Page 155 of The Single Dad

It’s quiet in the kitchen for a long moment, during which Reed downs the rest of the whiskey in the glass and spends five seconds coughing his lungs out.

“That’s a sipping drink, Reed,” I say finally, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he wheezes. “But I just thought, you know… It was right in front of me, and you guys were—”

“You were right,” I say to Declan, cutting Reed off. “I fucked up.”

“There we go,” he says, inclining his head. “Yeah. You really did.”

“But I can’t undo it. It’s already in the past—I’m already feeling those consequences.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So?”

“So what do I do about it?”

“Well, think about how you made this mess,” Declan says. “Then work it out.”

I set my jaw, nodding.

No matter what I have to do, I promise myself silently, no matter what it takes—I will fix this. I will get Riley back.

Chapter 49

Riley

Quiet music plays in my apartment from a little speaker sitting on my bedside table. The unpacking process proved difficult to tackle, and Olivia, in an attempt to help me, put together a playlist—the certified breakup playlist, she explained, made up of songs that have gotten her through rough times.

Unfortunately, the music only manages to fill the emptiness of the room, not the hollow space inside me. It does provide background noise while I fold and put away my clothes, though, which is at least something.

I’ve been making progress on my belongings—slow progress, but progress nonetheless. It’s enough to make me feel like I live here again, instead of in Cole’s house. Granted, that feeling comes with its own bitter flavor, but it feels like a step in the right direction.

As I tuck a stack of shirts into my top drawer, the music is interrupted, and my phone’s ringtone plays over the speaker at top volume. Wincing at the sudden, jarring sound, I grab the speaker and turn the volume all the way down.

I pick up my phone, lying on top of my bedsheets, and stare at the screen.

The caller ID displays Cole’s name. Again.

I stand there, frozen, watching the screen flicker as the phone vibrates in my hand. After a long moment, the call goes to voicemail, and a little bit of the tension leaves my body.

I sit down on the bed, opening my phone. After thirty seconds, I get another notification—another voicemail from Cole, joining the other three already sitting in my inbox.

I scroll through the unopened voicemails, frowning. I haven’t listened to any of them. I can’t bring myself to.

I have no idea why he’s calling me, but I don’t want to let myself start guessing. I already know how this ends: he’s going to hurt me, again, and I’m not willing to go through that pain a second time.

Instead, I tuck the phone into my back pocket and turn off the speaker. My brief burst of energy toward unpacking is gone, so I decide to transition that momentum into something else.

On the little desk in the corner of my room, my laptop is open, the screen saver running. I sit down in front of it, jostling the mouse until my open resume is staring me in the face.

Over the past week or so, I’ve cobbled together about five versions of this document, tailored to different jobs and different employers. I’ve sent out at least eleven of them to various organizations, but have yet to hear anything back.

I unplug the laptop, carrying it over to the bed, and lean back against the pillows.

Send one more application in, I tell myself, then you can take a break. Just one more.

In another tab, there’s an application portal open for a human resources job with a local government in upstate New York. It’s not even close to what I’m looking for, but I’m potentially qualified for it, so I feel like I’d be an idiot not to at least send in a resume.

At this point in the job search, I can’t afford to be too picky. I just need to get out of the restaurant and go from there.

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