“Are you settled in?” Easton asks, pocketing his phone and grabbing his coat from over the couch. Wait… is he leaving? He just told his sister to book him a flight for tomorrow.
“Everything is perfect. Where are you going?”
“To my parents’ place. I’ll be on an early flight out, so I won’t be able to stop by before I leave, but Maria will be here at seven, so if you need anything, just let her know, and I’m only a phone call or text away.”
“Oh…” I try not to sound deflated. I had assumed he would be staying here. It is his house. I thought we could hang out, maybe watch a movie. Then, it hits me—his words from in the hospital. “You’re moving in after the tour is over, right?” When he said he wouldn’t be here, I thought he meant because he’s on tour.
He shakes his head. “We’re not together, Dash, and if I were to live here the paparazzi would swarm the place.” That’s why none of his clothes are here.
“But—”
“Sophia, no stressing,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.” He kisses my forehead. “Get some sleep.” And then, without a backward glance, he’s out the door.
I want to argue, chase after him and tell him this is his home, to stay, but he’s right. If he lives here with us, we’ll be in the spotlight. Once again, Easton is making sure we’re taken care of.
One Week Later
I check my phone for the hundredth time. Still no text from Easton. Since he left to go back on tour, his texts have gone from flirty and sweet to robotic and to the point. And now, for the first time in the three weeks he’s been gone, he hasn’t sent me his good morning text.
I’m sitting in class and should be focusing on the international economics lecture the professor is going over, but instead, I’m distracted by the lack of action my phone is getting.
It should be for the best that he’s stopped trying to remind me how good things could be between us. It would definitely make my life easier. But what’s that saying: you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone? Well, in my case, it’s that I didn’t realize what we could have until it was gone. Actually, that’s a lie—I knew what we could have. I felt it every time he smiled at me, talked to me, kissed me. Our time together during the holidays was magical. We connected on a level I’ve never felt with anyone. But then he pushed for more and I pushed back, scared of what more would mean.
My phone dings with a Google update on Freeman—yes, I get updates on him. My goal is to always stay one step ahead. I click on the update and read through the article: Freeman Carmichael has announced he’s running for senator. There’s a picture of him, his wife, and their baby, and underneath the picture, there’s a caption that says they’re expecting baby number two.
My blood boils. Why is it that he gets to have it all—the family, the life, the happiness—while I’m stuck hiding from the world? He hasn’t contacted me since the day I left. Aside from our secret meetings—which at the time I didn’t realize were secret—nobody can link us together or link Kendall to him. If they were going to do it, wouldn’t they have already done it?
As far as anyone’s concerned, the father of my daughter is dead, and I’ll stick to that story. But I’m done passing through life, living in fear of the unknown. I’m done being weak and allowing bullies like Freeman to dictate my life choices.
Before I can overthink it, I swipe out of the stupid article and pull up the text thread between Easton and me and type out a message: Hey, I hope you’re having a good morning.
I keep it simple to feel him out. If he isn’t interested in me anymore, I don’t want to make an ass out of myself. I still have to spend the next eighteen plus years co-parenting with him.
A few seconds later, bubbles appear and then a text comes in.
Easton: I am. Hope you are too.
My heart sinks. That’s it? That’s all he’s going to give me? I consider giving up, but remember how much he tried for weeks while I didn’t give him anything.
Me: I’m okay. In class listening to my professor drone on about financial law. I can’t wait for class to be over so I can go home and eat. I’m starvvvviiiinnngggg.
I read over my text, realizing I suck at flirting, and delete it.
Me: Thanks! I’m in class thinking about how hungry I am.
Ugh! How does he do it? He opens his mouth or types and it’s like insta-flirt. Meanwhile, I sound like a creepy guy with a cheesy pickup line.