21. Mira

21

MIRA

It shouldn't bother me that Zane let his sponsor basically call me a gold-digging whore.

It definitely shouldn't bother me that Zane has apparently been parading so many "bonnie lasses" through this condo that his friends can't remember their names.

And it doesn't bother me. None of it. I'm fine.

One day, two days, three days pass without any sexual tension incidents. No opening the door in my underwear or kissing nonexistent toothpaste off of his mouth.

Zane and I coexist in his two-thousand-square-foot condo, but it's like we inhabit different universes. We don't talk directly—everything goes via emails from Hanna.

Have Aiden ready by three and Mr. Whitaker will take him to the park. You can have the rest of the afternoon to yourself.

Mr. Whitaker has a team dinner tonight. He'll watch Aiden from 4-7, but you'll need to handle bedtime.

In the moments when we're transitioning, Zane doesn't look at me. He talks through Aiden the way awkward parents at the park do.

"Tell Mira goodbye, Aiden," he'll say. Or, "Say thank you to Mira."

I guess I'm grateful he's teaching Aiden to respect me, but I miss talking to him. God help me, I even miss him grilling me with questions I don't want to answer over breakfast.

The sexual tension was better than the silence.

"Mira."

I blink out of my thoughts and find Aiden standing in front of me holding a piece of printer paper.

Two days ago, he said my name for the first time and I'm still not over the shock of it. Really, I'm not over the adorable rasp in his little voice and the way he can't say his R-sounds, so my name comes out sounding like "Miwa." It's the most precious thing in existence.

He thrusts the paper into my hands and I gasp. "Wow! This is beautiful artwork, Aiden. You're ready for your own exhibition, I think. What is it?"

He taps on the larger colored scribble on the right side of the page. "Mira."

"I know, I'm looking," I tell him. "It's beautiful. I love your use of color and movement. It's high-brow stuff you're doing here. Somebody call the Met."

He frowns, frustrated, and taps the scribble again. "Mira. It's Mira."

Oh.

I look closer and, sure enough, it's me. An abstract version, but there's no doubt in my mind that the red scribble is my t-shirt and the blue scribbles are my jeans. He even used a black crayon and perfectly captured my hair… if I wore my hair in a 50s-style beehive, but hey, don't rule that out yet. Who knows what the future may hold?

Tears prick the backs of my eyes and I have to blink them back so he doesn't think I'm a psycho.

"Oh my gosh, it is me!" I loop my arm around his waist and snuggle him close. "I love it, buddy. Do I get to keep it?"

Aiden nods his head and grins up at me, so proud of himself.

He looks like Zane. Aiden's hair is a brighter blonde and his blue eyes are pale, more like sea glass. But they have the exact same smile.

Not that I'd know what Zane's smile looks like in real life these days. But in the hockey highlight video that I may or may not have bookmarked on my laptop, he smiles exactly like his son.

Aiden and I color at the kitchen island before we snuggle on the couch with a big stack of books. I try to convince him to lie down for a nap after lunch, but Aiden buries his face in my neck and clings to my shoulders.

Things spiral from there.

I would put big money on Aiden being the sweetest kid in the world—a real-life angel in the flesh—until he goes too long without a nap. As the afternoon drags on, every little thing sets him off.

I peel his banana all the way instead of peeling it halfway and letting him finish the rest? Temper tantrum.

I leave the room for three minutes to go to the bathroom? An hour-long weep fest.

He colors a dog blue and then finds a maroon crayon he wishes he'd used instead? Someone alert UNICEF. We have a child in crisis.

When he finally falls asleep in the late afternoon after burying himself in a nest of blankets in the hall closet, I dim the lights and thank my lucky stars.

Aiden is still zonked out an hour later when Zane unlocks the front door. His hair is damp from his post-practice shower and his cheeks are still red.

He must like his showers hot like I do , I think before I can stop myself. I wonder if that blush extends all the way to ? —

I pull my eyes away from his face and make the mistake of dragging them all the way down his body. Over his short-sleeve button-down that's open at the collar, revealing a hint of golden blonde chest hair. Down his muscular legs that might actually be doing his forest green chinos a favor. Those pants have never looked this good on another human body, I'm sure. It's like they were made for him.

I know I've been sexless for a long time and single for even longer, but I can suddenly see the appeal of having someone walk through the door at the end of every day. Someone to talk to, make dinner with, fall asleep with.

Especially if that someone came home looking like this .

