I pop the pill from its foil slot. The sound is crisp in the quiet bathroom, deliberately audible. Then I raise my hand to my mouth, tip my head back, swallow with a sip of water from the cup I keep by the sink.
The pill is still in my hand.
His footsteps retreat toward the stairs.
I toss the fake pill in the toilet, flush it, and take a real one from the sample pack I've hidden behind Chesca's bubble bath. This one I actually swallow.
Two can play the surveillance game, bastardo.
My hand drifts to my stomach, flat, unchanged, and lingers there for a moment too long.
What would it even mean? Another baby? With him?
The thought should horrify me. It does, mostly. But there's something else underneath the horror, something I don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels dangerously close towhat if.
Stop it. You're not pregnant. You're not going to be pregnant. This is a game, not a future.
I yank my hand away and go to get Chesca ready for her soccer game.
The morning sun warms my shoulders through my cardigan, and for exactly forty-three minutes, I let myself pretend this is normal.
Piedmont Recreation Park buzzes with weekend energy. Kids in mismatched jerseys chasing a ball, parents clutching coffee cups and shouting encouragement that borders on aggressive. Chesca's purple jersey stands out against the green grass, the number seven on her back slightly crooked from where I ironed it on wrong last season.
She doesn't care. She never cares about things like that.
Thank God for small mercies. At least one of us isn't a perfectionist disaster.
I scan the field without meaning to. Fourteen kids on Chesca's team, twelve on the opposing side, three coaches, two referees, forty-seven adults in the spectator area, give or take. The habit is automatic now, counting bodies, noting exits, building a mental map I'll never need to reference in court but can't stop constructing anyway.
Somewhere out there, someone is deciding when I die. The flower sits in an evidence bag, but the threat walks free, faceless and patient, watching judges like me until we're not worth watching anymore.
Breathe, tesoro. You've survived worse. Probably.
Cole and Xander flank me on either side, positioned on the sideline like twin sentinels. Cole at just over six feet, dark shirt stretched across his chest, the slight bulge of his concealed carry visible only if you know where to look. I do. And Xander, built like the rugby player he probably was, with his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the field as his head swivels in constant scan.
Fantastic. Nothing says "normal suburban mom" like armed escorts at the eight-and-under league.
The single moms notice. A cluster of them huddle near the snack table, adjusting ponytails and smoothing lip gloss while they pretend to watch their kids.
One breaks away, a blonde in yoga pants so tight they might be painted on, and approaches Cole with the kind of determined smile usually reserved for closing real estate deals.
"Are you Francesca's father?"
Jealousy flares hot and immediate, causing me to tighten my grip on my iced coffee until condensation slicks between my fingers.
Where the hell did that come from?
"Security detail." The words leave me sharp and final before I can stop them.
Her face falls, but only for a second before she recalibrates. "Oh. Well, is he single?"
Cole doesn't even look at her. "No."
"Not even for coffee sometime?"
"I belong to someone."
His eyes don't move to me, but I feel them anyway.