Chapter 32 Selene
THIRTY-TWO
SELENE
He’d missed it. He’d really, truly missed it.
An ache gripped my heart as realization washed over me. The past few minutes played over in my mind like a blur.
A hush had pulled through the gym like a drawn breath as the concert waited to begin.
The chaotic rustle of candy wrappers and folding chairs fell still.
Parents leaned forward. Programs crackled quietly in their laps.
Someone’s perfume hung sweet and powdery in the air, mixing with the sharper tang of disinfectant and warm metal bleachers.
The faint squeak of sneakers echoed from behind the curtain.
Beside me, the seat had stayed empty.
I sat up straighter, smoothing the hem of my dress over my knees even though I hadn’t moved. My palms were folded together, tight and deliberate, the way you press your fingers in prayer—not to ask for anything, just to anchor yourself in place.
The stage lights flared a soft amber. A teacher’s voice came over the mic, cheerful and a little too loud, announcing the start of the kindergarten medley.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until the curtain finally opened.
My smile bloomed when I saw her. Front row, second from the end. Sparkly boots. Sequined cardigan. Ponytail bouncing with the beat of the opening chords.
My whole world.
Winnie had smiled so wide I could see it from thirty feet away, even through the haze of gym lights and the shimmer of movement all around her.
Her voice joined the others, sweet and slightly off-key, and my heart squeezed so hard I had to press my thumb into the meat of my palm to keep from crying.
She looked radiant.
She looked proud.
And every few seconds she looked into the crowd.
Searching.
Waiting.
Hoping.
My eyes had stayed on her. I didn’t let them wander. Not to the doors. Not to the back wall. Not to the seat beside me that sat empty.
Instead, I had given Winnie everything I had. I smiled like I could make up the difference. Like my love could stretch wide enough to cover the empty space beside me. Like I wasn’t fraying at the edges.
The kids began the second song, something about falling leaves and sharing and neighborly cheer.
They swayed side to side in unison, arms rising and falling like clumsy leaves.
A few got distracted and waved at parents.
One picked her nose. A boy in the back row lifted his shirt and proudly scratched his belly. The audience laughed politely.
Winnie didn’t wave. She didn’t lose focus, but her eyes still moved.
She had been searching. Still hoping.
When her solo came, she had stepped forward with practiced poise, her shoulders pulled back, her hands at her sides. She was small and steady and so heartbreakingly brave.
Her voice had wobbled at the start, just slightly, then found its footing and rose into the space like it belonged there.
I knew every word. Every note. We’d practiced in the living room for days, her voice bouncing off the walls, off-key and perfect. She’d sung it into her hairbrush, into the shampoo bottle, into the quiet corners of bedtime when she thought I wasn’t listening.
Tonight she sang it to me. Just me.
Because that was all there was. It was no surprise her dad didn’t show up, but Austin had promised. Shame rippled through me as I realized I’d let it happen again. Only this time, it wasn’t just me who was affected.
Halfway through the verse, her gaze had flicked again toward the crowd—one final, hopeful sweep—and when it landed back on me, something in it faltered.
The corner of her smile dimmed, not quite a frown, just .
. . the faintest dip. Like a curtain lowering an inch too early.
Like she was folding up something she hadn’t even gotten to fully share.
She finished the song with a quiet bow. Another student stepped forward to enjoy his time in the spotlight. When the song ended, the applause came like a wave, loud and proud, echoing off the high ceilings. Parents clapped and cheered and rose to their feet. Cameras flashed. Kit let out a whoop.
I clapped, too, but I couldn’t feel my hands.
The space beside me was still empty. Cold air clung to it like a ghost. My coat lay draped over the seat, untouched.
I glanced around and noted polite smiles and interested stares. There were whispers behind their curious glances, as if to say, “We all see it. You’re still doing this alone.”
As the grade levels transitioned, movement at the door caught my attention. Austin’s frantic gaze snagged on me, but I swallowed back tears.
He missed the whole thing.
I stared ahead as the rest of the grade levels completed their performances. I willed myself to keep it together. Finally, the lights came up and the kids started filing offstage, giggling and bumping into each other, cheeks flushed and glittering under the lights.
I caught sight of Winnie at the edge of the curtain, her cardigan slipping from one shoulder, her hair a little lopsided now. She looked toward the seats again, just once.
This time, she didn’t even bother to hide the heavy sigh.
I stood quietly. Smoothed my dress again. Gathered our coats and the little purse she’d insisted on bringing.
When I turned to make my way toward the backstage door, I didn’t glance at the entrance once.
The backstage hallway smelled like pencil shavings and tempera paint, a familiar cocktail of elementary school chaos. Kids poured out of the side door in a burst of noise and color—jackets half on, glitter shedding like confetti, sneakers scuffing linoleum.
I scanned the crowd until I saw her.
Winnie’s cheeks were flushed, her cardigan hanging to her elbow and her boots a little crooked. She looked up, eyes sweeping once more toward the gym behind me, before they landed on my face.
There was a second—just a heartbeat—when her expression brightened, and I knew she thought maybe, just maybe, he was with me.
But then she looked past me and her smile dropped.
Not all the way. Just enough that the air between us lost its shimmer.
