Page 65 of Pucking the Single Dad
"I'm benching Theo tomorrow," Brad growled, but his fingers found mine under the table, thumb tracing secret patterns against my palm.
"So," Maria took a deliberate sip of wine, eyes glinting with mischief, "should I be shopping for a bridesmaid dress? I'm thinking autumn colors would be nice. October wedding, maybe?"
Brad choked on his water, coughing so hard that Finn had to pound his back while I sat frozen, my face burning.
"MARIA."
"What? You're playing house, doing the whole domestic bliss thing, having your little staring contests over breakfast—"
"Maria!" Brad and I said simultaneously, which only proved her point.
"—might as well slap a ring on it and make it official." She grinned wickedly. "Unless you're afraid of commitment?"
"Can I carry the rings?" Finn bounced in his seat, potato volcano forgotten. "I promise I won't lose them. I'll use my special pocket, the one with the zipper!"
"There's no—we haven't—nobody's getting—" I sputtered like a broken engine.
"Yet," Maria added helpfully. "Nobody's getting married yet."
The word 'wedding' hung in the air like a lit fuse, like a door we hadn't realized was there until someone pointed it out.
"Miss Serena's face is doing the tomato thing," Finn observed clinically. "That means she's thinking about kissing Dad."
"FINN."
"What? It's data. I'm being scientific like you taught me."
Maria cackled, raising her glass. "To scientific observation and inevitable matrimony."
The conversation lurched sideways after that, but the word—wedding—had taken root, spreading through the space between us like those time-lapse videos of flowers blooming. Every glance felt weighted with it. Every casual touch suddenly seemed to ask a question neither of us was ready to answer.
Yet.
At Finn's school concert, I sat in row G, seat 14—the parent section—surrounded by people who'd been reserving these exact seats since kindergarten orientation.
"Serena!" Mrs. Henderson descended with the efficiency of a military strike. "Asthma-friendly soccer camp. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Aiden's going. You'll register Finn?"
"I should check with—"
"Brad? Please." She waved dismissively. "He'd register that boy for moon camp if you suggested it."
Around me, mothers planned carpools and divided snack duties, folding me into their logistics like I'd always beenthere. Someone handed me a sign-up sheet for summer reading program volunteers. Another asked if I'd help chaperone the field trip. Each assumption felt like stepping on ice—solid until it wasn't.
The lights dimmed. Twenty second-graders shuffled onto risers, Finn in the back row, recorder clutched like a tiny weapon. He spotted us and waved so enthusiastically his music teacher had to steady him.
"He's going to play it at double speed," Brad murmured beside me. "Watch. He's been practicing in the bathroom. Thinks the acoustics are better."
Sure enough, Finn launched into "Hot Cross Buns" like he was being chased, turning a thirty-second song into a twelve-second sprint. Several parents tried not to laugh. Brad's hand found mine.
"He's perfect," I whispered.
"He's ours," Brad corrected.
The word hit me sideways. I turned my face away, but tears were already falling, silent and mortifying.
"Serena?" Brad's voice went concerned. "What—"
"I can't do this here." I stood, edging past knees and purses, fleeing to the hallway.
