"I am thinking about those things." My voice cracks slightly. "I just—he's a little boy, El. He didn't ask for any of this."
Elena wraps one arm around my shoulders, pulls me against her side. "This is why you're good at what you do."
We sit in silence. On TV, they've moved to game footage—Logan on the ice, checking an opponent into the boards. The commentator's voice drones about his stats, his leadership, searching for clues to his character in the way he plays.
My phone vibrates against the coffee table.
Logan:Please call me when you can. I understand if you need space. But I need you to know I NEVER knew about Tyler. Ever. I would never have kept something like that from you.
I read it twice. "He keeps saying he didn't know."
"Then maybe he didn't." Elena squeezes my shoulder. "Maybe you need to hear the whole story before you decide he's guilty."
"And if there's no good explanation?"
"Then you walk away." She says it simply, like it's that easy. "But Reese? You're allowed to be upset and confused without having all the answers. You don't have to decide anything tonight."
I nod, even though every instinct screams for resolution, for clarity, for knowing whether to fight or flee.
"I really liked him." The admission hurts. "We were just figuring things out."
"I know."
"And now there's a child. Another woman who'll always be in his life. In my life, if I—" I stop. "God, we've only been dating a couple of weeks. This is insane."
"When did relationships ever follow a timeline?" Elena releases me, reaches for the remote. "You want me to turn this off?"
"Yeah."
The screen goes dark. Elena's apartment settles into quiet—just the hum of traffic far below, the radiator ticking as it cools. It smells like her vanilla candle and Lake Michigan through the cracked window.
My phone vibrates again. I let it.
"What if I can't do this?" I whisper. "What if it's too complicated?"
"Then you'll know. But you can't know without giving him a chance to explain." Elena stands, heads to her room. "I'm getting you something to sleep in. You're not going home tonight."
I don't argue. Don't have the energy.
She returns with sweatpants and a t-shirt, tosses them to me. "Change. I'll make tea."
I peel off the gown in her bathroom, scrub the makeup from my face. The woman in the mirror looks wrecked—smudged mascara, red-rimmed eyes, hair falling from its careful styling. I barely recognize her.
When I return to the living room, Elena's waiting with two mugs of chamomile, honey steam rising. Her crisis drink. I curl into the corner of her couch and wrap both hands around the mug.
"At the farmers market," I say after a long silence, "Logan told me he was scared because what was happening between us mattered. It wasn't casual."
"And?"
"I felt the same way." I take a shaky sip. "Like we'd found something real."
"Maybe you did. Maybe that hasn't changed."
"Everything's changed."
"Has it?" Elena tilts her head. "Or has the situation changed but not what's between you?"
I don't answer. I can't.
