Every Sweet Regret (Orchid Valley 2)

ItsyBitsy123: I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Sleep well.Chapter SevenKaceTuesday morning, I’m dragging ass. For too many nights in a row, I’ve been stuck in my own head when it was time to sleep, and it’s catching up with me. I dropped Hope off at preschool already, and instead of hitting the road for my typical Tuesday run with Dean, I’m relieved to be pouring my second cup of coffee after he stood me up.

My phone buzzes with a new Random notification, and I take a sip of the dark, piping-hot liquid as I open the app. The sight of a message from ItsyBitsy has me smiling wider than I have all morning.

ItsyBitsy123: Good morning, handsome. How’d you sleep?I’m not sure I want to answer that. After talking to her on Random last night, I would’ve thought I’d be able to fall asleep without thinking of my best friend’s little sister. I would’ve been wrong. I should never have touched Stella, because now I can’t stop thinking about it.

I actually typed out a text to her last night. Can’t stop thinking about the things you need to learn. I stared at it for a solid minute before I made myself delete it. If she finds a place to live that isn’t within ten yards of my back door, I’ll send that text and see what happens. Otherwise, I need to keep my thoughts to myself. I’m sure as hell not sharing them with another woman.

GoodHands69: I haven’t slept great lately. But that’s why God gave us coffee.

ItsyBitsy123: I’m sorry to hear that. Too much on your mind?

GoodHands69: You could say that. But at least I’m not losing sleep over my wife anymore.I flinch the second I send the last message. Crap. I don’t want to sound like the bitter ex—especially since I’m really not. Losing Amy sucked, and some days are tough, but I couldn’t make her happy. I won’t resent her for being honest about her feelings.

ItsyBitsy123: I’m glad to hear that. And I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but Amy doesn’t deserve you.Whoa. That throws me. Did I tell this woman my wife’s name? I remember talking about my divorce, but—

I scroll up to see the messages from last night, and nothing happens. It’s like they were never there.

GoodHands69: Why can’t I find last night’s messages?

ItsyBitsy123: The app eats them the second you close out of the message feature.

GoodHands69: Is it weird and old-fashioned of me to want to be able to revisit our conversations?

ItsyBitsy123: Not at all! I feel the same way. The feature’s annoying and inconvenient AF, not to mention likely enabling cheaters (though, really, if your guy has Random on his phone, that might be a good sign he’s not faithful).I chuckle. I never expected to enjoy conversations with anyone I met on here, which is shallow of me, but I guess I’ve heard too many horror stories.

I want to know this woman’s name, see her face, but Orchid Valley is so small that there’s a decent chance we’ve met or at least have mutual friends. I know myself well enough to know that the second this feels too real, I’ll shut it down. Names and faces can wait until I’m sure this is something I’m willing to explore seriously.

GoodHands69: What’s the deal with your username?

ItsyBitsy123: Itsy Bitsy. Like the spider in the song?

GoodHands69: Hmm . . . well, that clears up nothing.

ItsyBitsy123: That poor spider just keeps getting knocked down, but she never stops trying. You could say I can relate.

GoodHands69: Where are you now? Climbing or getting washed out?

ItsyBitsy123: Climbing, baby.

GoodHands69: Good. I’ll be here cheering for you next time you get to the top.

ItsyBitsy123: I appreciate that.My phone rings, and Dean’s picture flashes on the screen. I swipe to accept the call and press my cell to my ear. “Morning, asshole. I thought you were going to meet me for five miles this morning.” Not that I really care. I’m too fucking tired to run, let alone try to keep up with a former cross-country athlete.

“Sorry. I stopped by Mom’s to help her with her computer and ended up getting sucked into a hundred other things over there.”

I laugh, all too familiar with that experience when it comes to my own mother. “It’s fine. I skipped out this morning, anyway. You get everything taken care of?”

“Not really.” He sighs, and I feel a big ask coming. “I need to get that sink fixed before I have the real-estate agent out to Mom’s. You know I’m shit with plumbing.”

I was planning to sit down in my office and catch up on emails, but I already know how this conversation will end. “Barely worse than I am,” I mutter. The last thing I want to do this morning is fix a leaky bathroom sink. When it comes to construction and home improvement, I can do a little bit of everything, but plumbing is my least favorite job. The rule of thumb is that the simplest plumbing job will require at least three unplanned trips to the hardware store, and I’d rather go in with a sharp mind. Never mind that the bathroom in question is right next to Stella’s room.