Page 147 of Every Silent Lie

I nod and motion down my front. “I would have made myself presentable had I known I’d be debuting at his school.”

“Could be worse,” he says, taking my hand. “Albi’s a prawn.”

I chuckle and smack his bicep, and quickly remove my hand from his, looking back at Albi trailing behind us, his lunchbox knocking his lower leg as he walks.

“You’ve told him you love me, Camryn,” Dec says quietly. “I think it’s safe to let me hold your hand.”

“I heard nothing about hand-holding in the endless acts of services Albi reeled off,” I quip, nudging his shoulder and showing him the squashed cakes. “I don’t think even Herbert Smith will want them now.”

Albi appears between us, and we both watch as he lowers his lunchbox to the ground. Then he takes one of my hands and one of Dec’s, joining them between us, before he collects up his lunchbox and ambles on his way, picking his tail up too. “The prawn has spoken,” Dec says, smug, as we follow him. I roll my eyes, acutely aware of my chest pulsing. “Camryn?”

“Yes?”

“Breathe,” he whispers. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I really do,” I say, continuing to walk toward my worst nightmare. And not just for Albi. I need to do this for me too. And for Dec. “I can’t start my relationship off with your son on a false promise.”

“Camryn, you told him prawn shit is brains.”

I wince. “Sorry.”

“Shut up.” He stops us, checking Albi’s not too far ahead. “I don’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable doing.”

“I have to keep moving forward,” I tell him. “No matter how hard, no matter how painful. There has to be some peace for me somewhere on this shitty journey, and I’m really hoping it’s standing in front of me.” It’s come with its minor unexpected plot twist, but . . . fuck. My life has been a plot twist.

“It’s standing in front of you,” he replies, sincere. Soft. Wholeheartedly.

“I wouldn’t dream of doing this without you.” I need him to know that. He’s taken the edge off the pain—a soothing salve to my devastated soul—making impossibles possible.

Dec brings my hand to his lips and kisses the tops of my fingers. “You’re not alone anymore, Camryn. I know I come with baggage but?—”

“He’s not baggage, Dec.” I cast my eyes toward Albi. He’s stopped trudging along, is watching us intently. “He’s life.” And, scarily, he could be a part of the reason I heal.

Dec nods, as Albi comes barrelling into us. “Daddy, come on!”

“Coming, fella,” he says, gently tugging on my hand, so that when I follow him, he knows I’m coming willingly.

I can do this.

We make it to reception, and Dec signs Albi in as a middle-aged woman comes flapping around the corner. “Albi Ellis,” she cries. “Where have you been?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Brown,” he says sullenly.

“Never mind, never mind, you’re here now.” She takes his shoulders and starts hurrying him along the corridor. “Take your seats.” I don’t miss the raised brow she points my way.

“This way,” Dec says, dragging me toward a set of double doors. Pushing through, I’m suddenly in a small concert hall with rows and rows of tiny wooden chairs lined up, adults sitting on them. “Here.” He finds us two seats on the end of an aisle one row from the back, and I lower, gazing around the hall. Every wall is covered in art and displays, every available hanging space dangling in tinsel and handmade, painted snowflakes of every shape, colour, and size. I swallow, keeping my head still and directed forward, looking around the hall, only moving my eyes.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“What?” Dec turns a worried look my way. “What is it?”

“You’re the hot single dad.” Mums at every turn are flicking looks this way, all obviously curious. “They’re looking at me.”

“They’re not looking at you,” Dec says tiredly, scoping the place himself . . . seeing everyone looking at me. “Okay, they’re looking at you.”

I can see it now, all of them vying for his attention, the play date offers, invitations for Albi to every party. One woman is particularly interested, even if she tries to hide it. She’s a stunner. And here’s me, literally rolled out of bed. “How many have you dated?” Dated doesn’t mean sex, as I know that’s not been in his life for some years.

He snorts. “None.”