Something tightens in my chest that has nothing to do with the run.
I jog over and knock on the window, sharp but not aggressive. After a second, the glass slides down, and Amber blinks up at me, eyes swollen, face blotchy, hair tangled like she has been running her hands through it for hours.
“What the hell are you doing sleeping out here?” I ask, confusion and concern colliding. “Why didn’t you knock on Jude’s door?”
Her mouth trembles. She looks away.
Then I really see her.
The red rims around her eyes. The way her shoulders curl inward. The smell of grief and panic clinging to her like a second skin.
“I can’t go in,” she says hoarsely. “Maisie can’t see me like this.”
That stops me cold.
“I’ll get Jude,” I say immediately.
She shakes her head hard. “No. Please. Not yet.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Come with me.”
I hand her the cocoa. She takes it with both hands like it might shatter. When she steps out of the car to lock it, I notice the back seat.
Boxes. Suitcases. A life crammed into cardboard and plastic bins.
Something is very wrong.
I walk her to my house, unlock the door, and usher her inside. The heat hits us immediately. I turn it up anyway and grab a blanket from the chair, guiding her to the sofa near the fireplace.
She curls into herself, blanket pulled tight, cocoa untouched in her lap.
“What’s going on?” I ask gently. “Jude is going to be confused if he sees you like this.”
Her face crumples.
“I lost the baby,” she says.
Fuck. I reach out and touch her shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry, Amber.”
She breaks then, sobs tearing out of her chest in raw, broken sounds that twist my gut. I sit with her, close but not touching, giving her space while staying present.
I grind my teeth, anger flashing hot and fast. “I’m sorry.”
“What made you come here like this?” I ask.
She looks up at me, eyes glassy and desperate, like she has been crying so hard she forgot how to stop. “Maisie. I think she should be with me. I think I should take her. We can start a life together just the two of us. I’ll do things right this time around.”
The words hit wrong. Not because she is wrong to hurt, but because of the way she says it. Like a decision already made in the middle of a storm.
Alarm bells go off in my head, loud and relentless. She’s unraveling right in front of me. The thought of her driving off with a little girl when she can’t even hold a cup without shaking makes my chest tighten.
Why does she want to take her child right now? How does she think she can care for her when she can barely breathe?
I’ve seen this before.
I grew up in a house where decisions were made at full volume and paid for in silence later. My father drank until his temper bled into everything.
He fought, broke furniture, punched walls. My mother learned how to disappear in plain sight. She survived by shrinking.
