Page 10 of Desired By Diesel
"Are you?" He takes a step closer, and I have to fight the urge to step back. "Because you don't look happy. You look stressed. Overwhelmed." His voice drops, just for me. "You look like you're barely holding it together."
"I'm fine."
"I'm just worried about you, Gracie. That's all." He glances at Amelia, who's distracted by something on her phone. "Worried about what all this... instability is doing to our daughter."
"Don't do that," I say quietly. "Don't pretend this is about her."
His smile doesn't waver. "Everything I do is about her."
Like he ever gave a shit about her when we were married. Like he ever changed a diaper or sat up with her when she was sick or did anything that wasn't performative.
"She's fine," I say, keeping my voice steady. "She's happy. She's adjusting."
"Is she?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, scrolling through something. "Because her teacher mentioned she's been having trouble making friends. Seems withdrawn. Not like herself."
My blood runs cold. "How do you know what her teacher said?"
"I called the school. I'm her father, Gracie. I have a right to know how she's doing."
He's watching me. Waiting for me to react, to lose my temper, to give him something he can use. I've seen this play before. I know exactly what he's doing.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
"Amelia," I say, turning to her. "Come give me a hug before you go."
She bounces over and throws her arms around me. I hold her tight, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, trying to memorize the feel of her in my arms.
"I love you, baby. Be good for your dad, okay?"
"I will. Love you, Mom!"
And then she's climbing into Ryan's car, and he's giving me that smile again — the one that says I've already won — and I'm walking back to my car on legs that feel like they might give out.
I make it inside before the shaking starts.
The drive home is a blur.
I keep replaying the conversation, picking apart every word, every implication.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I'm exhausted. The kind of tired that goes bone-deep, the kind that sleep doesn't fix. I sit in the car for a long minute, staring at nothing.
Diesel's motorcycle is in his driveway. I can see him through the gap in his garage door, doing something with tools. The sight of him steadies me, somehow. Solid. Real. A reminder that not everything in my life is falling apart.
I go inside and try to keep busy. Clean the kitchen. Start laundry. Make a cup of tea I don't drink. Call my mom, who doesn't answer.
The hours crawl by.
By ten o'clock, I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling, knowing I'm not going to sleep.
The house feels too quiet without Amelia. Too empty. I keep checking my phone, waiting for Ryan to text something, some new dig, some fresh way to make me feel small.
Nothing comes. Somehow that's worse.
At eleven, I give up.
I pull on a hoodie over my sleep shorts and pad to the kitchen to make tea. I find myself drifting toward the window without thinking.
He's outside. Sitting on his porch steps, beer in hand, looking up at the sky. The streetlight catches the edge of his profile — strong jaw, broad shoulders, that stillness that always seems to surround him.
