Cal stared at me, unrecognizable in his grief, then grabbed his keys and stormed out.
The next hours blurred...unanswered texts:
Please come home.
Cal, talk to me.
Nothing.
Zariah sat with me on the couch, Eli hovering awkwardly. "He'll cool down," she said softly.
"I broke him," I whispered, gutted.
"No. You both did." She held me as I cried.
Eli sat close. "He's still trying," he said bluntly. "Like me with new foods. I hate them, but I keep trying because you say it matters."
I hugged him, sobbing into his shoulder while he patted my back stiffly but earnestly.
Cal returned after dark, reeking of alcohol. He stood in the bedroom doorway, eyes bloodshot, shoulders slumped like defeat incarnate.
"I was trying," he slurred, raw emotion cracking his voice.
"I know..." Tears came again.
"No," he cut in. "You don't. Therapy. Cut Syd off. Planned a family. Learned to feel what I numbed for years."
"Cal..."
"Then I see my best friend kissing my wife." He choked. "My worst fear. Never enough. People leave when I care."
"I didn't betray you," I pleaded.
"You let him close enough to try," he said brokenly. "Knew it scared me."
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He stared, tears falling. "I wanted this. You. Baby. Family. But opening up proves why I shouldn't."
My heart shattered.
He turned.
"Cal, don't leave," I begged.
He paused, but didn't look back. "Need air before I say worse," he said hoarsely.
Then he was gone.
That night, I cried to sleep with Zariah beside me, Eli curled at the bed's foot. The baby kicked steadily, a lifeline in the wreckage.
I wasn't alone. But I'd never felt more destroyed.
Chapter 32
Cal
I woke up on a couch that wasn’t mine, mouth tasting like ash and regret, head pounding so hard it felt like someone was hammering nails into my skull from the inside. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun, and it smelled like stale whiskey, weed, and the faint chemical tang of whatever pills I’d chased last night. Not the mansion. Not home. Some sterile Airbnb in the hills I’d booked on autopilot after storming out, the kind of place that looked expensive but felt empty the second you closed the door.
