I take a steadying breath.
There’s more to life than Corbin Banks.
“Sarge says you’re a big fan of pizza,” Trey says, keeping things light.
“I am,” I reply, grateful for the small talk.
“You up for a walk?” he asks.
I hesitate, flicking a glance at Sarge, who is grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Idiot.
“A walk sounds nice,” I say.
We head for the door, but before I can escape, Sarge calls after us, “Have fun, you two!”
I don’t bother turning around. He’s enjoying this way too much.
We walk side by side down the road, Trey on the outside, closer to the passing cars. It’s subtle, but sweet. That small, instinctive gesture—putting himself between me and the street, like he’s shielding me from some unseen danger.
“How did you meet Sarge?” I ask as he shoves his hands into his pockets. The crisp autumn air wraps around us, full of the same quiet anticipation Trey seems to carry. I wish I could say I feel it, too, but my thoughts keep drifting.
What would Tate think of Trey? Would he like him? Would it feel strange to see me with someone other than his dad?
Why am I thinking about Tate right now?
“I gave him his first tattoo,” Trey says casually.
I glance over at him, surprised. “Really?”
He nods. “Yeah, I’m a tattoo artist.”
I blink. Okay, definitely didn’t expect that.
“I think Sarge mentioned that you guys work out together at the gym,” I say, remembering the story my brother fed me.
“We do,” Trey confirms. “But only after he got his tattoo done.”
“The bleeding heart?” I ask.
Trey grins. “So you’ve seen my work?”
“I have,” I admit, unable to stop a small smile from forming.
He nods. “He told me it was for your mom.”
My throat tightens. Of course Sarge told him that.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice softer. “It was her favorite plant.”
Trey must sense the shift in my mood because he smoothly steers the conversation in another direction. “Sarge also said you paint.”
I shrug. “I used to. Not so much anymore. Between the coffee shop and Tate, I don’t have the time.”
“That’s a shame,” Trey says thoughtfully. “Being creative is one of the best parts of life, don’t you think?”
I swallow hard. It used to be. Before Tate. Before my heart literally started living outside my body. Every time he gets into Corbin’s car and drives away, every time I drop him off at school, every second I have to be away from him, it feels like I lose a piece of myself. Painting was something I did for me. Tate is something I live for.
“I find that different parts of my life are the best parts,” I reply, my words a little more careful now. “Do you have kids?” I ask, mostly to shift the conversation to safer ground.
