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Chapter one
Simon
I’m a fucking dumbass.
I’m aware of this.
I’ve been aware of this since the day I turned eighteen and signed myself over to the U.S. Army like I was agreeing to the terms and conditions on an iPhone update. Second stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.
The first is… this.
Spending my child-free weekend—which, by the way, feels less like freedom and more like I’ve misplaced an essential organ—pretending I’m emotionally invested in a woman who thinks I'm actually emotionally invested.
Veronica sits across from me in this stupidly expensive restaurant, looking absolutely stunning. Long, tan legs, natural blonde hair, and a black dress tight enough to almost qualify as a corset. Just enough cleavage to raise my blood pressure, not quite enough to claim she’s doing it intentionally.
Her lipstick is smudged from the wine we’ve been sipping, and her teeth are so white the candlelight bouncing off them could guide ships to shore.
She’s telling me about her day—something about how her father wants more bathrooms than bedrooms in their new house. I don’t know. Rich people have rich people problems; I’m just here for the breadsticks and emotional distraction.
I do enjoy Veronica. I wouldn’t keep choosing to spend my child-free weekends with her if I didn’t get something out of being around her. What started as a few casual drinks that ended with her in my bed eventually turned into Veronica telling me that if I wasn’t ready to commit to an actual relationship, she wasn’t sticking around. I liked her. I liked her company, liked having someone to go out with, someone to come home with, and I wasn’t willing to lose that just because the word girlfriend made me uncomfortable.
So I did what any pussy-whipped man would do and asked her to be my girlfriend.
But Theo is different. I always call Theo when he’s with his mom. Even before he was old enough to talk back, when calling him meant listening to Blaire hold the phone near him while I talked to a baby who had absolutely no idea what the fuck I was saying. Half the time, all I got in response were soft little breaths, random baby noises, or Blaire quietly telling me he was staring at the phone like he was trying to figure out why Daddy was trapped inside it. I still called.
Tonight marks three months with Veronica, and I figured I should make an effort. Be romantic. Do the whole boyfriend who’s invested and cares routine instead of treating this like the casual arrangement it started as. I planned the dinner. Made the reservation. Made sure I was actually present instead of checking my phone every five minutes.
But the plan had always been that at eight, I’d step outside for a few minutes and call Theo.
Veronica asked me not to.
She wanted one night where I stayed at the table, where I was fully present with her instead of interrupting our date to call Blaire’s house. She pushed, I pushed back, and eventually she made me feel like an asshole for even considering leaving the table in the middle of our anniversary dinner.
And like a spineless fucking coward, I gave in.
So now it’s 8 p.m. on a Friday night, and my kid is about to go to bed, and I’m sitting here pretending that my investment in Veronica is anything more than a distraction from the life I really want.
“Simon?” Veronica cuts in, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Are you even listening?”
I flash her a smile. “Yeah. Yes. Sorry. Bathrooms, right. Lotta bathrooms.”
Her eyes narrow like I just confessed to cheating. “You’re thinking of Blaire again.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes so hard they’d fall into my wine glass. “I was thinking of Theo.”
She always jumps to Blaire. Always. She isn’t jealous of my son—she’s jealous of his mother.
“Can I just have one night where I feel like you’re not just using me to fill your free time?” Veronica huffs, setting her wine glass down harder than needed.
“That’s not what I’m doing, Ronnie,” I say, reaching for her hand across the table–her fingers stay stiff against mine. “I like being with you. But we’ve talked about how important being a father is to me. You said you understood.”
She doesn’t soften. “I do understand. Your son comes first, obviously. But you get him all the time, and I get a few days a month with you. Maybe if I could—”
“Not happening.” I cut her off before she can even try to finish the sentence. I don’t want to have this argument again. “Six months. Then we can talk about it.”
She lets out a frustrated breath, but I don’t budge. The six-month rule wasn’t something I made up on a whim. It came straight from the family therapist Blaire dragged us to during Theo’s first year. At the time, I hated the idea. The therapy, parenting classes, and weekly meetings made me feel like I’d already failed before I’d even begun.
But the truth? It saved my ass.
