Chapter 2: “Rain and Regret”

The week after I sent that single “Sure” text felt like someone had turned up the volume on my entire life. Every notification on my phone made my stomach drop. David would ask, “Who’s texting?” and I’d mumble “Sarah about carpool” while my heart hammered against my ribs. Ryan and I didn’t talk much — just enough to keep the fire alive without burning the house down. A good-morning emoji at 6:45 a.m. while David was in the shower. A voice note from him at lunch: low, gravelly, “Can’t stop picturing you under that umbrella.” I listened to it three times in the laundry room with the door locked, thighs pressed together.

By Friday night I was a wreck. I shaved everything. I told myself it was because I felt gross, but I knew exactly why. Saturday morning I stood in front of the mirror in the black yoga pants — the ones that made my ass look like it belonged to someone ten years younger — and a fitted maroon hoodie. No bra. I didn’t even question it. Jake bounced downstairs in his uniform, oblivious. David kissed my cheek on his way out the door to “catch up on emails at the office.” Same lie he told every Saturday. I smiled like the perfect wife I wasn’t anymore.

The sky was already spitting when we pulled into Willow Creek Park. The coach’s email had come at 7:12: “Game on unless lightning.” Parents huddled under umbrellas, grumbling. Ryan’s black pickup was parked in the far corner again, away from the cluster of minivans, like it was waiting for me. I felt his eyes on me the second I stepped out. Jake ran to the team. I set up my chair but didn’t sit. My phone buzzed.

Ryan: Truck’s warm. Coffee’s hot. Come over when you’re ready.

I didn’t answer. I just started walking.

The rain picked up the moment the whistle blew. By minute twelve it was a downpour. Kids slid through mud, parents yelled encouragement through the noise. I was soaked in thirty seconds. My hoodie clung to my breasts, nipples hard from the cold and something else entirely. Ryan appeared beside me, umbrella in one hand, the other reaching for my chair.

“Come on,” he said, voice barely above the rain. “You’re freezing.”

I followed him without a word. We jogged the last thirty yards to his truck, laughing like idiots when a gust nearly took the umbrella. He opened the passenger door, helped me up like I was made of glass, then climbed in behind the wheel. The door slammed. The world outside disappeared behind fogging glass and hammering rain.

Inside it was warm. Heated seats already on high. The cab smelled like him — coffee, pine, and that faint masculine scent that made my head spin. He reached behind the seat and handed me a thick towel.

“Dry off before you catch pneumonia,” he said, grinning. But his eyes weren’t laughing. They were dark, hungry.