“Well,” Shelly said after a moment. “That was Paris.”
“She thinks… God, Shelly, she thinks I need to find someone to replace Marco.”
“She’s five. She’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.” Shelly resumed working on my makeup. “And she’s not entirely wrong that the boys need a male influence. Michael’s doing his best, but he’s not their dad.”
“Patrick’s not their dad either.”
“No. But maybe he’s someone who understands what the boys are going through in a way that we can’t.” She finished the mascara and stepped back to assess her work. “There. You look beautiful. Like yourself again.”
I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. She looked alive. Present. Like someone who might have something to look forward to instead of just something to survive.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
“I know.” Shelly squeezed my shoulder. “But you’re also brave. You’ve been brave every day. This is just another kind of brave.”
I came downstairs in the green dress and Shelly’s earrings, my wedding ring still firmly on my finger. The living room was indeed a fort—cushions and blankets stretched across furniture in elaborate architecture that looked one wrong move away from collapse.
Rome and Fury were inside it, their voices muffled. Paris sat outside, directing operations. Austin had his nose in his book, but I saw him glance up when I entered.
“You look nice, Mom,” he said.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Michael appeared from the kitchen, taking in my appearance with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You clean up well.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“He’s going to be here soon.” Michael’s voice dropped. “Are you ready for this?”
Was I? Ready for Patrick to walk into my home, to meet my brother, to see the life I’d built with Marco? Ready for whatever came next?
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
The doorbell rang.
I froze halfway to the door. This was it. The moment where this thing between Patrick and me became real, visible, witnessed by my family.
Michael moved past me. “I’ve got it.”
“Michael—”
“I’m just answering the door, Tess. That’s all.”
He pulled open the door, and there was Patrick.
He wore dark slacks and a blue button-down that made his eyes even more striking. His ginger curls were slightly damp, andhe held a small bag in one hand. When he saw Michael, his expression shifted to something between polite and cautious.
“Patrick McCrae,” he said, extending his free hand. “You must be Michael.”
“I am.” Michael shook his hand, his grip probably tighter than strictly necessary. “Theresa’s brother.”
“Aye, I gathered.” Patrick’s Scottish accent got stronger when he was trying to be formal or maybe feeling unsure. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Mom!” Rome’s voice came from inside the fort. “Someone’s here!”
Within seconds, all the kids had emerged—Rome and Fury tumbling out of the cushion fort, Paris appearing from wherever she’d been lurking, Austin marking his place in his book and standing. Even Aspen wandered in from the kitchen, her hands covered in what looked like paint.
Patrick took it all in with the expression of someone who knew exactly what he was looking at. His eyes swept across my children, and his face softened.
