Again, my eyes dart around the playground.
Looking for the voice.
Looking for…
Liam Hardt.
I’d finally let curiosity win me over, Googling his name yesterday afternoon.
The man was gorgeous.
Like, so ridiculously pretty that it had me second guessing his intentions in asking me to the park.
But then I remembered—clear as day, his voice echoing in my mind—This is incredibly forward and a lot crazy…
“Higher!” Sawyer pulls me from my thoughts again.
What am I even doing?
I literally just came out of an eight-year relationship!
It wasn’t much of a relationship, and you know it.
“Relationship” felt so much better than “breeding factory,” though.
I knew why Mark wanted a boy.
Mark was the last chance at carrying his family’s name.
He had no cousins to do it. No siblings. It all rests on his shoulders.
It’s not even like his name means anything. He may not have sons to carry the name, but he has daughters! They may marry someday, but his family’s legacy could continue. His parents, his grandparents…their stories could continue.
“Mama!” Again, Sawyer hollers at me.
“Sorry, sis,” I say, and grab the back of the swing in the cutout area for legs, if a child were facing the other direction.
“You ready?” I ask, lifting the seat a fraction.
Sawyer giggles.
“One…” I lift it a bit more and gently lower it, never letting go.
“Two…” I lift it again, slightly higher. Sawyer’s hands are shaking the chains now, she’s so excited.
“Three!” I lift the swing a little bit more and let her go.
She’s hardly swinging more than three, maybe four, feet off the ground, but her giggles say she thinks she’s flying.
“I want to be pushed!” London comes running over, diving for the still-open swing beside Sawyer. Like Superman, she swings forward on her belly, her laughter contagious. I can’t help but smile, and Sawyer, watching her big sister swinging on her belly, laughs along with her.
“Just a couple of pushes,” I say, reaching forward to send Sawyer’s swing going again. “Then maybe we can go get ice cream!” We don’t stop for ice cream every Saturday, but the girls had been so good this week.
That, and maybe I was bribing London a little.
She didn’t take too well to our rushed move out of the only house she’d known, and into an apartment.
You’d never guess it now, though, looking at her playing at the park. Then again, this was something we did every week.
It was important to keep routine.
“Oh!” London stood up and turned, standing on tiptoe in her gold sparkly sneakers as she shimmied up into the swing. “I want sprinkles today!”
“You want sprinkles every day.”
“But chocolate ones today!”
“Mmm, that sounds good.” I push Sawyer again before moving behind London, grabbing the chains above her hands. “What flavor ice cream though? You can’t just have sprinkles, silly girl.” I pull the swing back and hold her, suspended there, until she gives me an answer.
“Orange!”
“Orange?” I exclaim. “Orange sherbet with chocolate sprinkles?”
London continues to giggle. “Yes, mama! Now swing me!” She rattles the chains and looks over her shoulder at me, her blue eyes so full of mischief but her smile…
Why the hell doesn’t Mark want this?
You know what?
I’m going to be enough for my babies.
More than enough.
I love them so, so much, that they’ll never need another person to dote on them.
“You know…? Maybe that sounds pretty good,” I say, releasing her swing and smiling.
Yes, it sounds good.
My plans…
They all sound good.
I was going to be enough.
I am enough.
* * *
As we walk back through the park, ice cream in my girls’ bellies, I listen to London chatter on. Once again, I’m holding Sawyer, but now she’s zonked out in my arms, her head resting heavily on my shoulder.
I should have brought the stroller.
Like clockwork, every Saturday she’s ready for her afternoon nap thirty minutes before her regular timed one.
Next time…
Next week, I’ll bring the stroller.
I smile; I think that every week.
“Can we do arts and crafts at home, mama?” London asks, switching from her story about her dolls.
“Nothing too messy today, London.” The apartment is still in shambles from the quick move last weekend; I don’t think I can handle glitter and paint all over, too.
“Maybe stickers!” With that, London starts chattering on about what kind of sticker project she’s going to make, and how she’s going to give it to daddy, and he’s going to love it so much.
I swallow hard and focus on putting one step in front of the other.
One step…
The next…
I haven’t even begun to think about how to fix my daughter’s little heart. What if Mark doesn’t want to ever see her? She’s—sadly—accustomed to only seeing him for a few weeks at a time before he leaves for another “trip” but eventually she’s going to catch on.
Sawyer? She may ask for him once or twice, but that’s what she does now. She doesn’t know his schedule like London does.
God, my heart is breaking for my oldest.
I reach down and run my hand down one of her braids, tugging slightly at the bottom. “Love you, baby girl,” I say, interrupting her story.
She just smiles wide up at me. “Love you, mama girl. And after stickers, we can—oh! Mama! A puppy!” She points a finger out across me and I look where she’s…
Oh my God, the dog is coming right for us!
