Sucking in a deep breath, I straighten the navy blue tank top borrowed from Rachel’s closet. It fits too tightly across my chest and is too short, but Rachel said I looked like a ten in it, and out of desperation I believed her.

I don’t know if meeting for ice cream was his idea or was supposed to be mine—that actually came from Rachel—but am relieved not to have to sit through a meal.

I have to glance at my phone again to see what he looks like because with his name being Lance, all I can picture is the guy from that boy band from when I was a teenager. This Lance also has blond hair and a long face, making me seek out more similarities rather than differences.

“Ella?”

I swear even the shape of his teeth is similar to the old celebrity Lance’s, which then has me wondering how and why my brain chose to recall what a guy’s teeth looked like. It delays my smile, and he notices.

“You must be Lance.” I try to smile wider to make myself appear more enthusiastic. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“You too. Sorry I’m late. I got hung up with a work thing.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” I assure him. “I completely understand.”

He stares at me for several seconds, forcing me to fight my features to remain still as they war between wanting to frown and giving him a look of confusion. Maybe he knows who I am. Knows the rumors about me. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, and sadly with the way this date has begun, I doubt it will be the last. The times that it’s occurred in the past there are two reactions: one: they think I’m going to be a guaranteed one-night stand, or two: they treat me like a social leper and make excuses to cut the date short. So I wait, allowing him the time to make an excuse to leave.

“Ready to get some ice cream?” he asks.

My gut twinges. I can’t put my finger on why, if it’s my self-consciousness or something specific about him, but with my experience, I’ve learned to pay attention to that feeling, and it has me giving him his first strike.

I paste on a smile and nod my agreement since we’re standing out front of the store anyway. Lance moves first and I briefly study him. His T-shirt, like mine, is both too tight and too short, emphasizing the size of his biceps that grow when he opens the door and stands to the side for me to enter.

His waist and legs are both narrow, his chest and shoulders broad, like an upside down triangle. His boots are heavy as he walks behind me and I move so he’s beside me before asking the question I hate most, “So what do you do for work?”

“I work security for a few places in town.”

“Really? Like for a nightclub?” I shouldn’t ask because if he starts naming them off or goes into details about it, I’m going to be bored and lost. When people my age were out at the clubs and bars making mistakes and learning about life, I was cleaning up Cheerios from the floor, milk off the walls, learning to make shaped pancakes, and healing boo-boos with magical kisses.

“Sometimes,” Lance says. “Other times for the arena in town.”

“That’s really awesome. I bet you get to see a lot of cool shows.”

He smiles, and it’s charming and reaches all the way to his eyes—I also realize it’s not being directed toward me when I notice his eyes are perched over my shoulder.

Strike two.

It shouldn’t make me feel anything but annoyed, but that self-consciousness that he exposed begins to expand.

The short line in front of us moves, and we go with it. “What about you?” he asks. “What do you do for work?”

“I work in marketing, actually.” My voice rises, and I know the fluctuation is because I’m trying to catch his attention again. It’s ridiculous, stupid even that I’m jealous that he hasn’t looked at me like he did the woman behind me, especially since I already know I wouldn’t want to date him again. But still, I’m flirting with him—or trying to—because even with the skin around my belly being looser and marked from carrying my son, my breasts being gravity challenged, my car not being cool but safe, and my purse housing more mom supplies than makeup, I want to be seen like he’s looking at her. I want someone to lust after me.

Lance either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because his smile reappears accompanied by a leer in his sea-colored eyes, and just like that, I realize that while I want someone to want me for me—mom bod, practical car, anxiety and all—I don’t want that person to be Lance, because his expression seems predatory and makes that twinge in my stomach become more pronounced, drowning out the self-consciousness in me.

Strike three.

“Next!” the woman at the ice cream counter calls, drawing my attention from the multitude of excuses I’m considering using to get out of this date and skip the ice cream and forced chit-chat.

But before I can, Lance places his order and looks to me for mine. I blame it on the heat and Rachel calling me a saboteur for ordering their specialty cotton candy ice cream because logic would have me in my car already.

“Do you come here a lot?”

