I shake my head. “Hate to burst that bubble, but Decker and I aren’t meant for each other.”
Decker heads to the hula hoop station and swaps in for a dad who looks thrilled to pass the job onto someone else. Except the dad doesn’t leave. Rather, he stays and chats with Decker, probably about the Colts.
Leighton holds up her hands. “Okay. We’ll take Decker off the table. Why now?”
My gaze tracks Hazel as she skips between stations. She’s come out of her shell this year, but she still clings to Monroe, still lets Monroe talk for her more than she should.
“For Hazel. For myself. I’m ready to have a partner in my life.” My throat tightens. “I know it’ll take a while to find someone. There aren’t exactly a line of men raising their hands begging to be a dad.”
Leighton snorts. “Sure there are. Lots of guys are into hot moms.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that tugs at my mouth. “You’re always so complimentary.”
“I’m speaking the truth.”
Hazel runs toward the hula hoop station, grabs one, and tries to swivel her hips. The hoop immediately drops to the ground, and her shoulders bend inward.
Decker steps in, gentle and easy, showing her how to start the motion. Then he does it himself, his hips moving with ridiculous confidence, the hoop spinning as though he’s a professional circus act.
Leighton makes an impressed noise. “Who would’ve thought Decker had moves like that?”
Little does she know.
“Of course, Callie did say he can dance.”
“His mom taught him.” I keep my voice casual.
I don’t add that I taught him a little too.
Another mom approaches Leighton, pulling her into a quick conversation about snacks or sign-up sheets or something equally earth-shattering in the elementary school world, and I keep my gaze trained anywhere but on Decker.
Except I stray.
I keep catching myself watching him with Hazel, and a version of my life flashes in my head like a cruel movie trailer designed to torture me. I hate myself for wanting it.
I wouldn’t have Hazel if I had Decker. The blink of a relationship that gave me her is the best thing that ever happened to me.
When Hazel was three, she asked me what the word daddy meant as though it was a brand name. Like it was something we could grab from the grocery store if we walked down the right aisle.
Should I have a daddy, Mommy?
I remember the way I smiled through the tightness in my throat.
As if the universe is trying to be funny, my dad finally arrives and gives me a wave before beelining straight for Decker. My dad shakes his hand, claps him on the back, then crouches as Hazel sprints into his arms.
Decker gives Hazel a high five, gives Hayes a quick wave, and then—finally—turns, but instead of leaving the school grounds, he walks toward me. My heart rate spikes hard and fast, my body reacting before my brain can remind me he means nothing to us.
Decker stops right in front of the painted line on the pavement, as if it’s the proverbial line in the sand he won’t cross. “Hey.” He runs a hand through his dark hair.
“Hi.” I think my attempt to keep a casual smile is failing. It feels awkward and forced.
“Your dad was running late and sent an SOS text to a few of us.” His thumb jerks toward the street. “I was the closest.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
He shrugs, but there’s a hesitation—one beat too long, as if he wants to say something else.
This is what it’s like between us now. We’re strangers who happen to share a history instead of two people who used to be able to read each other from across a room.
