Page 110 of The Single Dad

“I didn’t know you felt that deeply about it,” Cole says.

“Art is more than just a hobby,” I tell him. “Ask any artist. There’s something deeply personal about almost everything you make. It’s soothing to work with paints, and it feels good to work with your hands, but beyond that, a painting is like a window into someone’s soul.”

Cole nods, listening intently, his dark blue eyes like a painting themselves—full of layered meaning that I wish I could read as easily as I could interpret artwork in a museum.

“I thought about being an artist when I went to college.” I take another delicate, careful sip of wine. “My school had a studio art program. I took some classes, and ultimately decided I wanted to keep my art personal. I wasn’t cut out for an art career. It’ll wear you down, if you let it.”

“So you landed on social work? Hell of a way to keep from being worn down.”

I shrug; I’ve heard that plenty of times. Social work can be grueling. Sometimes, you’re faced with people at the lowest points of their lives, and things don’t always work out.

But thinking about it, I still smile. “I wanted to help people,” I say. “That was the most important thing for me—that my work would benefit others.”

Cole meets my gaze, and holds it for a long time. The corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes are warm as he says, “That’s a noble goal.”

I feel flushed, and quickly break his gaze, looking down at the table. I think he might be impressed, which is a laughable thing to think. He’s a successful investor with a net worth of billions of dollars, and I’m just the former waitress who watches his kid.

He’ll realize that eventually, right?

But when I look back up at Cole, he’s still giving me that same half-smile. He shifts, and the fabric of his shirt moves, exposing the tip of the scar on his collarbone. It’s hard to notice; a stranger probably wouldn’t see it if they didn’t know to look.

I’ve seen Cole shirtless dozens of times, though. I’ve seen the angry red scars across his chest. There’s a question in the back of my mind every time Cole strips, but I almost always forget it in the heat of the ensuing sex.

“While we’re opening up,” I say, gently teasing, “you mind if I ask you something?”

“Depends what it is,” he replies.

I push through a sudden rush of trepidation. “I don’t want to pry, or anything, so if you’re not comfortable telling me, I totally understand. I was wondering, though… how did you get the scars on your chest?”

Cole is silent for a long time, and I bite my lip as I wait for him to speak. He’s impossible to read. What if he’s upset with me for asking something so personal? What if I crossed a line?

After what feels like an eternity, he sighs. “You don’t know what happened to Archie’s mother, do you?”

“I knew that she died,” I say hesitantly. “I don’t know how, though.”

He draws in a breath as if weighing something in his head, then finally says, “My sister and I were always close as kids—spent all of our time together. We were always on each other’s side. But when I first opened up my own investment firm, I got very busy, very fast. My work started to take over, and I saw her a lot less.”

There’s a note of guilt in his voice. I want to speak up, to reassure Cole, but at the same time, I know better than to interrupt.

“Archie’s father was never in the picture. He died not long after Archie was born—less than a year. I tried to be a good brother during the early days of Archie’s childhood, but I was overloaded with work. I didn’t keep in touch as much as I should have.”

“It happens,” I say in a small voice. “I’ve had the same problem with Noah, from time to time. People get busy, in certain lines of work more than others.”

Cole gives me a grateful look, then continues, “I didn’t know that she had started to drink more heavily. She did a good job of hiding it every time I saw her, acting like everything was okay. But she was alone, and fighting addiction.”

I remember what Cole said about his father being an alcoholic, and think of the families I’ve encountered during social work internships in college. These kinds of struggles are often generational, passed down from parents to their adult children.

“One night, I went to her place in Jersey for dinner. We were supposed to catch up. It was going to be the first time I’d really spent time with her in ages.”

His hand closes into a fist, and there’s a grim set to his jaw. I’m almost afraid to hear the next part.

“When I got there, the house was on fire,” he says quietly. “She had passed out and left the stove on. I did what anyone would do—I went in. She was trapped—some beams had fallen from the ceiling, and she was trying to get free. As soon as she saw me, she begged me to get Archie out.”

Cole closes his eyes. I reach out instinctively, laying my hand on his wrist.

“I got Archie. He was upstairs in his crib. I took him outside and tried to go back inside, to help her, but a firefighter stopped me—they’d just arrived, and realized that the structure wasn’t going to hold. The roof of the house caved in a few seconds after that.”

“Oh, god.” I squeeze his wrist, heartbroken. “Cole, I… I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

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