Every Sweet Regret (Orchid Valley 2)

“That’s no problem at all, but Kace . . .” I bite my lip, not wanting to sound like a snob.

“What?”

“What’s Abbi going to say when she finds out you wouldn’t let her make Hope’s cake but one from Costco is just fine?”

He scrubs a hand over his beard. “I don’t know. When Amy wanted to take care of it, I assumed she had a plan.”

I guess she did. If you can call swinging by Costco for a premade cake from their cooler a “plan.” There’s nothing wrong with Costco cake, but it’s nothing like Abbi’s—never mind that Abbi would decorate it to match the Elsa “ice princess” party theme. “I’ll figure it out. Don’t even worry about it.”

His jaw twitches and he nods, but he’s got that distant look about him, like he’s focusing on an overwhelming mental to-do list.

I put a hand on his arm and squeeze, and he closes his eyes and exhales heavily. It’s the first time we’ve touched since I ended things between us. Not that there was much to end. “It’s just a party. She’s turning five, and she’s loved like crazy. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“It’s not that.” Finally, he meets my gaze. Is this what it feels like to snatch the bait and find yourself reeled in? I miss those eyes. I miss him looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing in the world.

I miss believing there was something real between us.

I drop my hand. Kace studies it, opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then shakes his head. And turns away.

I clear my throat. “So . . . decorations and a cake. Anything else?”

He cringes. “Hope’s very excited about the games, and Amy was also in charge of those.” He shakes his head. “I know this is probably nothing a Google search couldn’t solve, but I—”

“Say no more. I’ve got this.”* * *KaceHope’s face is a perfect picture of five-year-old focus as she wobbles through the grass with a water balloon between her knees, trying to move as quickly as she can without popping it. On either side of her, two friends from her preschool do the same. Ten feet ahead, chalk spray paint marks the finish line. The adults cheer from the patio, and Brinley’s ten-year-old daughter, Cami, stands at the end of the path to declare the winner.

The little girl with braids, Kara, picks up her pace and makes it a few strides ahead of the others, then shrieks when her balloon pops between her knees before she can cross the line.

“Slow and steady!” Cami shouts from the finish line. “Come on, Hopey! You got this.”

Cami is Hope’s honorary cousin, not to mention her idol, and at the sound of her voice, my daughter moves wrong and the balloon falls to the grass, busting between her bare feet. The last little girl standing giggles her way toward the finish line. All my focus is on Hope, though, and the big smile on her face.

I’ve had good birthdays, and I’ve had bad birthdays. I’m at the point in my life where it doesn’t mean much either way. But birthdays are everything to my girl. She looks forward to them all year long. The only thing she’s talked about this week is what her party’s going to be like and who’s going to be there.

Amy might be terrible about leaving everything to the last minute, but she’s always pulled it together. After she texted this morning to let me know her flight was delayed, I worried this would be the year Hope’s birthday was a disappointment on every level. Instead, she’s so busy having fun that she’s forgotten her mom’s not here. At least temporarily.

“Who’s ready for cake?” Abbi asks, sticking her head out the back door.

“Meeeeee!” the kids chorus, rushing toward the tables decorated with streamers and the rock candy “ice crystals” Stella sprinkled down the middle.

“Everyone sit down so we can sing to the birthday girl,” my sister says before ducking back into the house. When she returns, she’s holding a cake that looks like the castle from Frozen. Five candles blaze on top.

“Happy birthday to you,” we all sing together as Abbi carefully sets the cake down in front of her niece. Hope sings along with us, with a spirited “Happy birthday to meee,” and then takes one deep breath and blows out all the candles on her first try.

Everyone claps, and Abbi whisks the cake away to cut it. My mom helps, asking the girls if they want ice cream, and Stella and Brinley pass the plates out to the youngest guests, who dig in, making happy noises when the sugar hits their tongue.

My gaze lands on Stella, who’s listening intently as Hope recaps the water balloon race and explains how the slippery balloon got away from her. Sometimes adults just humor kids, listening when they don’t really care what they’re saying. I’ve done it myself from time to time with other people’s children. Do I really care about how you killed all those creepers on Minecraft? No. But I’ll stand here and listen, because I know it matters to you. Hell, I’ve even done the half-assed listening thing to Hope when I’ve been particularly distracted by something else in my life, but that’s not what happens when Stella listens to my kid telling a story. She laughs with Hope and adds her own observations. And it’s not just today. She’s always been that way. If she ever does have kids, she’ll be an amazing mom. I hope that dream comes true for her.