke coming from the skillet. “Shit!” The pancake is black.
Owen gasps delightedly because, apparently, swearing is comedy gold at four years old.
“Language,” I mutter automatically as I scrape the ruined pancake into the trash and rinse the skillet, ready to start again.
My phone buzzes.
Do you also smile every time your phone goes off?
My stomach flips. He feels the same way. Maybe. I reply, trying to play it cool.
Three dots appear instantly.
Cutie. I wanna see that smile.
God. I hate how much that affects me; I quickly snap a selfie and send it before I can think too much. I’ve actually put on a little makeup today in anticipation of seeing him in person later. I’m going to the gym after all.
Rain darkens the world outside the kitchen windows, turning everything gray-blue and soft. Thunder rumbles somewhere far off while Owen happily plays with his trucks.
I spend the entire morning distracted. Emails go half answered. Laundry is forgotten in the washer. My coffee gets reheated three times, bitter by the time I finish it, and I grimace. Every time I put my phone down, it buzzes again.
By noon, I’m sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, helping Owen build an elaborate storm bunker out of couch cushions while texting one-handed.
My son says thunderstorms sound like sky motorcycles.
The reply comes almost immediately:
Kid sounds smart.
I grin down at the screen. I never told Tyler before that I have a kid, but I love how easily he’s taken it in stride after I first mentioned him. If it bothers him that I’m a single mom, he certainly hasn’t let on.
He takes after his mom.
I think I know him well enough that he’d get my humor and not think I was being egotistical.
You’re a smart cookie. Or else you wouldn’t be talking to me…
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I think the last time anyone called me a smart cookie was my grandfather.
Owen immediately looks up. “What’s funny?”
I hesitate. How exactly do I explain that Mommy is emotionally attached to a hot gym trainer who suddenly became weirdly funny and charming through text when in person, he’s pretty predictable, the kind of guy whose entire personality I once thought was simply ‘gym’?
“Nothing,” I say lightly. “Just talking to someone.”
He furrows his brow. “Is it Auntie Dani?”
“No.”
“The gym man.”
My face heats instantly. Children are terrifying. I don’t even want to know how he’s picked that up. “No,” I lie.
Owen accepts this, still, I find myself smiling at my phone again five minutes later. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I only know it’s been years since I’ve felt this light, this desired, this interesting. Wanted.
By the time evening rolls around, I feel restless and nervous, desperate to go to the gym, yet dreading that it will somehow break the spell between us. Outside, dark clouds hang heavy across town while thunder rumbles low and steady in the distance.
Owen presses his face dramatically against the front window. “Daddy’s late.”
I try to keep the judgment out of my voice.
“Yes, he is.” Again. I check the time for the fifth time in ten minutes while trying not to let my irritation show too much.
This weekend is already making me anxious enough.
It’s Owen’s first overnight visit to his dad’s new place, the first time Ethan and Brielle will have Owen overnight together. I hate every part of it.
My phone buzzes in my hand again.
You busy tonight?
My pulse jumps immediately. Before I can answer, headlights sweep across the driveway. Finally.
Owen takes off toward the door at full speed, yelling, “Daddy!”
I tuck my phone quickly into my back pocket before opening the door. Cold, damp air rushes inside immediately.
Ethan steps inside wearing one of his expensive wool coats, raindrops still clinging to the shoulders. He looks exactly the same as always, polished and perfectly put together. Even his stubble somehow looks professionally managed. “Sorry,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Traffic.”
“You’re forty minutes late, you could have at least texted to say you were stuck.”
His eyes flick briefly toward me. Then narrow slightly. “You look dressed up.”
I blink. I’m literally wearing black leggings, a sports bra, and a hoodie. “I’m going to the gym later.”
“Mhm.”
Something about the sound irritates me instantly. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs lightly while Owen wraps around his leg excitedly. “Just wondering if you had plans.”
The implication settles unpleasantly between us, as if he’s trying to sound casual while quietly checking whether I’ve moved on, which I’m perfectly entitled to do. He has. “I’m going to the gym,” I repeat flatly.
His mouth twitches slightly. “Good for you.”
There it is, the judgment. Subtle enough that I can’t call him out, but sharp enough that I still feel it. Before I can respond, thunder cracks loudly overhead.
Ethan glances toward the windows. “Storm’s pretty bad tonight.” Then down at Owen. “You scared of the thunder, buddy?”
I stare at him.
Owen tilts his head, frowning. “No.”
“He loves storms,” I say before I can stop myself. The words come out sharper than intended.
Ethan pauses slightly. Right, because he forgot. Again.
Owen doesn’t notice the tension at all. “Thunder bikes!” he announces, turning at the sound of a motorcycle rumbling past, no doubt on its way to the nearby infamous Wild Riders’ clubhouse.
Ethan blinks. “Thunder bikes?”
“The motorcycles!” Owen says dramatically. “They sound like storms.”
I bite back a smile despite myself. Ethan smiles politely in that distracted way parents do when they aren’t fully listening.
“Cool, buddy.” He checks his phone, no doubt firing off an email.
I’m not surprised that he’s making no effort to ask anything about me, or Owen, for that matter. “Alright. Let’s get your stuff.”
Owen suddenly gasps. “The garbage men!”
“What?” Ethan looks to me for help. I fold my arms.
“I’ll miss the garbage truck in the morning!” Owen whines, slapping his hands against his sides.
My chest tightens unexpectedly. This is harder than I thought it would be.
Every Saturday morning, Owen waits by the window for the sanitation truck like it’s a celebrity parade.
Watching his joy over something so simple has become one of life’s pleasures, and the realization that I will miss it tomorrow, that Ethan might share that moment instead, stings.
Ethan looks genuinely confused. “Garbage truck morning?”
“He loves garbage trucks,” I explain tightly. “Every Saturday they come by around eight.”
Another pause. Another thing his father doesn’t know. “Oh,” Ethan says finally, nodding. “Right.”
Something ugly twists in my stomach. Not anger exactly, just disappointment, and perhaps a little jealousy that he’s entitled to spend time with Owen without knowing the simplest of things about him.
Because how do you not know these things?
How do you not know your kid loves storms?
Or garbage trucks? Or that he calls motorcycles thunder bikes?
Owen chatters happily while Ethan gathers his overnight bag. Meanwhile, anxiety slowly climbs higher and higher beneath my ribs. What if he cries tonight? What if Brielle gets annoyed with him? What if he has a nightmare? What if he wants to come home? What if—
“Sadie,” Ethan says softly. I blink. Ethan is watching me now. “He’ll be fine.”
I hate that he can still read me sometimes. “I know.” My voice sounds thin even to me.
Owen suddenly runs back and hugs my legs tightly. “Bye, Mommy.”
I crouch immediately, breathing in the familiar smell of syrup and little-kid shampoo. “Be good, okay?”
He pouts, giggling. “I’m always good.”
I snort softly. “Debatable.”