Chapter 30 Selene
THIRTY
SELENE
I had taken a rare day off and the house smelled like lavender and warm cotton.
It was one of those quiet, in-between afternoons where the sun lingered at the edge of the sky, painting the windows in gold and peach while the rest of the world slipped toward evening.
I stood in front of the couch, folding a blue towel into thirds, then again into a neat square.
The dryer rumbled faintly down the hall, rhythmic and low, like the sound of a distant train.
A mug of peppermint tea rested on the arm of the couch, half cold. Something acoustic played from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter—easy, open chords and a woman’s voice low and raspy, like she knew exactly what it meant to miss someone she couldn’t name out loud.
Behind me, Winnie sang over the music. Off-key and unapologetic.
Her voice bobbed in and out of the chorus, occasionally breaking off mid-word to talk to herself or narrate her outfit choices for tonight’s concert.
“Do you think the boots are too much?” she asked, appearing at the edge of the hallway with one sparkly boot in hand and her hair half brushed. “Like, what if I look like I’m trying too hard?”
“You are trying,” I said gently, smoothing my palm over the crease of a pillowcase before folding it. “That’s the whole point of performing. But no, they’re not too much. I think they’re very you.”
She made a satisfied noise and spun on her heel, disappearing again. Above me, I heard the closet door creak, then the scuffle of a hanger dragged too fast along the rod.
I smiled to myself, folding another towel, but the feeling snagged—soft and sweet and a little too close to hope.
Things hadn’t changed, not really.
Austin still dropped Winnie off at school, hair windswept, his hoodie rumpled like he’d been in a rush—because he always was.
Construction all day, then school pickup, then maybe dinner here if the timing worked out.
Sometimes he’d lean against the kitchen counter and eat leftovers with a fork straight from the Tupperware.
Sometimes he’d stay long enough to steal the remote and flip through channels until my feet found his lap.
There was a familiarity in the way time slipped between us now, stretched thin by work and responsibility and the pieces of his life I wasn’t part of. Not yet.
And still, every day, I found myself listening for the sound of his boots at the back door. I wondered whether his texts—brief and busy and laced with humor—meant what I wanted them to mean.
I didn’t need constant reassurance. I didn’t. I just liked knowing he was still out there, thinking of us too.
He texted often. Brief and sweet, but busy.
Hope today’s not a shit show.
Save me a bite of that soup.
Miss your face.
They often weren’t long messages, but they were warm. Warm enough that I reread them more than I probably should have. Warm enough that I felt pathetic for missing him while he was still orbiting my life like he always had.
What we had wasn’t a relationship. Not really. But on quiet nights, and smiles over dinner, and in the space between kisses, it certainly felt like more.
The washer clunked to a stop. I reached for another shirt from the basket, the cotton still smelling like dryer sheets. Outside the window, the tree in the front yard danced in the breeze, its last few leaves clinging for life before they drifted to the ground.
Winnie padded back into the room, one boot on, one off, holding a sequined cardigan against her chest. “Does this go with the dress?”
“It doesn’t not go,” I said, tilting my head. “Let’s see.”
She slipped it on and turned in a circle.
“I think it’s a win,” I said. “You look like a star.”
Her smile bloomed, bright and immediate. “Do you think Austin will like it? I hope he sits in the front row, like he said.”
My fingers froze in the middle of a hem. Just long enough to feel the sharp little tug behind my ribs. She wasn’t asking about whether her dad would show up or like her outfit; she was asking about Austin.
I forced my face into something gentle. “Yeah, baby. He said he’d be there. He wasn’t around today because I was, remember?”
She nodded like that was enough. I hoped it was.
When it came to Austin, I wasn’t asking for everything. I just wanted a little piece of the future to feel steady. I picked up the next towel and folded it slowly, methodically. The domestic rhythm of it calmed my hands even if it didn’t quiet my thoughts.
Behind me, Winnie went back to humming, trailing into the kitchen. The floor creaked under her little feet. The afternoon pressed in softer around the edges, dusky light slipping through the windows like a secret.
I sipped the cold tea and didn’t bother reheating it.
The school gym buzzed with too many bodies and too much sound—squeaking sneakers, folding chairs scraping against polished wood, the shriek of a mic being tested at the front.
It smelled like popcorn and some kind of janitor’s cleaner, with an underlying tang of cafeteria food still clinging to the air.
Winnie tugged at my hand, her excitement vibrating through her small frame like she might float right off the ground. I gave her fingers a gentle squeeze before letting go, and she darted off through the crowd toward the long hallway that led backstage.
I lingered a moment, watching the wave of sequins on her dress catch the overhead lights as she disappeared into a sea of tiny performers, all lined up and jittering like wind-up toys.
Their show was going to be brief, each grade level singing a song or two to celebrate autumn and their music program.
Excited giggles filled the hallway, and my cheeks pinched when Winnie’s head popped out and she gave me a delighted little wave.
I waved back before finding a spot in the gymnasium.
Rows of chairs spread across the gym floor in chaotic half rows.
I spotted my parents near the third row—Dad in his good flannel, Mom with her purse clutched in her lap.
Elodie and Cal sat beside them, their hands knotted quietly between them.
Levi slouched one seat over, earbuds tucked in until showtime.
Kit waved me over from the end of the row, already halfway through a handful of candy corns and beaming like she’d been appointed Head Cheerleader of the Night.
I dropped into the open chair next to her, then immediately thought better of it and stood again, draping my coat across the one beside me.
Austin’s seat.
“Where’s your hot nanny?” Kit asked, not bothering to keep her teasing voice low.
“He had work,” I said simply, smoothing my hands down my dress before sitting again. “But he said he’d be here.”
Kit gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret, then nodded and handed me a crumpled program. The top corner had a faint smudge.
I took it gratefully and let my eyes skim the list of class names and songs, pretending to care about the order of the medley.
“Selene?” a voice said beside me.
I turned to find one of the moms from Winnie’s class sliding into the seat behind me.
She was tall and smiley and always seemed to have her life together in a way that made me feel vaguely sticky and underdressed.
Tonight was no exception—her curls were shiny, her lipstick flawless, and she smelled like expensive perfume and eucalyptus baby wipes.
“Hey,” I said, managing a smile.
“Can you believe how packed it is?” she asked, fanning herself with the program. “I swear, every time it’s like this. My husband’s late, of course. Probably still circling the parking lot.”
I nodded like I knew exactly what that was like. As though I hadn’t checked my phone twice already since sitting down.
She leaned in conspiratorially. “Or maybe he stopped for beer. He always does this thing where he gets here just as the lights go down and then acts like he didn’t miss anything.”
I gave a polite laugh, my thumb brushing over my phone screen again. Still blank.
It’s just traffic. Or overtime. Or a last-minute hiccup at the jobsite.
That was all. I knew there had to be a reason Austin was running later than expected.
I tucked the phone into my bag, folded my hands in my lap, and tried not to think about the coat beside me. I tried not to hope he’d walk through the doors any second, cheeks flushed from the cold, apologizing with his eyes before he even reached me.
The gym lights flickered once, then again. A hush rippled through the crowd as the overhead fluorescents dimmed to half bright.
The show was starting, and the seat beside me was still empty.