I halt to a stop and pull London in against my legs, far rougher than I intend. She fights it for a moment because the girl loves animals, but we don’t know this dog and with how it’s running…
“Guinness!” a male voice yells out, but the camel-colored dog doesn’t stop, just keeps bounding toward us.
The dog is right in front of us now. Maybe five feet away.
And showing no signs of stopping.
“Guinness! Heel!”
Like a cartoon dog, this Guinness—who I now recognize as a boxer—slides to a stop.
Right.
In front.
Of.
London.
“Guinness! Oh my God, Guinness!” the male is still yelling, and I take my eyes off the dog for the smallest of moments to see where this owner is.
There he is.
Running just as full-speed as his dog was.
Guinness though, now he plops to a sit in front of my daughter, his face directly in front of hers, his tongue out and, darn it, the dog looks like he’s smiling at her.
London must think so too, because she pushes away and reaches for the boxer’s face. “London!” I reach for her hand.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” the man says, coming to a stop behind his dog. Immediately, he reaches down to grab the dog’s leash. “He’s normally well-mannered. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” The man is out of breath from his sprint. My eyes take him in as I keep London close, thankful that Sawyer slept through it all.
He’s wearing shorts even though it’s barely fifty degrees; at least he’s in a long-sleeved shirt, too. On his head, he wears a backward baseball hat, old snap-back style, that’s gray. A tuft of dark hair flips out through the hole.
“It’s… It’s fine,” I say with a disbelieving shake of my head. “I guess.”
I have the smallest feeling of recognition, like his face is familiar, but I know I don’t know this man.
“Mama, the man said a bad word,” London pipes up.
�
��It’s okay, baby,” I manage. “He was worried about his dog. Just like I get worried about you if you run too far.”
“But he’s a dog, not a kid.”
“He’s kinda like my kid though,” the man cuts in. “He’s my responsibility. I have to keep a better eye on him. He saw something and got really excited,” he explains to her, “and started sprinting before I was ready. He didn’t mean to scare you. And I’m sorry for saying a bad word.”
London offers him her blinding smile. “It’s okay. Mama uses bad words sometimes too.”
My face heats and my chest feels itchy. “London,” I murmur under my breath before trying to offer the stranger a shaky smile. “I’m sorry. Um. Thank you.” I laugh nervously and shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m thanking you for. Well. Goodbye.” I push at London’s shoulder, and, while she’s reluctant to move, she does.
We take three steps. Four.
London’s new story is about the dog—and will probably be about the dog for the entire drive to our apartment.
Seven. Eight.
Nine. Ten.
Finally, I give in and look back over my shoulder.
The man and his dog are staring after us; the dog with a look of sadness, and the man?
Like he’s confused.
I swallow hard and pinch the corner of my lips. It’s an attempt at a smile, but I know that even if he catches it through the distance, it probably comes off as a grimace.
Then I push the pair from my mind, take London’s hand, and cross the parking lot for our car.
That was enough excitement for one day.
Chapter Four
Liam
Guinness lost out on that run he wanted to so badly.
He also lost his loose-leash privileges for our trek back home.
With the leash wrapped around my hand tightly, he’s forced to walk at heel, and when we pass by the bench we normally stop at to wait for Mae and Josh, I shake my head. “We aren’t staying,” I tell him. I fish my phone out of my pocket as we continue, quickly shooting off a text to my sister, before pocketing my phone once more.
We walk around the park, Guinness letting out a pitiful cry every now and then, then head out of the Balboa Park area, heading back home.
I cannot believe…
Guinness has never run away from me.
Never.
What in the world got into him today?
I thought about the woman and her daughters; the one girl and her big smile. The youngest, who slept through the entire ordeal.
The fear on the mom’s face…
I shake the leash lightly. “You scared that mom, Guinness.”
I’d probably be scared too, if I was a mom with two daughters…
My thoughts halted.
A mom with two daughters.
At the park.
Like my thoughts, my feet stop moving too. Guinness, who didn’t catch on, tugs forward before throwing an annoyed look over his shoulder.
I’m too busy pulling my phone from my pocket, though.
I’d left well enough alone.
After that first day in the park, I stopped looking for her.
For Kensley.
Guinness and I still ran at the same time every day, but I stopped looking…
I open up my text messages and thumb through the ones from Mae, my buddy Nick, Johnson…finally coming across one from my phone number.
I had a notepad app, but I preferred texting myself things.
Song lyrics.
Things to look up for the show the next day.
And, buried in the notes to and from myself, were seven lonely numbers.
Seven, because her area code was the same as mine.
Pulling Guinness to a nearby bench, I memorize the numbers before opening the Facebook app.
I’d managed to give myself a hard no on doing this.
But then today…
I swallow hard and look around, feeling guilty as hell. This took everything to a whole new level.
But I need to know what she looks like.
Maybe she doesn’t have Facebook.
Absolutely possible.
Or, maybe she doesn’t have her number associated with her account.
Also absolutely possible.
