Written with Regret (The Regret Duet #1)(61)

Me: I mean… I would love to come. Thank you so much for inviting me.

Me: She told me she was getting an art award and I desperately wanted to come, but I didn’t want to make things weird if you didn’t want me there. I know things are still tense between us, so I couldn’t blame you.

Me: I just love her so much and I’m trying really hard not to make any waves with you.

Me: And I think for the most part it’s been going really well.

Me: Well, except for tonight when I was dry-heaving in your toilet without lifting the seat.



At this point, my brain screamed that one-hundred and two words was probably too many, and I threw my phone on the bed to force my damn non-deleting fingers to stop.



My phone vibrated, and I did a ten count of breathing exercises before gathering the nerve to look at his response.



Caven: Who said anything about dry-heaving?



I laughed, pure giddiness swirling in my head.

I’d mentioned dry-heaving. Again. Because I was still an imbecile.

But I was an imbecile who had just been invited to Rosalee’s school, where I could watch her get an art award.



Me: You have no idea how much this means to me.

Caven: I’m starting to figure it out.

Caven: It’s Friday at six thirty. I’ll forward you the invite the school emailed me. And every kid in the school gets an end of the year award. So, don’t get too excited.



Too late for that.



Me: Thanks, Caven.

Caven: No problem. Have a good night.

Me: You too.



I didn’t have a good night. I didn’t even have a night at all. Because no sooner than I realized he wasn’t going to text me again, I threw the covers back, got dressed, and drove over an hour away to share the good news with my family.

Including leaving one of Rosalee’s paper flowers on each of their graves.





CAVEN


“Your daughter is a natural,” the woman gushed over Rosalee’s crooked tree painting hanging on the wall. She slanted her head from side to side while cupping her chin like we were standing at The Met and not the auditorium of a preschool.

“My girl’s definitely talented.” I smiled, glancing a few rows up to where Rosalee was giggling with her friend Molly. I was glad she was having fun, but I wished she didn’t look so damn happy so I could use her as an excuse to make a break for it.

The woman clutched her pearls with her left hand, showing off her empty ring finger for at least the tenth time since she’d approached. “I don’t think we’ve officially met?” She extended the limp fish of handshakes my way. “I’m Marilyn. Like Monroe, only a brunette.” She laughed nasally, patting at the bottom of her short bob.

Unfortunately, her name was the only resemblance she had to the late American icon.

As the only single father at Rosalee’s school, I didn’t find it unusual for women to stop by and chat with me at school functions. But Marilyn was extra special, assuming you defined being a Grade-A bitch as special. She was the president of the PPTA (Preschool Parent-Teacher Association.) As if one of those were remotely necessary in a school with a five-to-one student-teacher ratio. But if there was ever a shortage of crayons, Marilyn was all over it. I’d been avoiding her like the plague since I’d heard her divorce from her plastic surgeon husband had been finalized. She was currently living on her alimony and never missed a Sunday service at the church where her ex and his new girlfriend attended services.

In short: She was drama in every sense of the word.

I took her hand in an awkward up-and-down shake that would have felt more natural had she been a Labrador retriever. “I’m Caven.”

“Ooohh, how unique. I love that name.” She trailed her finger down the front of my shirt in what I thought was supposed to be a seductive gesture.

“Thanks. I should probably go check on Rosalee.”

Just Rosalee though. Not to see if Hadley had shown up yet.

For the tenth time.

In so many minutes.

I’d decided that, at some point of the last three-ish months, I’d suffered a stroke. My condition included: thinking about a woman I supposedly hated twenty-four-seven, imagining her ass as she bent over while I was in the shower, and waking up to her on the backs of my eyelids, naked and calling my name. Those symptoms hadn’t produced many results on WebMD though.

But, dammit, there had to be a medical explanation out there somewhere.

Marilyn grabbed my arm, inching closer. “Don’t be silly. We have ten minutes before the awards start. Come on. Let me buy you a drink.” She burst into laughter, pointing to the water station in the corner. “I only wish they served alcohol at these functions. It would make them a lot more interesting, that’s for sure.” More loud obnoxious laughter, and her hand tightened on my forearm.

Gritting my teeth, I sent up a silent S.O.S. Though, as God’s least favorite sinner, I wasn’t expecting any kind of response.

Until…

“Sorry to interrupt.”

I spun, finding Hadley behind me, a camera hanging around her neck and an uncomfortable grin splitting her mouth.

“Hey,” I said, standing straighter, my entire body coming alert, reacting to her presence. I’d have to add that to my list of symptoms when I got home.