“You were amazing,” I said, crouching in front of her. I tugged the cardigan back up over her shoulder and buttoned the top clasp with slow, careful fingers. “You sang so beautifully, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”
She gave a little shrug and looked down at her boots. “It wasn’t that good.”
“It was,” I said firmly, tipping her chin up with my fingers. “It was perfect.”
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t smile either. Just nodded, polite and small.
“I thought . . .” she began.
I waited.
She swallowed. “I thought Austin said he was going to be there.”
I kept my face soft. I didn’t flinch. At least not where she could see.
“I know, baby,” I said, putting on the bravest face I could muster. “Me too.”
I stood and helped her into her coat, tucking the sleeves over her sparkly cuffs, brushing glitter from her shoulders. All the while my mind replayed the last moments like a highlight reel I hadn’t asked for.
Winnie practicing in front of the mirror. Winnie asking about her boots. Winnie lighting up at the idea of Austin seeing her perform.
I wasn’t mad, not exactly. I was tired.
So tired of the way hope kept sneaking in, even when I knew better.
“I’m hungry,” Winnie said, rubbing her eyes. “Can we go home?”
“You don’t want to stick around and visit with your friends?” I asked.
Winnie shook her head, her eyes staying glued to my shoes.
“Of course, baby,” I said, looping her hand into mine. “You want to stop for ice cream on the way?”
She glanced up at me. “Only if you’re not mad.”
That was the part that broke me. Not the missing seat. Not the phone that stayed quiet. Not even the sight of her standing alone in a sea of kindergartners, her hope slowly unraveling like thread.
It was her thinking that she needed to tiptoe around my feelings.
I stopped walking. Knelt again so I was level with her.
“I’m not mad. Not at you, okay? Not even a little bit. I’m just proud. So, so proud. You were the best part of my whole day, and I want you to have whatever kind of night makes you happy.”
She nodded, her lip wobbling just a little before she smiled again.
I stood and led her toward the exit, the hallway growing quieter behind us.
We were almost to the front doors when I heard it—the quick, echoing thud of boots across the polished floor.
My body went still before I turned.
Austin stood just inside the hallway entrance, breathless, eyes sweeping the crowd until they landed on us. His face was flushed, jaw tight, shoulders stiff beneath his coat like he hadn’t even stopped moving long enough to let the air settle in his lungs.
Winnie’s hand went tight in mine.
“Hi, Austin,” she said, her voice small but hopeful. She’d already forgiven him.
He stepped forward fast. “I’m so sorry. Traffic was—I thought I could—” His eyes flicked from her to me. “I swear, I tried. I wanted to be here.”
Winnie looked up at him. “You missed it.”
She didn’t say it with anger. There was no accusation in her voice.
Just quiet disappointment, and somehow I knew that hurt more.
Austin opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he didn’t know what to say that would make it better.
“Your boots look awesome,” he offered.
Winnie didn’t respond.
I looked at him then—really looked at him. The wrinkle between his brows. The regret clinging to his features like soot. The part of him that still thought being sorry could fix things.
“It’s okay,” I said, cutting through the quiet. “We’re heading out.”
“Selene—”
“No,” I said gently, but with finality. “Let’s not do this here. Not now.”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask for more than he could give.
I just turned back toward the door, fingers tightening around Winnie’s hand.
“We’re okay,” I said again, but this time it was for her.
Winnie’s hand felt smaller than usual as it gently squeezed mine, her pink coat half buttoned over her dress.
She didn’t bounce or skip or ask a million questions about ice cream.
Her spark had dimmed into something quieter, more inward, like all her extra glitter had settled beneath her skin and weighed her down.
The gym doors thudded shut behind us, the air outside cool and damp with the first hint of late autumn. Night had fallen fast—slate sky, breath in clouds. The parking lot was a mess of brake lights and uneven idling, parents calling to each other over too-tight parking spaces.
I guided Winnie between puddles, her boots squelching against the pavement. She didn’t speak, just climbed into the back seat when I opened the door. I helped her shrug off the coat, fastened the seat belt snug across her lap, and leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead.
“You were the best one up there,” I whispered.
She gave me a quiet smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
I stood with my hand still resting on the door for a breath longer than necessary. Then I closed it gently and circled to the driver’s side, blinking against the sting gathering behind my lashes.
My hands found the steering wheel but didn’t turn the key. I sat there, staring straight ahead as headlights swept across the lot, illuminating corners I didn’t want to look at too closely.
Across the row of cars, under the yellow glare of the gymnasium’s exterior light, Austin stood just outside the doors, his hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, shoulders hunched like he wasn’t sure whether to come closer or turn around and disappear.
His eyes were on the car.
On us.
My heart twisted, low and mean, an ache that knew exactly where to press.
I could’ve rolled down the window. I could have waved or gotten out or told him it was okay—that I understood. That maybe it didn’t matter as much as it did.
Instead, I reached into the back seat for Winnie’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and turned the key in the ignition.
I didn’t know what I’d say if I let myself say anything at all.
Because this—this wasn’t a breakup.
It wasn’t even a relationship.
It was hope, thin and tender, folded into corners I should’ve left untouched, and now it hurt in ways I hadn’t let anything hurt in a long, long time.
I pulled out of the lot without looking back.
Maybe that was the worst part—he wasn’t even mine, and it still felt like an ending.