Sustained(82)

And I was a selfish fucking idiot.

She inhales a breath, then lets it out slowly, the way she does when she’s trying to calm her heart. I hate that I fucking know that. I hate that I can already imagine what she’s thinking, what she’ll say.

“Jake, I know it’s scary. I’m scared too. But some things are worth being scared for. And together, we could be . . .”

Do it right . . . or don’t bother.

So I force myself to look into those heartbreaking blue eyes. And lie through my teeth.

“I don’t want this, Chelsea.”

She gasps, like the wind’s been knocked out of her.

“I don’t want this life. I can be a friend to you—to them—but this thing between us, whatever it is . . . needs to end now.” I scrape a hand through my hair, tugging hard, the pain giving me focus. Resolve. “You’re the kind of woman who’s gonna want to get married someday. You should be out there looking for that guy. But I’m not him. Any time we spend together will just . . . be a waste.”

Her voice is dull. Barely there. “I see.”

And I can hear the tears. I won’t look—I fucking can’t. But I can practically feel them slowly streaking down her face.

She clears her throat. “The boys—they idolize you, Jake. They all do. Please don’t—”

“I won’t,” I promise. “I’m not going to abandon them or you. I still want to help.” My voice picks up and I start to talk faster.

“Anything you need. I’ll take them to practice, I’ll be there at games, babysitting or just being with them. I won’t leave you hanging, Chelsea.”

I finally get the balls to look at her face.

But I shouldn’t have.

She’s moonlight pale, her lashes dark with wetness. A tear leaks silently from one corner, leaving a silver trail down her porcelain cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

And I am—so goddamn sorry.

Chelsea raises her chin, and her shoulders straighten with that bravery—that quiet, ceaseless strength. Her fingers wipe away tears. “I understand, Jake. Thank you”—she swallows—“for your honesty.” Her voice goes even softer. “We care about you too—so much. If friendship is all you want, then we’ll make it work just as friends.”

Hearing the words from her lips makes me fucking cringe.

But I cover it with a silent nod.

Chelsea steps toward the door, and every cell in my body screams to stop her. Grab her—spin her around and kiss her until she smiles again. To drop to my knees and take it all back. To undo the last five minutes.

But I’m trying to do the right thing. Even though it’s harder than I ever could’ve imagined.

As Chelsea walks away, I squeeze my eyes shut, force my feet and my hands to stay still as stone . . . and let her go.





26


Days go by and bleed into weeks. I keep my commitments to the kids. Sometimes I’m there when they get off the bus from school, nearby during Rosaleen’s piano practices. Once in a while I take Regan and Ronan back to fucking Mommy and Me, and I go to Rory’s Little League games, cheering louder than any father there. Things between Chelsea and me are . . . civil. Perfectly polite. I almost wish she’d curse at me, yell, tell me I’m a dick. It’d be so much better than the impersonal, tightly measured exchanges we have. She talks to me the same way the Judge does on the days when he has no goddamn idea who I am.

Like I’m a stranger.

Two weeks after the custody hearing, Brent strolls into my office. “Dude, tonight—me, Lucy Patterson, you, and her friend, we’re going to grab a bite to eat after work.”

“I don’t think so,” I answer, not bothering to look up from my laptop.

“And therein lies your problem, Jake. Too much thinking. It’s time to get back on that horse, little camper. And ride her.” He fiddles with a pen on my desk. “I’ve taken Lucy out a few times already—we’re chugging full steam ahead. She says her friend likes you, has been asking about you.”

I rub my eyes. “What was her friend’s name again?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter—you’re going. I won’t take no for an answer.”

When he gets an idea into his head, Brent can be as tenacious as Sofia’s Rottweiler’s jaws—he just won’t let go. So, in an effort to get back to work as quickly as possible, I give in.

“Fine.”

“Sweet.” He smiles. “We’re meeting them at six.”

• • •

Dinner with Brent, Lucy, and her friend with the tight ass, whose name I still don’t know, is once again casual. Easy. And forgettable. We meet up at a sports bar, have hot sandwiches, then move to the adjoining room to shoot some pool. The friend flirts with me, tries to get me to teach her how to hold the cue. But I’m just not into it. It’s an effort not to be rude.