Birthday Girl

“It doesn’t have to be that way. Pike.” She sighs, scooting closer onto her knees and tucking her dark hair behind her ear. “I was young. I was stupid. And I was selfish,” she pleads. “I didn’t see what a good man you are. How lucky I was to have someone ambitious and responsible and steady. I want you.” She cocks her head, playing me with her eyes. “It wasn’t all bad. You remember that, right? You remember how hot we were.”

I reach into the drawer of my nightstand, seeing the new box of condoms I had to buy, because Jordan and I went through the last one faster than I expected. I quickly grab a cigar out of the box and my lighter and slam the drawer shut, so Lindsay doesn’t see it and start being nosy.

“I didn’t have much of a frame of reference back then,” I spit out. “I do now.”

“You’re lonely,” she states. “I want to try again. For Cole’s sake. You know how much he would love to see us together? He was too young to remember.”

I let out a bitter laugh. And thank goodness for that. Coming home from a double-shift and shelling out sixty bucks to a babysitter before spending the rest of the night catching an hour sleep where I could between Cole waking up for feedings while she was out partying.

“Aren’t you tired of going out alone?” She climbs off the bed and steps up to me. “Seeing all our friends with their families and homes and vacations? We can be that. I’ve grown up. I could be here for you, taking care of you, and taking care of this house.”

This house. She means our house. She wants to live here.

The idea of her in my house, walking around like it’s hers, makes me sick. This isn’t her house. It’ll never be hers. It’s…

I stop myself, not needing to put the thought into words. There’s only one woman I see living in this house.

I walk for the door. “And, let me guess…in exchange, I’d financially support you in this arrangement, right?”

“I could make you happy,” she tells me. “I have before.”

I drop my eyes, barely even needing to ponder that statement. A month ago, I might’ve agreed with her. Once upon a time, for a very short spell, we were happy. Days here, hours there.

But now I know, it didn’t even come close. She doesn’t even compare to what I’ve had the past few weeks.

“Go back to your room.” I walk out, leaving the door open and then adding over my shoulder. “Jordan’s room, I mean.”

I charge down the hallway, slowing when I pass Cole’s door and so fucking tempted to push it open. That’s mine in there. What kind of a man puts his woman in that situation? What kind of a man doesn’t fucking own up and take what’s his?

I need to think. I jog down the stairs and make my way through the kitchen and then the laundry room, every moment I wait bringing me closer and closer to not being able to take this. I know she won’t let anything happen, but I need her out of there.

But as soon as I step outside, I see that the problem is already solved. For the moment, anyway. She sits on the edge of the pool, her legs dangling in the water, and glances over at me as I step outside.

I pause momentarily, her blue eyes cold and distant. Awareness pricks at my back, knowing Lindsay’s room—Jordan’s room—faces the backyard, and she could possibly be watching.

Casually, I walk to the lawn table, light my cigar, and set the lighter down, puffing and inhaling until the end burns bright orange. The sweet scent fills my nose, and I blow out smoke, immediately feeling a tingle in my head. I walk over to the side of the pool opposite her and look down at her, seeing she’s dressed in some sleep shorts and a black tank with no bra on.

The hard points of her nipples are visible from here.

I tense my jaw. “You’re sleeping in that?” I mumble, barely moving my lips and keeping my voice as low as possible.

“He’s seen me in less.”

I pinch the cigar and flick the end with my middle finger. “And?

“And what?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Did he touch you?”

I hear her breath out a laugh. “Maybe.” And then she thins her eyes on me. “And maybe I let him. He’s a chip off the old block, after all.”

My jaw aches, and she shakes her head, turning away from me.

I know she’s angry. I know why she’s angry. And I know we all do stupid things when we’re angry. She’s pushing me away, and I just need time to think. Just some time.

“Don’t do this,” I tell her.

“Then don’t ask me stupid questions.”