Still, though, I punch in those very seven numbers, with a leading three area code…
I bounce my knee, unable to sit still. Guinness looks bored, or maybe even sad. He lost out on a run and playing with Josh. As if he hears my thoughts, he swings his head over his shoulder, his cocked head and puppy dog eyes hitting me…but not enough to have me change my mind.
“You were naughty,” I tell him, looking at him quickly as my phone loads.
There’s probably not an account with her number.
I could try Instagram…
Before I can give up and stupidly try Instagram, an account shows up.
Kensley Cole.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I stop moving my knee.
I found her.
This was her.
This is Kensley from the show.
The profile picture doesn’t tell me much of anything—it’s a picture of her looking down, her blonde hair hiding most of her face as she laughs at whatever she’s looking at.
I sweep my thumb over the screen, not touching, as I decide: do I click in, or leave it be?
Do I do the creeper thing, and figure out if the voice matches the face?
…if the woman and girls from today were her and her girls?
Annnddddd…
I click in.
And once again, my knee starts bouncing erratically.
This is so stupid.
I’m such a dumb fuck.
What the hell am I…
The timeline picture that loads has my knee stopping.
Has my breath holding.
Right there, on the top third of my screen, is the woman and girls from a little bit ago.
And fuck they’re beautiful.
I mean, they were beautiful fifteen minutes ago, too, but…damn.
Not really thinking about it, I stand quickly and put my phone to sleep mode. “Let’s go.” I tug on Guinness’s leash.
The last thing I need is to be caught creeping on some chick’s Facebook profile. I’m slightly paranoid that someone will see that I’m checking out a profile that I’m not friends with.
You do that shit in the privacy of your own home.
I grin at the thought.
Shit, I can’t believe…
That I ran into…
My grin widens, and I shake my head.
I found her.
I saw her.
And hell, she is just as beautiful in person as her voice suggests.
* * *
I wait until we’re back to the house and Guinness has a fresh bowl of water before I sit my ass down on the couch and wake up my phone again. Kensley’s profile opens right away, because that was the screen I put the phone to sleep on.
Slouching in the corner, I get comfortable; one socked foot firmly on the ground with the other propped up on the wood coffee table that Mae made out of milk crates. Some Pinterest thing.
Chewing on my lower lip, I click on ‘photos.’ Now that I’m on Wi-Fi, it doesn’t take long for the page to load. I enlarge the first picture; there are three women in the picture but it’s easy to spot who Kensley is, even though she’s not the only blonde.
Girlfriends? Sisters?
I can’t tell.
I sweep slowly through the pictures, nearly all of them of her and other women her age. A concert. Bowling—which makes me laugh; who bowls anymore? At the beach.
This picture, she looks younger. I tap on the screen to allow the caption to show, but there isn’t one; just a notice that there are four comments. I tap on the comments and they pull up, but I’m not actually interested in those. I’m interested in the date those comments were made.
Five years ago.
Frowning, I go back to the
previous picture, the bowling one.
Also, five year ago.
Other than the first picture, the one with two other girls, these tags were all years old.
I go back to the beach picture and, curious, look at the comments.
Ashley: Happy birthday!
Nicole: Ah! Hawaii birthday trip? Mad jealous!
Erin: That’s one way to do it. I’d have chosen Punta Cana personally… ;)
To which Kensley replied: You know I don’t drink.
The comments continued—
Erin: Because it’s not “legal.” Dude, it’s legal in PC!
So, she wasn’t twenty-one yet in this picture. Twenty? Nineteen, even?
My mind starts churning. Her oldest, she said, is four. These pictures were taken right before she was pregnant.
I frown and double tap the beach picture. Maybe she even was pregnant in them. Maybe that was why she wasn’t drinking?
Suddenly disgusted with myself, I put my phone to sleep and toss it on the couch beside me.
I am really fucking nuts.
That was crazy.
I am crazy.
I sigh heavily and slip further into the deep couch.
Guinness comes over and rests his wet chin on my extended leg. “I’m napping,” I tell him, folding my hands over my stomach.
His sigh is just as heavy as mine was, but he goes to lay down on the ground between the couch and table.
I can’t believe I stooped so low. I can’t believe I Facebook-stalked this girl.
Closing my eyes, I vow to not do it again.
It’s weird.
…but maybe Guinness and I will head back to the park next Saturday at the same time.
Maybe.
Chapter Five
Kensley
A week has passed since the park/dog incident, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought of the man and his dog.
Still, no word from Mark, even though I’m not actually expecting one.
He’ll return to San Diego eventually, whenever he’s done screwing whatever bimbo he has this month, and then he’ll see that I wasn’t joking when I said I was packing the girls and leaving.
At any rate, I feel incredibly guilty to be thinking of another man. Mark was supposed to be my forever. Mark and Kensley, Kensley and Mark. High school sweethearts with two-point-five—more like point-seventy-five at this point—kids. Living in a beautiful house with a legit white picket fence around the sprawling two-story.
Caught in the Act Page 4