The air conditioningin my car blasts at full power against my heated face, but it’s still not enough. I held up in Raj’s office, and now, alone, the effects of the betrayals threaten to drown me.
But underneath all the pain is relief.
Relief that my marriage is over.
Relief that I had the foresight to protect myself, even from someone I had trusted my children with.
Relief that feels like freedom.
It’s unsettling. When did I start feeling trapped in my own life?
Yes, marrying Mya was easy. It looked good on paper, it made our fathers exceedingly happy, and for the most part, she was easy to get along with. We had a good life, or at least I thought we did.
But not once did I have that jolt of longing I get staring at a very grown up Rowan Ellis, and that’s where the guilt comes in.
I don’t agree with how Mya handled things, but if I’m truly honest with myself, I have to wonder if either of us were everactually in love. Even searching my memories of us, I can’t begin to fathom how we went from the white picket fence to this.
She loves our children, in her own slightly detached way. I know she does, or maybe she did?
It’s all too much. My head spins when I try to make sense of something I’ll never understand. I may not regret our time together—she gave me three precious gifts—but I do regret my part in our downfall, even if we were doomed from the beginning.
Closing my eyes, I lean against the headrest. My phone vibrates in my lap, and I almost ignore it because it’s sure to be Alexei.
But when I lift the phone to my face, it says The Single Dad Hotline.
Quickly I swipe up and open the message.
SDH:Mud pies.
The text is followed by a series of pictures of the boys. In one, Kade is caked in mud and only his bright white teeth are visible on his face, but his easy happiness makes my chest ache. At least he’s happy—for now. It’s always thefor nowthat gets me. How long until they fall apart like their sister?
Kids don’t forget their mom, even if that’s what she’s hoping will happen.
I hit the green button and listen as the phone rings. She finally picks up right before it goes to voicemail.
“Single Dad Hotline, I’m your helper. How can I help you?”
“Rowan?”
“That’s me. How can I help you?”
Doesn’t she recognize my voice? And why am I strangled by jealousy that she doesn’t?
“Ah, it’s me. Sebastian.”
There’s a pause of dead air that wraps around my lungs and squeezes. “Um, do you always answer your phone that way?”
“This is my hotline phone. All calls are routed through Lottie’s agency, so I only see Single Dad on the caller ID.”
“Oh.” The memory of her talking to another dad the day we sat on the porch hits me much harder than it should, and my brain scrambles in an attempt to come up with something else to say.
She clears her throat. “Since I have all of your children, I have to assume you’re not calling for parenting advice right now.”
“Do you have another phone? A private one?” The question is out before I can censor myself.
“Ah, no, actually. Why?”
“Do all calls show up as The Single Dad Hotline?”
