The Single Mom Next Door

1. Melanie

melanie

Floors aren’t supposed to move like that.

“I feel like I’m on sand or something.” My son looks up from where he’s shifting his weight against the bathroom tiles, making them ripple. “It wasn’t always like this, right? I feel like I would’ve remembered if it was.”

“No.” My fingertips feel oddly numb as I rub them against my denim-clad thigh. “When did you notice it?”

Oakley shrugs, unworried as only an eight-year-old can be. “Just now. I was peeing.” The tips of his ears go red as he grimaces. “It made me miss, though.”

I glance over at the toilet, my expression matching his at the mess waiting for me there. The numbness creeps up my fingers and into my arms, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I give him a calm smile. “I’ll have to get the tools out while you’re at school.”

His mouth flattens into a line, the stern expression making him seem years older than he is. “Dad took them,” he mutters irritably.

“Right.” The smile doesn’t slip—not even a little. It’s a reminder I don’t need, just another thing my ex-husband took from us when he decided “family life” wasn’t what he wanted anymore. “I’ll stop by Leo’s Hardware after I drop you at school.”

My son doesn’t look reassured as he presses his toe into the soft spot. “Do you even know how to use tools?” His tone is the perfect amount of dubious.

“I can figure it out,” I tell him, with more confidence than I feel, gesturing toward the door. “And if not…Well, that’s what YouTube is for. Go finish getting ready for school. I’ll clean this up.”

I keep the panic buried until I get Oakley out of the house and into the car, mentally rearranging my day to fit in fixing the freaking bathroom.

As a freelance graphic designer, I choose my own hours, but it also means that if I don’t work, I don’t get paid, and if I have deadlines I can’t meet, I lose returning clients.

“Do you really think you can fix the floor?”

I meet Oakley’s stare in the rearview mirror, finding his brow knitted with far too much worry. It’s a sight that’s become far too common in the last year, and every time I see it, something pinches tightly between my ribs.

“Don’t worry about it, bug,” I say, not wanting to admit that I’ve got no clue where to even start.

He opens his mouth to keep pressing, so I quickly divert him with talk about baseball tryouts, a playdate with his friend, Nell, on the weekend, and going to the bakery after school for a sweet treat.

By the time I pull into the drop-off line, his expression has eased. He pauses next to my window, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes locked on mine. “We’re okay, aren’t we, Mom?”

It’s tempting to get out and wrap him up in a hug, but a teacher with a whistle around his neck is strictly monitoring the line, and Oakley will die if I hug him in front of the school.

“Of course we are, bug. This is just…a hiccup.”

“A hiccup,” he echoes, his narrowed eyes filled with suspicion.

I’m saved from answering when the warning bell chimes through the air, telling the children to get to class. He whirls around, ready to sprint away, but I call after him, “Love you, kid!”

He looks back at me, dark hair a messy mop on top of his head, and his teeth flashing in a grin—a gap where the front tooth should be. “Love you, too! Bye, Mom!”

He’s gone without another word, and I pull away before the teacher can blow his whistle at me for lingering. As I point the car toward the hardware store, panic tries to slither its way out, and I clench my hands around the steering wheel.

I didn’t lie to Oakley. We are fine. But there are no savings for sudden expenses like soggy, saggy floors, and there is no way Davis will lift a finger to help.

We agreed during the divorce settlement that it was better for Oakley to keep the house, and that he would take a payout when I eventually chose to sell it.

But he’s been getting pretty heavy-handed with the hints lately.

He probably only agreed in the first place because he figured I wouldn’t want to stay in a town where he parades around with the woman he cheated on me with.

Thankfully, my lawyer made sure the agreement was airtight, so Davis can’t backtrack just because he changed his mind.

But this town…It’s my home. Oakley’s home. We’ve lived in this house since he was one, the walls embedded with memories of the life we built together—until Davis threw a bomb on it and walked away without a look back.

It’s early enough that the hardware store is quiet, the cashier behind the register giving me a disinterested look when the bell chimes above my head. He ignores my awkward smile, dropping his attention back to the fishing magazine in his hands, leaving me to navigate the place by myself.

I wander through the aisles with no idea what I’m searching for, realizing I should have looked it up before coming here. Still, I grab a tool kit with pink flowers on each handle and some plumbing tape. It won’t be enough, but it’s a start.