Surprise has me looking up at Lance with my eyebrows raised.

Is he implying that I look like I come here often? And why does Hayden have a better vocabulary?

“Not really,” I answer, then wonder if he asked because maybe it was Rachel who suggested we meet here.

“Yeah, me either.” His eyes drift to the door where two girls are walking in. They’re obviously still in high school, but it doesn’t stop him from sitting forward, focused on their movements. The roll in my stomach is too familiar, too real. I stand up with the excuse that I’m not feeling well and leave before he can say a word.

Once in my car my eyes burn, and my stomach burns, and my anger burns stronger than both. With an open palm, I hit my steering wheel. Before chancing anyone seeing me lose it, I head home.

The moment I get through my front door, I peel off the uncomfortable blue shirt and throw it into my hamper to launder so I can return it to Rachel and hopefully never see it again. I replace it and my too-tight jeans with a pair of cotton shorts and T-shirt and then add socks and my tennis shoes.

Lance’s face, the way he looked at those girls like they were a prize he could win—could obtain—it still has me nauseous as I wonder if that’s the same way Patrick looked at me years ago. I should have warned those girls. Should have told them that it isn’t the man who makes them feel special who deserves their love, time, and devotion, but the man who shows them that they’re special.

I glance at the clock, already knowing it’s before our five o’clock trade, but I grab my phone and enter a text to Patrick, asking to allow me to come by early to get Hayden. There’s a fifty-fifty chance of how he’ll respond. Often, I think he tells me no just to be difficult rather than wanting to spend more time with our son, figuring he cancels on his visitations at least once a week.

While I wait for him to reply, I pull up the dating site on my laptop and scrutinize each incoming message more carefully. I delete several before seeing a message from Outdoorsyman that I open with curiosity.

I probably shouldn’t reply right now, not with my emotions being in this state of turmoil, but I do, knowing I likely will forget to respond later tonight.

I triple check my phone and still there’s no message from Patrick. So I send a text to Coen.

I am tempted to say yes. Too tempted.

While Coen is kind and funny and easy to be around, I can’t have Hayden getting attached to him and then Coen dropping off the face of the planet when he finds a girlfriend. I can’t do it to myself either.

Without me.

Without him.

Without Coen.

The words process through my mind again and again, and I wonder if he meant to imply something or if I’m simply reading into things too much. There’s a small ache in the corner of my heart that I quickly dismiss, knowing that hope for Coen is the last thing I need because he is not interested in me, and I’m not in him. In addition, Rachel has a thing for him, making this a thousand times more complicated because she’s my best friend, and really I should be working to tell him how wonderful she is so he drops this absurd rule that prevents him from dating anyone in a fifteen-mile radius.

Since I can’t think of anything to reply back with that sounds even slightly witty, only emotional, I don’t respond. I pack up my computer and a few folders I’ve been keeping my information and timeline in, and head to the coffee shop Patrick and I meet at to share the biggest part of my world.

I ignore the niggling reminder about the blue shirt having been too tight and order the largest caramel-flavored coffee they have, and when the barista asks me if I want whipped cream, I ask for extra along with a cookie. The air conditioning is turned up so high it’s hard to remember that it’s over a hundred degrees outside, tempting me to set up my work at one of the outdoor tables. Thankfully, there’s a sweater still in my bag, and I slip it on and find an unoccupied table in the back that looks out at the parking lot and get set up.

Soon, I will be meeting with the board of the Weile account and will be proposing my new approach for their marketing. The company sells cars with an alternative fuel, something I knew next to nothing about prior to this account, other than how expensive they were. I have spent weeks learning everything about their prospective buyers—their age range, gender, occupations, education, marital status, if they rent or buy, and dozens of other factors. I know their clientele inside and out, which has provided me with the best way of proposing the different ads and techniques I’ll be proposing for each region since the approach varies quite a lot.

I’m creating a mock-up of the advertising package I’m going to propose they use for the Midwest when I see Hayden bounding through the parking lot, Patrick close behind. I grab for the papers scattered around me, not worrying to organize them, or even ensure they’re not crumpled, just shoving them out of the way. I close my computer and drop it in my bag as well, seeing Hayden scanning the tables, looking for me.

