Page 155 of Aria

“Are you even real?” Beth joked as she pulled away. She slipped on her pointed heels and gave me a final glance. Her chocolate eyes were still sparkling. “I can’t wait to talk tonight.”

I discreetly smacked her butt as she walked by. “It’s a date,” I concurred.

“Be good for your father,” Beth ordered our three boys as she headed to the front door, her eyes still lingering on me. “He may look tough, but you know he’s just a big softie on the inside.”

My glare was mostly teasing. “You’ll pay for that outright lie.”

“Looking forward to it,” she said with a smirk. “See you all tonight. Good luck at your game, Sam.”

“Bye!” Caden yelled, jumping up and down.

“We’re so late,” Sam complained.

“Mommy!” Jeremiah crumbled into a fit of tears as Beth disappeared out the door.

I blinked, nearly blacking out for a moment. Then I jumped into Dad-mode and picked my son back up. “Get your shoes on, kiddos. Time to go.”

Sam grabbed his catcher’s mitt and backpack, while simultaneously fending off punches in the arm from Caden. Jeremiah continued to wail in my arms, his hands reaching desperately for the door.

Blacking out actually sounded kind of appealing.

Sucking in a deep breath, I reminded myself of the Super Dad title. And thirty seconds later, I’d managed to pile all three boys into the SUV until we were on our way to Sam’s baseball game, dropping Caden off at karate on the way. My arm hung out the window, a cigarette dangling in between my fingertips. I always chain-smoked under pressure.

When theBaby Sharksong began playing on repeat in the backseat, I sucked the sweet nicotine into my lungs with ardent voracity.

I definitely always chain-smoked duringBaby Shark.

“Soccer!” Jeremiah pointed an eager finger at the playing field as we pulled into the parking lot. He clapped his hands with anticipation, bouncing in his seat. “Sammy play!”

“It’s baseball, buddy,” I murmured through the cigarette. I ground it out on the cement once we parked, helping the boys out of the car.

“Bye, Dad,” Sam called out, running toward his coach.

“Break a leg, Sammy,” I yelled back.

Jeremiah looked up at me, his eyes wide with concern. His little hand wrapped around my index finger. “Sammy don’t want a boo-boo.”

I chuckled as I carried Jeremiah up to the stands, nodding my head in greeting to the parents as we passed. I was used to the curious stares and starstruck gawking. Beth was normally the parent in charge of extracurricular activities, so my presence always came with plenty of gossipy whispers and scrutiny.

Climbing to the top row of benches, I took a seat next to a couple who lived on our street—Darla and Ken Nivens. Their son, Harrison, rode the school bus with Sam, and the two boys had become good friends.

“Howdy,” Ken said, holding his hand out to me as I approached.

I attempted to keep my grip on the squirming three-year-old, who was in the process of making an impressive escape. Shifting the child’s weight into my opposite arm, I returned the handshake. “Hey, Ken. Don’t mind my unruly accessory.” I turned my attention to the raven-haired woman with impeccably drawn-on eyebrows. She was pressed up against Ken, her blood red talons digging into his thigh. “Darla,” I acknowledged.

“We’ve all been there, Noah,” she said sweetly. “I can’t say I miss that phase.”

It was difficult to envision Darla Nivens with any maternal instincts. While the couple had always been kind to our family, they oozed old money and entitlement.

I took a seat beside Ken as Jeremiah slithered from my grasp and began running through the bleachers. The benches rattled from the weight of his Mickey Mouse sandals stampeding back and forth. I ran a hand over my face, exhaustion and mild embarrassment settling in, as I tried to hide behind my sunglasses and stoic visage.

The Nivens managed to rope me into idle chitchat as they discussed charity functions, their upcoming neighborhood barbecue, and the PTO board. Honestly, I’d rather throw myself face-first into a barbed wire fence than hear about why Lori McGibbons was removed from the bake sale, but I played the part of a dutiful father with school spirit.

“You just can’t trust a woman who uses wheat flour in her vegan apple muffins,” Darla said with a haughty chuckle. “Beth understands. She is such a gem, Noah.”

I pretended to act engaged with my trademark “nod and smile” routine, but the mention of Beth had me digging out my phone to see if she’d sent me any updates on the showing.

Beth:I’m here. Just waiting on the client. I love you!

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