Page 93 of The Single Dad

“Okay.” I do my best to hide my disappointment, but it’s harder than ever. After spending so many nights together, I’m feeling brushed off by yesterday and this morning.

I leave the counter; I don’t feel up to looking Cole in the eye. Instead, I focus on Archie.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say, walking into the living room. “No time to play this morning. We’ve got to get you to school.”

* * *

Cole wasn’t kidding when he said he was busy. He doesn’t just stay late for one night; he stays late almost every night of the following week, working such long hours that I barely get the chance to see him at all.

I hate that I miss him. It isn’t something that would happen if I was really able to maintain the kind of casual-sex relationship we both agreed to. I’d be disappointed at the lack of sex, probably, but I wouldn’t be yearning for his company like this.

I have to admit, though, this house feels so bleak without him around. It’s depressing.

I throw myself into spending time with Archie, and we manage to have fun on our own. Archie’s paintings are getting better, especially after the art auction. He tries splatter painting for the first time, inspired by the abstract art, and I cover all of the furniture in the front room with newspaper for protection.

As much fun as I’m having with Archie, though, I can’t fully shake the empty feeling in my chest.

Nothing is guaranteed between me and Cole, I keep reminding myself. We said there would be no feelings and no strings. When he works late and doesn’t come into my room at night, it’s part of our agreement.

Try as I might, I can’t stop wishing that I could ask Cole for more—or at least, ask him what’s going on. I don’t like this distance, but I don’t know how to change it. I don’t have the right to change it, per our agreement.

On Thursday night, Cole is working late again, as usual. At eight, I take Archie upstairs to bed, help him brush his teeth, and read him a bedtime story.

When I’m finished, I stand up to turn out the light. His blankets pulled up to his chin, Archie says quietly, “Riley?”

“Yeah?”

“When I go to sleep, and you go back downstairs… what do you do?”

I hesitate for just a moment before replying, “I do whatever I feel like doing, silly.”

“Like what?”

The past few lonely nights, I haven’t been doing much of anything. I sigh, then say, “Well, I’m an artist, right? I like to draw and paint.” It feels like a reminder to myself more than an answer for Archie.

That seems to satisfy him, though. He mumbles something, his words made unintelligible by the rush of sleep that overtakes him.

“Goodnight, Archie,” I whisper. Smiling, I turn off the light and pull the door closed.

Archie’s question gives me pause, and I stand in the hallway outside of his room, chewing on my lower lip.

Cole isn’t going to be home tonight. He texted me earlier, a somewhat cold reminder that he would be working late. So now, I have the evening to myself. I need to be here in case Archie wakes up and needs something, but other than that…

I’d rather not spend another night on the couch, hoping against hope that Cole will appear at the door and carry me up to my room.

I decide to draw. After clearing away the paint-splattered newspapers from the front room, I settle myself in at the corner desk with a pad of sketch paper and a few charcoal pencils.

I’m not sure about a subject, so I just begin to doodle. Hopefully, inspiration will strike before long. I begin sketching the outlines of eyes, filling them in steadily. I shade around the edges of the irises, charcoal dust coating my fingers.

Unfortunately, this just serves to remind me of the depth of Cole’s gaze, dancing behind each sketch. Frustrated, I set the charcoal down and lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.

I consider painting, but I haven’t painted anything myself since the art auction. I can’t stop thinking about the piece that I fell in love with, the one with the blurring blue lines that swirled into the stormy color of Cole’s eyes.

What the hell is wrong with me?

This should be so simple. Why is it anything but that?

I force myself to stand up from the drawing table. The house, as always, is spotless, but I decide to clean anyway, just to give myself something to do.

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