By the time the three of us settle in Oliver’s Porsche, my chest feels full. Gratitude tangles with fear and an emotion that feels suspiciously like hope.
Later that night, after showering and sliding between the sheets, I can’t help but notice that the room seems quiet in contrast to the holiday party. I scroll through the girls’ group chat, smiling at jokes about pumpkin pie, fights over turkey legs, and hockey player appetites.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel the urge to disappear under the covers.
Tonight felt okay.
Maybe even better than that, if I’m being honest.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number:
We both know you haven’t thought this through. Why are you making this harder than it has to be?
I squeeze my eyes tightly closed, wishing it were just as easy to blot him out of my life. Collin isn’t the kind of guy to yell or threaten. He just steadily wears you down until you start questioning yourself. I can hear his calm voice now, explaining why an abortion would be the best option.
For both of us.
The worst part isn’t the message itself. It’s knowing he won’t stop trying to convince me he’s right. That sooner or later he’ll find another way to reach me, another angle, another argument about why this would be easier if I just listened to him.
Normally, that would be enough to send me spiraling as I lie awake, replaying every word, second-guessing every decision until the fear feels bigger than anything else in my life.
But tonight, my mind drifts somewhere else entirely. To Elody’s easy laughter as it echoed through Hugh’s penthouse. To the way Laiken’s presence felt solid and steady, like nothing could rattle him when it comes to his daughter. To what Evelyn let slip about his marriage and how things fell apart, and yet somehow, he and his daughter are still standing.
For the first time in months, I don’t feel quite so alone. And I catch myself wondering what it would be like if things actually worked out.
6
Laiken
The morning starts out the way it always does.
And that’s with a shit ton of commotion.
Not the catastrophic kind, thank God. Just the kind that comes with an overactive four-year-old who’s been vibrating with excitement since her eyes popped open around dawn.
I’m rinsing out Elody’s cereal bowl when she bounces into the kitchen, hair flying everywhere.
“Daddy, guess what?” she says, grinning so hard it looks painful.
I pretend to think. “Hmm… you want a second bowl of cereal?”
“Nooo.” She giggles. “Kia’s coming today!”
I exhale through my nose, only wanting to temper her expectations. “Bug, I told you, it’s not a done deal. Something could still come up.”
She crosses her arms in front of her as her brows slide together. “Kia said she would. She promised.”
“I know,” I say, crouching in front of her. “But sometimes grown-ups get busy or their plans change. I don’t want you to be disappointed if she isn’t able to make it.”
“She will, Daddy,” Elody says, absolute certainty filling her voice.
I wish I had even half that kind of faith. The truth is, I don’t expect Kia to follow through. Most people make promises to kids they never intend to keep. They try to soften the disappointment by delaying it.
People did it after Sarah took off.
I’ll visit next weekend.
