DEVON
The restraining order finally fucking arrives on a sunny Tuesday morning.
I stare at the document in my hands, reading the same lines over and over. Mila Harris is ordered to maintain a distance of no less than 100 feet from the petitioner and their spouse. She cannot contact us by phone, email, text, social media, or a third party. She cannot approach our home, our workplaces, or any location where she knows we'll be.
It's official—legal and binding.
But I don't believe for a second that it will stop her.
Jade is at Katrina's for the afternoon—a much-needed break from the pressure cooker our house has become. I encouraged her to go and told her I'd handle things here. What I didn't tell her is that I've arranged to meet Mila one final time.
I know it's a risk. I know Officer Gray would tell me I'm an idiot. But I also know Mila won't stop until she gets whatever she thinks she needs—and I'd rather have that conversation on my terms, in a public place, with witnesses.
The coffee shop on Fifth is busy enough that no one will noticeus, but quiet enough that I'll hear everything she says. I arrive fifteen minutes early and choose a table near the window, visible from the street. My phone is already recording in my pocket.
Documentation. Evidence. Protection.
The words have become a mantra.
Mila arrives at exactly two o'clock. She's dressed in yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back, her face bare of makeup.
She slides into the seat across from me, her green eyes searching my face.
"This is the last time we speak, Mila. Ever. I'm here to make that clear."
Her expression flickers—hurt, then anger. "You don't mean that."
"I do." I keep my voice level. "The restraining order was filed this morning. If you contact me or Jade after today, you'll be arrested."
Mila laughs and even rolls her eyes. "A piece of paper won't change what happened between us."
Who rolls their eyes about a fucking restraining order? This crazy chick, that’s who.
"Nothing happened between us. A kiss. One kiss that I regret more than anything I've ever done." I lean forward, holding her gaze. "I never slept with you, Mila. I know it. You know it. And whatever story you've been telling yourself—it's not real."
"How can you say that?" Her voice rises, and a few heads turn in our direction. "I was there. I remember everything. You wanted me, Devon. You followed me upstairs, you?—"
"I walked you to your room because you couldn't stand. I kissed you—once—and then I stopped. I told you it was wrong. And then I passed out in that chair." I watch her face as I speak, searching for the cracks. "The next morning, you told me yourself. 'It was just a drunken kiss. That's all.' Those were your exact words."
Mila's eyes narrow. "I didn't want you to feel guilty?—"
"Stop." The word comes out harder than I intend. "Stop lying. To me, to Jade, to yourself. Whatever fantasy you've built around that night—it's over. It was over the second I woke up and realized what I'd done."
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I watch something change behind her eyes—desperation bleeding into rage.
"I'm pregnant, Devon."
"So you keep saying." I don't flinch. "Get a paternity test. Prove it's mine."
"It is yours. I know it is."
"Then prove it."
She's silent. Her hands tremble on the table.
"You can't," I continue. "Because you know it's not true. Because nothing happened between us that would make it possible."
"You don't remember?—"