The drive back to the house does nothing to settle my nerves, especially when my music cuts off and the display flashes with Davis’s name. I pull in a deep breath before pressing answer. “Hello?”

“Mellie.”

I bite my tongue at the nickname, the sound of it grating against my nerves. He already seems half-annoyed with me, even though we haven’t spoken in well over a week. “Hello, Davis. What can I do for you?”

He sighs, and I can just imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Marcy and I have plans,” he announces without preamble. “I won’t be able to take Oakley this weekend.”

My knuckles blanch white as my hands tighten around the steering wheel. “You’ve missed your last two weekends,” I point out, proud at how even my tone is. “Oakley—”

“Will understand,” he cuts in. “Just think of this as me doing you a favor. I know you hate losing any time with him.”

“He wants to spend time with his father,” I counter. “And he notices when you don’t show up. He has baseball tryouts in two weeks, and he was hoping you would practice with him.”

“Oh, that’s real nice,” he sneers. “It’s always a guilt trip with you, isn’t it? I work most weekends, and you know that. The least you can do is give me a little understanding.”

I turn the car onto my street, biting my tongue hard enough that I’m surprised I don’t taste blood. “I wasn’t aware that’s what I was doing.”

He scoffs. “You know exactly what you’re doing. I get that you’re bitter about me leaving, but it was for the best.” He clucks his tongue in mocking sympathy. “One day, I hope you see that, Mellie.” Before I can argue with that load of bullshit, he continues, “Tell Oakley I’ll call him next week.”

He hangs up just as I pull into the driveway, leaving me listening to dead silence. I cut the engine, hanging my head forward, wondering how the hell my life ended up here.

Davis and I met in college when we were both twenty, and we…

clicked, bonding over an innate sense of loneliness that had built from his time in foster care and mine as an only child with parents who had worked themselves to the bone.

Just one year in, a positive pregnancy test surprised us, and led to a what the hell moment where we wound up at the courthouse in our best clothes with hope for the family we were growing.

I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye, turning to look as the front door opens at the neighbor’s place.

I freeze in my seat as he steps out onto his front porch, gray sweats clinging to his trim hips and a black shirt molding to the contours of his torso.

He has dark chestnut hair, on the edge of too long and tousled as if he’s been pushing his hands through it.

Cale Evans.

I don’t know him well. He bought the house next door two years ago, mostly keeping to himself.

I know he works at a security firm across town, Onyx Protections, and that he regularly goes away on assignments—whatever that means.

He’s been away this last week, which is why I’m surprised to see him.

I didn’t know he was back, his driveway empty, which means he must have parked his truck in the attached garage.

My thoughts come to a juddering halt when a willowy woman steps out after him, wearing skintight jeans and a slinky top—an interesting choice for midmorning on a Monday.

She’s got strappy heels hooked on her fingers, holding them over her shoulder as she talks to Cale, her hip popped provocatively.

She goes up on her bare toes to brush her lips against his scruffy cheek just as a car pulls up to the curb.

Unable to help myself, my stare follows her as she heads to the waiting vehicle, and I watch as it pulls away once she’s safely tucked inside. Only then do my eyes track back to Cale, clashing with his dark gaze from across the lawn.

I suck in a surprised breath, fighting the urge to duck down and hide, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.

Pretending I wasn’t just watching his lady friend do the walk of shame, I get out and head for my trunk, popping it open.

I’m bending down to gather my new tools when a raspy voice—too close—asks, “Need some help?”

I shoot upright, almost cracking my skull against the trunk lid, pressing a hand to my sternum like it’ll stop my heart from jumping full out of my chest. He’s standing near the corner of my car, and I look between him and his porch, wondering how the hell he got here so quickly.

“No. Thank you,” I croak, desperately trying to keep my eyes on his face and not the way I can see the defined muscles of his chest or the swirling ink that decorates his right arm.

I know he has tattoos—he’s never hidden them—but I’ve never been close enough to study them, and now I can’t stop myself from wondering how far they travel over his body.

He arches one dark brow, but I’m already dragging my eyes away, picking up the tool kit. I reach up to close the trunk, pausing when he leans around me, snatching something else out.