Page 61 of Pucking the Single Dad
"To you? Always."
She scooted closer, erasing that careful distance until her knee pressed against mine, the contact electric enough to power California. "Do you remember what else I mentioned once?Around 2 AM when we both couldn't sleep and were chatting on the sofa?"
"What?"
"That my ex never remembered anything about my work. Three years of living together and he'd zone out the second I mentioned school." She traced the spine of the first book like it was scripture. "Called it 'teacher stuff' like I was discussing paint drying instead of shaping actual human beings. Never once asked about my kids, their struggles, their victories. Made me feel like I was boring him with my little hobby job."
"He's a catastrophic moron."
"Yeah." She looked up at me, and her eyes were doing something lethal—soft and sharp simultaneously. "And you're..."
"Also a moron, but a different breed?"
"The kind who apparently takes notes during my exhausted teaching rants." She opened the book, but her hand found mine, fingers threading through like they belonged there. "The kind who drives forty minutes at dawn for perfect strawberries, who reads academic texts about sensory processing disorders for fun, who remembers not just my favorite wine but that I only like it properly chilled." Her voice caught. "The kind who makes me feel like my work matters. Like I matter."
The words hung between us, heavy as a confession, light as admission, dangerous as stepping onto ice without checking its thickness first.
The wine loosened our tongues and our careful boundaries. Serena finally voiced what I'd seen building in her eyes for weeks.
"I'm terrified," she admitted, fingers twisting in her lap. "Finn told me he loves me, and I love him back, but what if I'm not enough? What if I can't handle his medical needs when it really matters? What if I'm trying to fill a space that isn't mine to fill?"
I moved closer, covered her restless hands with mine. "You handled his attack perfectly while I was gone."
"That was one time—"
"You've handled dozens of moments. Small ones, big ones. You know when he's getting sick before he does. You spot triggers I miss. You've researched techniques I never thought to try." I squeezed her hands. "You're not filling Sarah's space. You're creating your own."
"But Sarah—"
"Would have liked you." The truth of it settled over me. "She would have loved how you challenge me, make me laugh, call me out when I'm being overprotective. She would have adored how patient you are with Finn, how you see him as more than his limitations."
"You talk about her with such love."
"I loved her. Part of me always will." I released her hands, leaned back on my elbows. "But that doesn't mean our lives stopped. Finn needs people who care about him. I need..." I paused, searching for words that wouldn't cross the line we'd drawn. "I need friends who get it. Who get us."
"Is that what we are? Friends?"
The question hung in the mountain air. I could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing between us.
"We're whatever keeps Finn safe and happy," I said finally. "We're two people trying to figure out an impossible situation without a roadmap."
She pulled her knees to her chest. "Sometimes I watch you both and think—this is it. This is the life I didn't know I wanted. Then I remember it's temporary, that I'm the neighbor who got caught in a storm."
"You're not—"
"I know what I am, Brad. And what I'm not." Her voice stayed steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped her knees. "I'm the woman who loves your son and cares about you both, but doesn't know where the boundaries are anymore."
"Maybe there don't have to be rigid boundaries. Maybe we just... navigate day by day."
"That's not fair to Finn. He needs stability."
"He needs people who love him," I corrected. "Everything else, we figure out as we go."
We sat in silence, watching the sun paint the lake in shades of gold and amber. Finally, she spoke again.
"Sarah was lucky to have you."
"I was lucky to have her. And Finn's lucky to have you." I stood, offered her my hand.