“Hi, Mom!” he calls, a bright smile across his face.

Patrick is only a few steps behind him, and when our eyes meet, he smiles. I expected it, because he always does.

Our conversation about Hayden’s allergic reaction went far better than I had expected, likely because he hadn’t answered the dozen calls I made to him over the weekend that followed the incident. Now, it seems forgotten between us.

Hayden’s arms wrap tightly around my waist, his head against my chest. He smells different from staying there, and he’s wearing different shoes than the ones he left with. Each time he’s gone, even when it’s only for an afternoon or a single night, I always search for the differences.

“Hey, Elle,” Patrick says, standing at the edge of my table. On the times we’ve done this pass off at night after the coffee shop has already closed, Patrick will approach me for a hug, but never when we’re in public and people could possibly see him. I used to think it meant something that he wanted to embrace me, sometimes holding me far longer than he needed to, but not nearly long enough for what I needed.

“Hi.” I try to push my pressed lips into a smile, but they don’t cooperate. All I can picture is Lance staring at those girls in the ice cream shop when I look at Patrick, and it makes me wonder for the first time if I was the only one, or one of many. I swallow down some bile, and grab my bag, keeping an arm wrapped around Hayden’s shoulders, my eyes on him.

“I thought we could go see a movie. What do you think?”

“Awesome!” Hayden cries. “Can it be PG-13?”

“No, but I’ll let you get two snacks.”

Hayden throws a celebratory fist in the air. “Deal!”

Patrick chuckles from Hayden’s other side, and then rests a hand between Hayden’s shoulder blades, his fingers brushing my bare arm. “This sounds fun. What do you guys think of making it a party of three?” he asks.

My impulse is to say no. We’ve done things like this together in the past, and I’ve read too much into each and every one of them. He sits too close so that when we part his cologne clings to me, and like a shadow, I can’t escape it. He knows my favorite snacks, my favorite drink. He knows where I want to sit in the theater and how I refuse to talk through the previews because I like watching them. Patrick knows everything about me because he met me when I was young and vulnerable, before I knew how to construct walls around my heart and my soul, and before I was wise enough to know better.

“Yeah, Dad! That would be the best!” Hayden says, a smile lifting his lips before I can organize my thoughts into an appropriate rejection.

Patrick moves his hand to my back. “I’ll follow you guys.”

Even when that spark of hope inside of me has been fueled and I think Patrick may still be in love with me, I’ve always wondered what he tells her—Lindsay—his wife when he randomly disappears with us. I watch him in my rearview mirror as he gets into his car, one that, had things gone the way I thought they would have ten years ago, I would be getting in beside him.

“Did you have a good weekend?” I ask.

“It was okay.”

“What did you do?”

“Not a lot. Played some video games, went swimming.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Dad was gone most of the time.”

“Doing what?” I ask.

Hayden shrugs. “Work and stuff.”

“You should have called. I would have come and gotten you earlier.”

“I wanted to, but Lindsay told me I needed to stay.”

My grasp on the steering wheel tightens, though logic has me keeping my mouth shut. Lindsay isn’t a bad person, and she’s been in Hayden’s life since he was just a few months old, but the two have never built a relationship closer than sharing words while he’s staying with them. It’s one of my biggest points of contention with living here. I know she sees my son as a reminder of the nightmare her husband put her through. And since she can’t have children of her own, I’m sure it’s been hard on her at times, but for her to treat Hayden as the mistake makes my blood boil.

“How is she?” I ask.

Again Hayden shrugs. “She burnt the frozen pizza.”

“That’s not really telling me how she is.”

“She’s just … I don’t know. She’s just so weird.”

“Babe, you know that’s not nice to say.”

“You say I can tell you anything.”

“And you can. It’s okay that you think she’s different, weird even, but…”

“She doesn’t like me, Mom.”

Guilt ricochets with my sadness, creating a wickedly intense anger.

“That’s not possible, sweetheart,” I assure him. “It’s not possible for people to not love you.”

