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“And he went out of his way to help him feel included? How sweet is that?” She clutches at her chest, making my jealousy flair despite the fact that she’s almost sixty and has been happily married for longer than I’ve been alive. She’s also been around this town for decades and knows about my history with Owen. Which kind of makes me want to smack her upside the head despite her age.
“Yes. That was very…thoughtful of him,” I mumble under my breath.
There are a lot of kids without parents here, but Owen sought out the one who needed a positive experience with a man.
Because he’s thoughtful like that. And sweet. And generous. And so damn selfless that it leaves me breathless.
Or at least I thought he was selfless until he broke my heart, then knocked a girl up. It shattered me and made me see him in a new light. It made me question whether or not he really was as selfless as I’d initially believed. And I was okay with that. I needed the hatred to build if I had any chance of getting over him. Yet here he is, proving the opposite while confirming my original perception of America’s Golden Boy.
He is selfless. Which only seems to make our past burn worse.
Our conversation from the night before flickers in the back of my mind, causing my phone to burn a hole in my back pocket.
“I, uh, I gotta go check on the water cups at the finish line. We’ll chat later.”
“Alright, honey. I’ll hang out around the final turn in case anyone has any questions or needs anything. Thanks again for heading this up.”
“Don’t mention it. You’ve done your time. It’s time for me to give you a break.” I wink for good measure, then head to the plastic table littered with paper cups. The entire parking lot, along with the grassy area in front of the school, is empty, so I pull out my phone and reread the message I’ve yet to respond to.
OD: Well…once that happened, the girl I’d knocked up decided she wasn’t interested in being a mom anymore and signed over her rights as a parent. Now, it’s just me and my kid.
What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
And how messed up can a woman be? To basically screw over a guy’s life on purpose in hopes of tying him down to siphon his paychecks. And then, when it doesn’t work out, she just…left him? And his kid? From what I could tell from the interviews, Owen and the woman never had a relationship, but he was there for the pregnancy every step of the way. She wouldn’t let him into the delivery room, but as soon as she allowed Owen to see Grady, he was there.
Just like today in the parking lot. He’s here to show his support. His love.
Damn him.
I chew on the pad of my thumb, my eyes glazing over as the conversation replays over and over again. And even though I appreciate the answers he gave me, it’s the banter that makes my chest ache.
I’ve missed it.
His wit.
His snark.
His honesty.
I’ve missed him.
And even though I know it’s wrong––selfish even––I type a response before I can talk myself out of it with the knowledge that I can’t blame my weakness on alcohol in the light of day. No, this is on me. Sober Saylor. Desperate Saylor. Stupid, stupid Saylor.
Slytherin4ever: Sounds like you dodged a bullet to me. Maybe two, if you include the girl you’re still pining after. What’s she like? Do you really think she’s worth the effort? And I think the most important question is: what house does your kid belong to? Or has he not received his admission letter to Hogwarts yet?
I slide my phone back into the pouch on my school pride hoodie, then scan the street for any runners. Owen, Grady, and Turner round the corner, their chests heaving from exertion. Raising his strong jaw toward the finish line, Owen mutters something to the boys before they all take off at full speed.
My hands cup my face as I cheer, “Good job, boys! You’re almost here! Go! Go! Go!”
Their feet pound against the black pavement, racing closer at break-neck speed for six-year-olds when their arms fly into the air and shouts of victory erupt.
“We did it!”
“Yes!”
“Good job, guys,” Owen praises, ruffling the sweaty hair on their heads. “You both did great at pacing. Grab a drink. Then we’ll stretch.”
“I don’t need to stretch,” Turner argues.
