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This man who will pull Max aside and tell lies about me so he has a precious legacy to a practice he spent decades building and the investment he put into his son, just for him to throw it away on some small town nobody who tried to trap him in a pregnancy.
“I have value. I take up space because it is my birthright,” I say into the mirror as I pull my wild hair from my face and slick on mascara, getting more on my eyelid than my eyelashes. More mantras spill out, phrases I haven’t uttered in years. “I am worthy of love. I am a good person. I bring value and creativity to the world around me.”
The words do nothing because I sit on my bed and my eyes scrunch together, bringing tears. What if I lose him? What if I introduced Olive to her father just for him to leave and never come back once he knows the truth? I took money from his father. I made a deal with him. I was nineteen and stupid and didn’t question it hard enough.
The reason we were apart so long is my fault.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
Max leans against the doorframe, looking so handsome. “It’ll be okay, Em. I promise.”
“I hope so,” I say, standing up. He offers his hand, and I tuck mine into his, his fingers interlacing with mine. He kisses my hair as we walk out of my house, into my car, to face…everything.
* * *
Time has not been kind to Fred Sawyer.
When we reach the front door for Gold Roast, I see Fred looking down at his hands, the top of his head shiny and bald. It was thinning when I saw him last. Spots pepper his skin, and his clothes hang off of him. A woman sits to his right, and I would know her anywhere. Her hair is dyed blond and sits above her shoulders, but her cheeks, her nose—they’re the ones I kiss on my daughter. My heart swells because Max’s mom is the last bit of my daughter I’m not familiar with.
We open the door with a clang, and Tara appears from the back, her eyes large.
Are you okay? Tara mouths to me.
I give a thumbs-up, although my stomach twists and folds into itself.
Max grips my hand tightly as we walk in, like a united front.
“You must be Emily,” Fred says, outstretching his hand. He pretends like he didn’t intimidate me ten years ago.
I take it, gripping it with all my strength. “Fred.”
He flinches at that, and I try not to smile. I bet he corrects people with “doctor” when they call him Mr. Sawyer. It must grind his gears that some small-town hussy called him by his first name.
“Son,” Fred says, taking Max in a half hug, but Max still holds my hand.
“Max,” his mom says, hugging him as well. She looks at me, really looks at me. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
I let Max’s hand go. Her perfume reminds me of a rose garden, and she hugs me like she already cares about me. “I’m Molly Sawyer.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say and mean it.
Fred motions for us to sit, and Tara lurks behind the pastry case, watching us. I shoo her away without trying to get caught, I hold my thumb and pinkie to the side of my face, pantomiming I’ll call her. She nods once and turns to her coffee machine, pretending to clean it.
“So, you reconnected,” Fred says, staring at me with each word.
Max turns to me, like he’s asking for permission. “Yes, I actually walked in on her birthday party.” He laughs nervously, resting his arm along the back of my chair. I lean into him, needing to gather all the warmth I can before it all comes crashing down.
“And there’s a child?”
“Yes.” Max’s thumb brushes against my skin. Everything will be fine, it says.
“She’s nine years old. Her name is Olive Jean. Jean is my middle name, and it was my late grandmother’s name,” I say, my voice cracking.
No matter how nervous I am, I smile because my daughter makes me happy. Everything about her makes me proud.
“Olive,” Molly says, practically melting into her chair. “Where is she now?”
“With her grandmother.” Molly flinches, and I clarify, “My mother.”
