Page 4 of Shattered Promise

“Nah, I think it looks good just like that," she says, her fingers toying with the end of her ponytail. "I always wanted to try blonde, but my sister always told me I don't have the right complexion for it."

"You should totally do it," I encourage. "It's only hair, ya know? If you hate it, dye it back."

Her mouth curves into a smile, and she nods a few times. "Yeah, maybe."

"Hey, thanks for letting me fill in tonight. I appreciate it."

“Of course.” She hesitates just a second too long, and I know what she’s about to say before it leaves her mouth. “You know, if you’re ever up for a regular slot, I could probably talk to management. Or at least get you more weekends.”

I smile, polite and noncommittal. “I’ll think about it.” Between my day job that frequently bleeds into the evenings and weekends, and being here a few nights a week, I'm barelysleeping as it is. As much as singing feels like a balm to my soul, I don’t think I can take on more without breaking something open, unless I somehow found a way to put more hours in my day.

Before she can say more, someone shouts her name from the other end of the bar, and she hurries down with a quick “be right back.”

As soon as she’s gone, I pull out my phone and check the screen. Five new emails about an upcoming event for work, three messages from my colleagues, and exactly zero texts from Mason.

I exhale a slow breath and open up our message thread anyway. My text from yesterday still sits there, unread.

Me: Look what I saw yesterday…

Me: Still think you could hotwire one of these in under sixty seconds?

I snapped a photo of a vintage Camaro parked on a side street on my walk home from grabbing dinner. Years ago, Mason and Beau would joke about stealing Camaros and joyriding them all over the state. Somewhere along the way, it turned into a running joke, and it's the first thing I thought of when I saw it yesterday.

It was the first non-Theo-related text I've sent to Mason. And I guess it's not a coincidence that he didn't reply. Message received. We only text when it concerns his adorable nine-month-old baby. I tap the button on the side of my phone, turning the screen black and flip it over on the bar.

That creeping sense of foolishness rises again, curling around my ribs like a slow, persistent vine. One that squeezes tighter every time I let myself forget who we are now. And exactly what we’re not.

I drain the rest of my soda and push to my feet. I tuck the twenty-dollar bill underneath the empty glass bottle on the bar, sling my guitar over my shoulder, then wave goodbye to Beth.

The worst part isn’t that he didn’t answer. I get it—he’s a single dad with a business to run. His days are full.

No, the worst part is that I hoped he would.

2

MASON

The gravel crunchesunder my boots, the sound swallowed by the early morning fog curling low over the field. It’s quiet out here—thick, still, not yet disturbed by the day. Just the wind grazing the trees, the sharp bite of coffee in my hand, and the soft weight of Theo against my chest.

He’s still half-asleep, cheek pressed to my shoulder, curls damp with sweat. He always sleeps hot, no matter the season or the kind of pajamas I put him in. Mom says I was the same way, which feels impossible. Sometimes I look at him and still can’t believe he’s mine. Like I was trusted with something too perfect. Too important.

His fingers curl loosely around the collar of my shirt, same as they did when he was tiny. He’s still tiny, I guess, but already pushing out into the world in little ways. Reaching, babbling, climbing. Mom keeps saying he’ll be walking soon.

God help me.

The thought of him toddling through this place on his own is a special kind of fear. But more than that, I know I’m going to miss this. These quiet, heavy mornings where he fits against me like he was made for it.

I still carry him like this every morning. Because I can. Because I promised myself I would.

The porch steps creak under my boots. I nudge the screen door open with my foot, catch it before it slams, and step into the house that’s mine now. Ours. It still smells faintly of new paint and sawdust, though the edges are starting to wear off.

I cross to the kitchen and shift Theo into the high chair, strapping him in with one hand while balancing my coffee in the other. He grumbles a little at the buckle, then starts gnawing on his lion’s paw like he hasn’t been fed in days.

“I’m working on it,” I mutter, grabbing a fruit and veggie pouch from the basket near the sink. I shake a handful of Cheerios onto the tray in front of him. "Start with these, bud. Then we'll move onto bananas, blueberries, and spinach." It’s a weak breakfast, but it’ll do until I make it to the store.

My fault. I make a mental note to stop by after nap time, even though I know I’ll forget unless I write it down.

There’s a sticky note on the fridge from Mom.

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