He’s silent. I hate even considering what my son is thinking, but still ask him, “What are you thinking, dude? You can’t keep those thoughts inside because you’ll convince yourself that you’re right. You need to talk them out. They won’t seem nearly as scary once you’ve said them, I promise.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Respecting his wishes and giving him space is another part of him getting older that I hate.

The movie theater parking lot is empty. For being so hot out, I expected it to be filled, but people in the South often respect their Sundays and stay home, especially in this small town.

We climb out of the car in silence. It’s a challenge for me to not fill the space with small talk that will help distract his thoughts and ebb away the sadness he’s feeling. It’s something I’ve always done and is natural for me, but with Patrick here, it doesn’t feel right, so I pull him closer in attempt to share the burden with him.

“All right, Hayden, what movie are we going to see?” Patrick rubs his palms together, oblivious of Hayden’s mood.

Surprisingly, Hayden perks up, rattling off the title of a movie and the numerous ads he saw over the weekend about it.

We walk toward the ticket stand, and Patrick leans in close. “Sorry about all the screen time. I had to run into the station this weekend because the flu’s been going around.”

If I turn my head, his lips will only be inches from mine, but if I don’t, I’ll feel like I’m not acknowledging him. So I twist my neck just enough that I can see him. “I heard.”

Patrick silently pleads with me to understand, his blue eyes wreaking havoc on my heart and memories. He used to give me this same look after I wouldn’t hear from him for days, sometimes weeks at a time, giving me excuses about being swamped with work.

At the ticket counter, Patrick steps forward and pays for our three tickets and then holds the door open for us.

“What kind of snacks do you want, sweetheart?” I ask.

“Popcorn with extra butter and Milk Duds!”

“You are your mother’s child,” Patrick says with a grin, stepping up to the snack counter where he orders Hayden’s snacks along with an extra popcorn, red licorice, Whoppers, Rolos, and three Cokes that cost more than double what our tickets did.

With our arms filled with peanut-free packaged snacks and the aroma of freshly popped popcorn, we head into the theater.

Patrick sits beside me, like I knew he would, putting me in the middle with the excuse that it’s easier to share the Rolos and popcorn this way. I’m battling with my heart to remain annoyed with him, to recall that predatory look I saw today on a man’s face when he was looking at mere girls.

It’s harder to do when I drown in the familiarity of Patrick. His cologne reminding me of stolen weekends we locked ourselves away in hotel rooms. His smile that elicits an entire bank of memories from all the times he would look at me in adoration and bestow that smile on me, just for me. I hear his voice whispering secrets and dark desires that he made sound like promises. The brush of his hand reminds me of the gentle caresses he used to bathe me in, and before I know it, I am lost in a sea of memories and should-have-beens and would-have-beens, and I get so tangled in them it creates a thick fog over what our reality is.

“Why don’t you live with Dad?”

My eyes round with alarm. Hayden and I have discussed this a few times over the years, usually when he misses a holiday with me or he goes on a trip with Patrick and Lindsay, but it’s never been a subject broached in front of Patrick.

“You guys are happy together. Way happier than you and Lindsay are.” He looks to his dad. “And if we lived together, I wouldn’t have to leave every other weekend because I’d always just be home.”

I want to look at Patrick and make him explain this. Explain it to me. But my heart constricts with fear and pain, refusing to hear the same excuses again. “Hayden, I know it’s confusing, and I know it’s hard for you to split your time, but we both love you very much, and…”

“Your mom and I love each other, Hayden. But, Lindsay’s my wife.”

My reaction to his words is so polarized I miss Hayden’s words entirely because I’m stuck trying to understand why he would say that. Why he would dare admit his feelings about me when our son is asking for us to be together. And to have his wife sound like an obligation rather than a choice, a passion, a necessity, makes me grateful he didn’t choose me.

“…I just don’t understand,” Hayden says.

“It’s confusing.” Patrick recycles the same words he used on me for years.

I sit back in my seat, feeling exhausted and devastated and shameful, and my focus drifts from all the promises and tethered moments to all the times I heard Patrick tell me that things were ‘just confusing.’