Page 5 of Lovetown, USA

Trey

The smell of sugar and chocolate fills my kitchen on this lovely Tuesday evening. I hit the button to turn the oven light on, checking my masterpieces.

I stare at them for a moment as they bake on their tray. Only my buzzing phone pulls my attention away.

Fuck.

It’s Desiree.

I stare at my screen for a moment, debating my next move like I always do when my ex-wife decides to interrupt my day.

I could let it ring.

I should let it ring.

But I don’t.

“Yeah,” I say, already bracing myself.

“Wow, so you’re not at work?” she snaps, no hello, no preamble.

My face balls up. “Was I supposed to be?”

“So you’re at home,” she goes on, “doing whatever it is you do over there, and you still ain’t called your son?”

I scrub a hand down my face and lean against the kitchen counter.

Here we go with this shit.

“I texted him two days ago,” I say, slow and measured. “He never responded.”

“Texted?” she repeats, confused like I just told her I sent the boy a carrier pigeon. “You texted your son.”

I can practically feel my blood pressure spike. “He never answers when I call. You know that.”

“That’s because you’re not really trying, Trey. You call him when he’s in class so you don’t have to talk to him.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What is your bottom line?”

The marriage counselor we wasted thousands of dollars on suggested I ask this question whenever Desiree was on her bullshit. He said it would help us pinpoint the real issue. But what he didn’t understand was that Desiree makes everything an issue. She has some nerve with that shit, I swear.

But I’d do anything to end this phone call, so I’m keeping my cool.

“The bottom line is that your little boy is in Tallahassee struggling while you’re in that weird ass town living your best life.”

“Struggling? First of all, the boy is nineteen years old. And second, he’s fine.”

“How would you know that?!?!”

She’s yelling now, sharp and furious and on my last fucking nerve. I know the tone. I’ve heard it in courtrooms, on long ass car rides, in my old house at 2 a.m. when the baby was crying and we were both two tired to be reasonable.

Through clenched jaws, I ask, “What’s going on with him?”

She sighs. “His midterm grades weren’t where he wanted them to be. And he’s having trouble sleeping. And eating.”

A pinch of concern forms between my eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m making it all up for fun,” she spits. “Of course I’m sure. And I know because I actually talk to him.”

“Desiree—“

“I don’t wanna hear it. You’re absent, Trey. You are. And you’re pissing me off.”

“You’re being dramatic. As usual. I—“

“Call your son!"

She hangs up before I can respond.

It’s for the best. All the techniques I learned were about to go right out the window in favor of a few choice words that would only make shit worse.

I lower the phone slowly, exhaling through my nose, shaking my head in disgust.

Same script, different day.

Desiree was so different before we had Cameron.

She’s always been gorgeous and magnetic.

All eyes went to her as soon as she walked in a room.

Even church. She was impossible to ignore.

And she had a glow about her, a happiness that makes a man feel like it’s his God-given duty to keep a smile on her face.

But time marches on, and so did the slow erosion of our relationship. We got married anyway, though, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you get a girl pregnant. You do the right thing. My father said so. Her father said so.

And so it was.

We were too damn young, and everybody knew it. But we went down that aisle, and shit went downhill.

The smell hits me just then. Kind of poetic, I suppose.

Browned butter smoke and burnt sugar.

“Fuck,” I mutter, slamming the oven door open. A wave of hot air blasts my face as I take in the sight of my chocolate chip cookies. They’ve passed golden, gooey perfection. Now, they’re charred and tough.

Left them in the oven too long. Just like I stayed in my marriage too long. Now we’re all cooked.

I pull the tray out and drop it on the stovetop with a clang, irritated with myself. Baking is supposed to be my outlet. I do it when I’m stressed. Or bored. Or trying to distract myself from things.

I pull out my phone again and call Cameron. It rings four times, then the robotic voice of the generic voicemail person sounds in my ear.

“Hey, man. It’s me. Just checking in with you. Call me when you can, alright? Love you.”

I hang up and stare at the screen for a beat, thumb hovering.

Then I walk back into my home office, leaving those burnt cookies behind.

My house is small and cozy. And quiet, just the way I like it. It’s clean, but not sterile. Hardwood floors, warm walls, built-in shelves fill of novels, medical journals, and random cookbooks I tell myself I’ll use more often.

I sit at my desk and wake my laptop.

The tab’s still open.

Lane Washington.

I know her as my patient who I watched lose her shoe on the dance floor. My Cinderella. But I see here she’s also a journalist. A pretty damn good one, too.

I found her staff profile at Verve . She hasn’t published anything since she showed up here in Lovetown, but her archives are full of heat.

Her most viral piece was titled, “The Ten Types of Men You Should Ghost Without Regret.”

I clicked it because clickbait is irresistible, but what I read was witty, insightful, and funny as hell.

I lean back in my chair and read a second article, then a third. That one was about Valentine’s Day.

She’s cynical, for sure, but there’s an undercurrent of something else in all of her pieces. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. But now I’m intrigued, especially after she gave me the green light the other day.

No gag reflex.

I smile at the memory, and my blood pressure spikes again, but this time, not out of anger. Mentally, I’m back in exam room 6 with a sexy woman who pulls my attention toward her like a magnet.

She doesn’t seem like the marrying kind, nevermind the fact that she’s only here for an assignment. But she looks fun.

And after everything I’ve been through, I deserve to have a little fun.