Page 15 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I think the last time anyone called me a smart cookie was my grandfather.

Owen immediately looks up. “What’s funny?”

I hesitate. How exactly do I explain that Mommy is emotionally attached to a hot gym trainer who suddenly became weirdly funny and charming through text when in person, he’s pretty predictable, the kind of guy whose entire personality I once thought was simply ‘gym’? “Nothing,” I say lightly. “Just talking to someone.”

He furrows his brow. “Is it Auntie Dani?”

“No.”

“The gym man.”

My face heats instantly. Children are terrifying. I don’t even want to know how he’s picked that up. “No,” I lie.

Owen accepts this, still, I find myself smiling at my phone again five minutes later. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I only know it’s been years since I’ve felt this light, this desired, this interesting. Wanted.

By the time evening rolls around, I feel restless and nervous, desperate to go to the gym, yet dreading that it will somehow break the spell between us. Outside, dark clouds hang heavy across town while thunder rumbles low and steady in the distance.

Owen presses his face dramatically against the front window. “Daddy’s late.”

I try to keep the judgment out of my voice. “Yes, he is.” Again. I check the time for the fifth time in ten minutes while trying not to let my irritation show too much. This weekend is already making me anxious enough. It’s Owen’s first overnight visit to his dad’s new place, the first time Ethan and Brielle will have Owen overnight together. I hate every part of it.

My phone buzzes in my hand again.

You busy tonight?

My pulse jumps immediately. Before I can answer, headlights sweep across the driveway. Finally.

Owen takes off toward the door at full speed, yelling, “Daddy!”

I tuck my phone quickly into my back pocket before opening the door. Cold, damp air rushes inside immediately.

Ethan steps inside wearing one of his expensive wool coats, raindrops still clinging to the shoulders. He looks exactly the same as always, polished and perfectly put together. Even his stubble somehow looks professionally managed. “Sorry,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Traffic.”

“You’re forty minutes late, you could have at least texted to say you were stuck.”

His eyes flick briefly toward me. Then narrow slightly. “You look dressed up.”

I blink. I’m literally wearing black leggings, a sports bra, and a hoodie. “I’m going to the gym later.”

“Mhm.”

Something about the sound irritates me instantly. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs lightly while Owen wraps around his leg excitedly. “Just wondering if you had plans.”

The implication settles unpleasantly between us, as if he’s trying to sound casual while quietly checking whether I’ve moved on, which I’m perfectly entitled to do. He has. “I’m going to the gym,” I repeat flatly.

His mouth twitches slightly. “Good for you.”

There it is, the judgment. Subtle enough that I can’t call him out, but sharp enough that I still feel it. Before I can respond, thunder cracks loudly overhead.

Ethan glances toward the windows. “Storm’s pretty bad tonight.” Then down at Owen. “You scared of the thunder, buddy?”

I stare at him.

Owen tilts his head, frowning. “No.”

“He loves storms,” I say before I can stop myself. The words come out sharper than intended.