Page 12 of Faking with Three

“They didn’t, Dad,” Jill says, breathless with excitement. “Coach said it was the best game we’ve had all season. I wish you could’ve seen it.”

“Me too,” I reply, and it stings more than I expected. I picture her in her bright green jersey, blonde hair flying behind her as she charges the goal. The video clips her mom sends don’t do it justice. “You know I’d be there if I could.”

“I know,” she says softly, and that’s when I hear it—just the smallest crack in her voice. “Maybe you can come to the next one? It’s the semifinals.”

I swallow hard. “I’ll do my best, Jill. You know I will.”

There’s a pause, a quiet little inhale that tells me she’s smiling on the other end. Moments like this—getting to be herdad, even from a distance—are what I live for. I wish I could be there in person, wish I could pick her up after school and see her playing with my own eyes instead of just hearing about it through a phone line.

“When can I come visit you, Dad?” she asks, the hopeful question slipping into our conversation.

I start to answer, but then I hear it—my ex-wife, Rachel’s distant but sharp voice, cutting through the background noise. Jill’s voice lowers. “Mom says I have to give her the phone now…”

There’s a shuffling sound, a reluctant “Bye, Dad,” and then Rachel’s voice fills the line, cool and businesslike.

“Marcus,” she says, and I brace myself for what’s coming. “We need to discuss the support payments. They’re late again.”

I keep my voice calm. “They’re not late, Rachel. I’ve been sending them directly to the court since you insisted on doing it that way. I sent the last one on time.”

She sighs, like she’s heard this all before and doesn’t believe a word of it. “Well, there’s still the issue of Jill’s school trip,” she says, her tone leaving little room for argument. “She needs an extra hundred dollars for it.”

I want to argue. We already agreed on these expenses. But Jill’s hopeful little voice is still fresh in my mind, and the thought of her missing out because of some bureaucratic delay twists my stomach.

“Fine,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “I’ll wire it over. But I need you to let me know about this stuff a little earlier next time, Rachel.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end, a beat of surprise that I even pushed back a little. But she recovers quickly, murmuring a curt “Thank you,” before ending the call without another word.

I sit there, phone still pressed to my ear, the empty dial tone droning in the background. I don’t know how it happened, how it got to this point, where every conversation with Rachel feels like negotiating a deal in court. I went from being a husband and father, with a family and a future, to this…

I had a life I was proud of once, or at least I thought I did. A family, a career where I made a difference, using my skills to help people understand themselves, understand each other.

But somewhere along the line, it all slipped through my fingers. The long hours, the years of sacrifice—all of it took a toll, one that I’m still paying off piece by piece, dollar by dollar. And now, here I am, trying to rebuild something new with Ethan and Jax on a WeTube channel of all things, half a lifetime away from where I thought I’d be.

I pull up outside Ethan’s building, the sound of my truck’s engine echoing against the worn brick walls.

The scent of burning leaves and distant city traffic filters through the open window as I park and kill the engine. I grab my jacket from the passenger seat and make my way to the entrance, the stairwell creaking under my weight as I take two steps at a time. We’re supposed to brainstorm for the next round of videos, though I’m not sure how much help I’ll be today. Still, I need the distraction.

When I reach the door, I raise my hand to knock, but before I can, it swings open. And standing there, in a loose t-shirt that dips low on her collarbone, is a woman I never expected to see.

It’s Olivia Chase.

I blink, caught off guard, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve shown up at the wrong place. But no, this is definitely Ethan’s door. Olivia looks just as shocked, her green eyes wide, but the surprise fades quickly, replaced by a slow, knowing smile.

I just stand there, blinking, taking her in for a second. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt that barely brushes her knees andlooks… well, gorgeous. Since I last saw her, she's filled out, the kind of curves that pull the eye and give a man reason to linger. Her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and those green eyes of hers—sharp, playful—land on me with surprise before she collects herself, arching an eyebrow in that way she always used to.

"Marcus?” She recovers quickly, folding her arms, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—recognition, maybe something else. “Well, this is unexpected.”

“Olivia,” I say, just as stunned. “I’d say the same thing. What are you doing here?”

She shrugs, a slight grin lifting the corner of her mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Her tone is teasing, but I can’t ignore the curiosity biting at the back of my mind. I look past her, half-expecting Ethan to be hovering somewhere nearby. “Wait—are you and Ethan…?”

Her eyes widen for just a fraction of a second before she laughs, shaking her head. “Oh no, no. We’re not dating or anything, if that’s what you mean. I mean, he’s cute, but…” She waves it off, trying to keep the amusement in her eyes, though there's something more there, too.

I feel myself relax, oddly relieved, even though I don’t have a good reason to be. “I see,” I say, adjusting the collar of my shirt. “It’s just… I never expected to see you here, of all places.”

She laughs, the sound rich and a little husky. “Small world, huh?”

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