Page 85 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Nathan’s gaze holds mine. “And you thought if he knew it was me, he’d burn everything.”

I nod once. “He’d punish you. He’d spin it as you stealing me, then he’d cry victim in every room that matters.”

Nathan sits still for a beat, then he speaks like he’s making a decision. “I’m done letting other people decide what happens to us.”

I stare at him, and I want to believe it so badly it makes my chest ache. Before I can answer, Nathan’s phone rings.

The sound is loud in the otherwise silent kitchen, and the name on the screen makes his expression shift instantly. Hawthorne. I can tell from his expression that it isn’t a casual call. He answers in the first ring. “Clarke.”

I watch him listen, and his posture tightens into focus. He stands still and absorbs information like he’s already ordering steps in his head. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

A beat.

“I’m on my way,” he adds, and the sentence closes like a door.

He ends the call and looks at me like he hates what he’s about to do. “I have to go.”

I keep my face neutral, even though disappointment flares hot and childish in my chest. “Go. That’s what you do.”

Nathan steps closer, and he stops at a respectful distance, then he lifts his hand slowly and cups my cheek. “I want to work this out. I’m not disappearing.”

I swallow. “You’re going to Hawthorne.”

“I am,” he replies, then his mouth tightens. “If you decide you want me here, if you decide you want me to relocate, I’ll do it.”

My brows lift slightly, although my heart is about to jump straight out of my chest. Is he actually telling me he’ll leave a life that took him decades to build for…this? “That’s a big sentence.”

“It’s a clear one,” he answers, and his eyes begin shining. “I’ve given my life to service. I want joy now, and I’m happiest when I’m around you.”

I swallow back the sob that threatens to break free, because the last thing I want to do is uproot him. But I want him by my side too, so much that it feels like a physical ache in my chest.

He leans in and kisses me, gentle and deliberate, then he pulls back and looks into my eyes as if he’s trying to stamp the moment into memory. “I’ll call.”

“You’d better,” I reply, and my voice shakes anyway.

Nathan nods once, then he turns and leaves, moving fast and controlled down the hallway.

The apartment feels ghostly after the door closes, and I keep myself busy with small tasks until my brain stops spinning. I fold laundry that doesn’t need folding. I reorganize Ivy’s art supplies. I check the lock twice even though I already checked it.

Hours pass, and my phone stays silent.

When Ivy comes home, she runs in with her backpack half-open and her cheeks flushed from school, then she pauses and looks around like she’s expecting to see him at the table. “Is pancake man here?”

“He had to go to work,” I tell her, keeping my voice light.

“Is he coming back?” she asks, looking slightly crestfallen, and her eyes search my face.

“Yes,” I say. “Soon.”

One night turns into two. I tell myself he’s making arrangements, and I also make up my mind that if things have quietened down in Boston, I’ll move there once I’m able to, once Ivy is comfortable around the idea of a dad and starting over in a new school. It’s wishful thinking, but I picture us as a family anyway.

By the second morning, I’m irritated in a way that feels protective, like anger is the only thing keeping fear from swallowing me. I tell myself he’s in surgery, that trauma doesn’t care about relationships, that he’ll answer my messages and call when he can.

By the third day, the hope in me starts going quiet.

I stop checking the street and watching the door. I get Ivy through breakfast and school and dinner and bedtime like I always do, and I tell myself I can do this alone again if I have to.

That evening, after Ivy falls asleep, my phone rings.