“There you are. Riley doesn’t look happy.” She wraps her arms around my neck and leans against me. “Teenage drama already?” Her perfect lips drift closer. “I thought we’d get a few days’ reprieve.”

I lean back and grip her forearms, slowly sliding them off. My voice is a feeble whisper. “Chelsea . . . we can’t do this.”

At first she’s confused, still smiling. But then the smile fades, and she understands. Her arms fold around her. “I thought we already were. I thought we were doing really well.”

We were. But it’s too fucking much. Too fast, too intense, too . . . distracting. I meant what I said to her yesterday—I can’t think of a single thing I wouldn’t do for her. For them.

“I care about you, Chelsea.” I gesture toward the house. “I care about you all very much. But a family—that kind of responsibility was never part of the plan for me. My role models were a drunk whose favorite pastime was punching his wife, and a cranky womanizing workaholic who was married to his bench. I don’t know how to do this.”

I’ve taken plenty of risks in my career. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. But I can’t risk . . . them. They’re too important, too precious. The risk that I could screw up, harm them because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing—even the possibility terrifies me.

I lick my lips, not looking at her. “And now that I know the kids are safe, that you’re okay—I need to back this way up.”

It was always going to end. Today, or a month, or six months from now—and it was never going to end well for her. I should’ve pulled away a long time ago.

But she was so . . . her.

And I was a selfish fucking idiot.

She inhales a breath, then lets it out slowly, the way she does when she’s trying to calm her heart. I hate that I fucking know that. I hate that I can already imagine what she’s thinking, what she’ll say.

“Jake, I know it’s scary. I’m scared too. But some things are worth being scared for. And together, we could be . . .”

Do it right . . . or don’t bother.

So I force myself to look into those heartbreaking blue eyes. And lie through my teeth.

“I don’t want this, Chelsea.”

She gasps, like the wind’s been knocked out of her.

“I don’t want this life. I can be a friend to you—to them—but this thing between us, whatever it is . . . needs to end now.” I scrape a hand through my hair, tugging hard, the pain giving me focus. Resolve. “You’re the kind of woman who’s gonna want to get married someday. You should be out there looking for that guy. But I’m not him. Any time we spend together will just . . . be a waste.”

Her voice is dull. Barely there. “I see.”

And I can hear the tears. I won’t look—I fucking can’t. But I can practically feel them slowly streaking down her face.

She clears her throat. “The boys—they idolize you, Jake. They all do. Please don’t—”

“I won’t,” I promise. “I’m not going to abandon them or you. I still want to help.” My voice picks up and I start to talk faster.

“Anything you need. I’ll take them to practice, I’ll be there at games, babysitting or just being with them. I won’t leave you hanging, Chelsea.”

I finally get the balls to look at her face.

But I shouldn’t have.

She’s moonlight pale, her lashes dark with wetness. A tear leaks silently from one corner, leaving a silver trail down her porcelain cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

And I am—so goddamn sorry.

Chelsea raises her chin, and her shoulders straighten with that bravery—that quiet, ceaseless strength. Her fingers wipe away tears. “I understand, Jake. Thank you”—she swallows—“for your honesty.” Her voice goes even softer. “We care about you too—so much. If friendship is all you want, then we’ll make it work just as friends.”

Hearing the words from her lips makes me fucking cringe.

But I cover it with a silent nod.

Chelsea steps toward the door, and every cell in my body screams to stop her. Grab her—spin her around and kiss her until she smiles again. To drop to my knees and take it all back. To undo the last five minutes.

But I’m trying to do the right thing. Even though it’s harder than I ever could’ve imagined.

As Chelsea walks away, I squeeze my eyes shut, force my feet and my hands to stay still as stone . . . and let her go.

26

Days go by and bleed into weeks. I keep my commitments to the kids. Sometimes I’m there when they get off the bus from school, nearby during Rosaleen’s piano practices. Once in a while I take Regan and Ronan back to fucking Mommy and Me, and I go to Rory’s Little League games, cheering louder than any father there. Things between Chelsea and me are . . . civil. Perfectly polite. I almost wish she’d curse at me, yell, tell me I’m a dick. It’d be so much better than the impersonal, tightly measured exchanges we have. She talks to me the same way the Judge does on the days when he has no goddamn idea who I am.

Like I’m a stranger.

Two weeks after the custody hearing, Brent strolls into my office. “Dude, tonight—me, Lucy Patterson, you, and her friend, we’re going to grab a bite to eat after work.”

“I don’t think so,” I answer, not bothering to look up from my laptop.

“And therein lies your problem, Jake. Too much thinking. It’s time to get back on that horse, little camper. And ride her.” He fiddles with a pen on my desk. “I’ve taken Lucy out a few times already—we’re chugging full steam ahead. She says her friend likes you, has been asking about you.”