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.

After what seems like forever but is in actuality only two hours, we call it a night. The four of us walk out the door of the bar onto the sidewalk.

I turn to the right, and find myself staring into stunning, crystal-blue eyes.

“Jake!” Chelsea says, as surprised as I am.

“Chelsea . . . hey.”

The kids flank her on all sides. Raymond is pushing Ronan in his stroller on her left, Riley holds Rosaleen’s hand on her right, Regan is held in Chelsea’s arms.

“Jake!” Regan shouts, using her new favorite word.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Chelsea’s expression goes from surprised to awkward as she takes in Brent, the blond Lucy, and the brunette at my side. She pales slightly, looking . . . wounded.

Not to be outdone, Rosaleen bounces and says, “Hey, Jake!”

I smile at her as the brunette crouches down. “You are sooo cute! My sister is going to have a baby soon and I hope she looks just like you.” She taps Rosaleen’s nose—which scrunches distastefully.

“Who are you?” Rosaleen asks with all kinds of attitude.

“Come on, Rosaleen.” Riley tugs at her sister’s hand, giving me the cold shoulder and an even colder glare. “Raymond, let’s keep walking. Aunt Chelsea, we’ll catch up with you down the block.”

The three of them walk around us while I’m still staring at Chelsea.

“What . . . what are you doing here?”

“Rory’s therapist had to push back his session. He’s in there now and I promised the kids ice cream while we wait, so that’s what I’m doing. We’re heading that way”—she points over my shoulder—“to get ice cream.”