Page 16 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

Ethan pauses slightly. Right, because he forgot. Again.

Owen doesn’t notice the tension at all. “Thunder bikes!” he announces, turning at the sound of a motorcycle rumbling past, no doubt on its way to the nearby infamous Wild Riders’ clubhouse.

Ethan blinks. “Thunder bikes?”

“The motorcycles!” Owen says dramatically. “They sound like storms.”

I bite back a smile despite myself. Ethan smiles politely in that distracted way parents do when they aren’t fully listening. “Cool, buddy.” He checks his phone, no doubt firing off an email. I’m not surprised that he’s making no effort to ask anything about me, or Owen, for that matter. “Alright. Let’s get your stuff.”

Owen suddenly gasps. “The garbage men!”

“What?” Ethan looks to me for help. I fold my arms.

“I’ll miss the garbage truck in the morning!” Owen whines, slapping his hands against his sides.

My chest tightens unexpectedly. This is harder than I thought it would be. Every Saturday morning, Owen waits by the window for the sanitation truck like it’s a celebrity parade. Watching his joy over something so simple has become one of life’s pleasures, and the realization that I will miss it tomorrow, that Ethan might share that moment instead, stings.

Ethan looks genuinely confused. “Garbage truck morning?”

“He loves garbage trucks,” I explain tightly. “Every Saturday they come by around eight.”

Another pause. Another thing his father doesn’t know. “Oh,” Ethan says finally, nodding. “Right.”

Something ugly twists in my stomach. Not anger exactly, just disappointment, and perhaps a little jealousy that he’s entitled to spend time with Owen without knowing the simplest of things about him. Because how do you not know these things? How do you not know your kid loves storms? Or garbage trucks? Or that he calls motorcycles thunder bikes?

Owen chatters happily while Ethan gathers his overnight bag. Meanwhile, anxiety slowly climbs higher and higher beneath my ribs. What if he cries tonight? What if Brielle gets annoyed with him? What if he has a nightmare? What if he wants to come home? What if—

“Sadie,” Ethan says softly. I blink. Ethan is watching me now. “He’ll be fine.”

I hate that he can still read me sometimes. “I know.” My voice sounds thin even to me.

Owen suddenly runs back and hugs my legs tightly. “Bye, Mommy.”

I crouch immediately, breathing in the familiar smell of syrup and little-kid shampoo. “Be good, okay?”

He pouts, giggling. “I’m always good.”

I snort softly. “Debatable.”

He grins. Then Ethan leads him outside into the rain. I suppress a laugh as Owen jumps into a puddle, splashing Ethan’s shoes. Ethan opens his mouth, ready to scold him, but at the glance I throw him, he clamps it shut. “Come on, Buddy, in we get,” he says, his voice tight as he helps Owen into the back of the SUV and straps him into the booster seat.

“Bye, Mommy!” Owen yells. I wave back as Ethan shuts the door, continuing to wave even though I can’t see him through the blacked-out windows. Ethan nods at me as he climbs into the car.

“Call me if you—” the wind whips away my words.

I stand in the doorway watching the taillights disappear down the street while thunder rumbles overhead.

The house feels too quiet immediately afterward. Too empty. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

You disappeared again.

Desire curls deep inside me, despite the knot of anxiety still sitting in my chest. I type back before I can overthink it.

Kid handoff—slight emotional trauma.

The response comes instantly.

You okay?