Page 60 of Perfectly Complicated
“Well, don’t let me keep you from all that”—Rourke pauses, studying David’s starched collar and his pressed khakis—“educational fun.”
I grab my purse and David’s arm before this night can get any worse. “We’re leaving now. Aria’s formula is in the fridge if she gets hungry, and there are diapers in the closet, and her favorite book is?—”
“I know where everything is, Janie.” His gaze lands on wheremy hand is touching David’s arm, and something flickers across his face. Jealousy,yes, but also a trace of pain. His jaw feathers before he meets my eyes. “I’ll take good care of her.”
For a moment, regret lines his face, like I’m someone he wishes he had the right to protect. Like he wants to be the one taking me out tonight, the one making me smile, the one bringing me home.
Before I can grab my coat, both Rourke and David reach for it, but Rourke moves quicker, pulling it from the hook and holding it open for me without a word.
I hesitate for just a second. This feels too much like something a boyfriend would do.
But David is watching, and refusing now would create more tension, so I slip my arms into the sleeves. Rourke’s fingers brush the back of my neck as he settles the coat on my shoulders, and the contact sends shivers down my spine as his hands linger for just a moment longer than necessary.
“Have a good time,” he murmurs next to my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Try not to think about me.”
My breath catches in my throat as my knees buckle slightly. I force myself to step forward, reaching for David’s arm to steady myself.
“Ready?” David asks, oblivious to the nuclear reaction crackling in the room that has nothing to do with him.
“Yes.” My voice falters, and I blow my daughter a quick kiss before leaving.
But as we walk down the front steps, I can feel Rourke tracking me through the window, and it takes everything I have not to turn around and run back to him.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to play Farkle with David Peterson. I want to be home with Rourke, watching him make faces at Aria. I want to curl up on the couch next to him and fall asleep against his shoulder.
I want everything I’m too scared to hope for.
As David opens his car door and starts talking about tonight, I realize I’m about to spend the entire evening pretending to be interested in the wrong man while my heart stays home with the right one.
The Sully’s Beach Elementary staff Christmas party is exactly what you’d expect from a group of teachers letting loose on a Friday night: wholesome games where nobody cheats, punch that’s as ambitious as pineapple juice and ginger ale, and conversations that somehow always circle back to work.
“So then I told the parent that homework is actually good for developing the frontal lobe of the brain!” David is saying as we sit around a table playing—you guessed it—Farkle. “And she said, ‘But he’s only in third grade! Does he really need to use his frontal lobe yet?’ Can you believe that?”
“Mmm,” I murmur, watching Sheila from second grade roll the dice. “That’s…frustrating.”
But I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Rourke at home with Aria, probably reading her a story or rocking her as he holds her against his chest…
“Janie? It’s your turn.”
I blink back to the game to find everyone at the table staring at me. “Sorry, what?”
“To roll,” David says with his patient teacher smile. “Are you okay?”
“Just tired,” I mumble which is only half true. I’m always tired, but it’s definitely not helping that my thoughts are consumed by the man I left at home. “Long week, I guess.” I roll the dice without much enthusiasm.
That’s not it, and I know the truth: I’m thinking of when Rourke whispered in my earTry not to think of mewhile simultaneously rewiring my brain toonlythink of him.
Because it’s basically what I’ve done all night. It’s like heknewhe could infiltrate my thoughts with one phrase, distracting me when I’m not even with him.
“That’s five hundred points!” announces Sheila. “Which means…” She tallies the totals. “You and David won!”
“We make a great team!” David fist-pumps the air while a few teachers groan, and I discreetly check my watch. Seven fifty-five. We’ve been here for almost an hour and a half, and I’m already figuring out how early I can leave without being rude.
“Want to get some punch?” David asks, standing.
“Sure.” Because what else am I going to say? Admit that I’d rather be home watching my distracting roommate play with my daughter?
Because if I could ninja-sneak out of this place, I would in a hot second.