I blink out of my stupor in time to see Zane glance my direction for all of point-five seconds before he settles his gaze literally anywhere else. "Where's Aiden?"

I lick my lips. My mouth feels dry all of a sudden. "He's napping."

Zane turns back to me slowly, eyes narrowing. "It's supposed to be my time with him now."

"He wouldn't nap earlier, so he was exhausted all afternoon. It was a warzone here. When he crashed an hour ago, I figured it was better to let him sleep."

"He's not supposed to be napping now," he grits out.

I blink at him and play back the last few seconds in my mind. No, I definitely explained myself. Enough that Zane shouldn't be glaring at me like I just confessed to dosing his kid with Ambien.

"I know," I emphasize, fighting back a tremble in my voice. "But he didn't nap when he was supposed to. That's what I just said. Aiden couldn't sleep and he was grouchy. I figured you'd rather him get a nap in and be in a better mood, even if it meant a little less time with him."

"You don't need to ‘figure' anything when it comes to me," he snaps. "That's why I have a fucking cell phone, Mira. So you can call me and ask me about my son."

This is the first time we've talked in days. I thought this is what I wanted, but it's making me miss when he sulked silently through the house and pretended I didn't exist.

"Oh, do you want to hear from me now? Last I checked, all communication goes through your assistant."

He frowns. "Hanna handles my admin shit. That includes you."

If there was even the slightest chance I could've forgotten that this relationship between Zane and me isn't real, that would have been the ice cold bucket of water over the head I needed.

"She gives you a schedule every day. When you deviate from that schedule or do something that affects me, I should know about it," he growls. "You should have called me."

"To tell you I put him down for a nap?" I snort. "Why did you hire me if you think I'm so incompetent?"

"I don't think?—"

"Then you must not trust me with Aiden," I cut in before he can get going. "Either you think I'm incompetent or you don't trust me. Those are the only theories I can come up with for why you've been micromanaging me since the moment I started here."

"You're the one who said you didn't have much experience with kids."

"Then why would you hire me?!" I fling my hands wide. "If you think I need constant supervision, that makes you a shitty dad for hiring me in the first place."

Zane drops his hockey bag on the kitchen floor and takes a step towards me. Trauma kicks in immediately, animating my limbs and thoughts like I'm just a stupid, mindless puppet at the mercy of the demons of my past.

He's going to hit me.

I took it too far and he's going to hit me.

By the time he takes his next step, I've twisted away from him. My right arm is shielding my face. I'm in a braced position, ready for whatever Zane is going to do to me.

It's quiet for one second.

For two.

I peek over my arm and Zane is staring at me, wide-eyed, like I'm the one who slapped him .

He drags a hand down his face. "Did you think…?" His voice trails off and my cheeks flame.

I straighten up and lower my arm.

Of course Zane wouldn't hit me. Actually, he hit someone else for me. That was a new one. But one hero moment isn't enough to fix the fucked up wiring in my brain.

If I'm going to stay here, I can't live on edge like this. I can't balance on this knife's edge, trying to do everything perfectly. I won't tiptoe around the condo waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"You can't talk to me like that," I croak.

His eyes flare wide. They're almost sapphire. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

Instead, he just stares at me. I wish I could hold his gaze and maintain the silence until he breaks first, but a metric fuckton of adrenaline was just dumped in my veins and I can't hide the shaking for much longer.

"You can't—" I swallow, blowing out a nervous breath. "You have to treat me with respect. We're in a weird situation, but my self-respect isn't for sale. If you're going to treat me like shit, I'm going to leave."

His mouth snaps shut. A muscle in his jaw jumps. Seconds pass and I'm about to storm down the hallway—either to pack my bags or collapse on my bed in tears, I haven't decided yet—when he finally speaks.

"I think you and I should?—"

Take it to the mat?

Fuck out this tension?

Sit down and have a mature conversation like adults?

A million possibilities flicker through my brain before Zane finally finishes his sentence.

"—only communicate over text," he concludes. "Unless absolutely necessary."

It isn't disappointment that twists around my heart. No, it's the inevitability of it all.

People hurt me or they leave. Those are the only options. Forget friendship or mutual respect or, God forbid, a meaningful relationship. I'm not worth the trouble. I've never been worth the trouble.

And pretty boy Zane Whitaker, of all fucking people, just confirmed it.

My hands fist at my sides, but it doesn't matter. Zane isn't looking at me.

"Fine with me," I spit out.

I storm back to my bedroom. After leaning back against the door for a few seconds, collapsing on my bed in tears wins out.