Panic claws up my throat as I glance back toward the counter where Eli’s still sprawled on his stomach with his tiny cars now lining up in neat little rows.
The sight of him so peaceful, so unaware, only twists the knife deeper.
He’smine.
My one good thing that came out of my colossal mistake of a weekend fling and the idea of losing this safe little life we’ve built makes my stomach turn.
Desperation propels me back toward the counter.
My phone sits where I left it beside the register.
I snatch it up, hands trembling, and scroll through my contacts until I land on the one name that feels like a lifeline.
Lila.
My thumb shakes as I tap the screen.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each tone stretches longer than the last until finally she answers.
“Hey, girly-pop.” Her voice bursts through, bright and chaotic as ever. “What’s up?”
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose, trying to pull myself together before words fail me. “Hey.”
Eli’s still humming quietly to himself, making engine noises as he ploughs a car through a fistful of fake snow I used for the window display that I have no earthly idea when he managed to grab.
He’s blissfully oblivious to my minor panic attack and I make sure of that before I move, sneaking around the counter toward the back aisle.
From here, I can keep one eye on him and the door, just in case anyone else decides to walk in.
“We have a giant problem,” I finally manage to say.
There’s a shuffle on the other end of the line—Lila’s signature chaos, no doubt juggling her phone with one hand and a toddler with the other. “Oh? Like what? Did your shipment of new ornaments arrive shattered again. Or, oh my god, don’t tell me…did Mrs. Harper tell you your Santa display looks ‘too secular’ again?”
Despite the pounding in my chest, a strangled laugh escapes me. “Worse.”
That gets her attention.
“Worse?” she repeats, suspicious now.
My throat goes dry. I glance at Eli again before lowering my voice to a whisper. “You know how I told you that I wasn’t really sure who Eli’s dad was?”
“Girl,” she says immediately, her tone both sympathetic and exasperated. “Join the damn club. IfIknew my baby daddy’s name, I’d already have that motherfucker on child support helping me pay for these daycare extortionists.”
A small, involuntary smile tugs at my lips.
We’d met years ago, back when Eli was barely one, at a Mommy & Me class.
It was me, her, and a sea of pastel sweaters and diamond wedding bands.
We’d been the only single moms there, the ones who got polite smiles and lingering looks like our missing husbands were a contagious tragedy everyone else was terrified to catch.
Lila had cracked a joke under her breath about “needing a stiff drink after this baby yoga class” and the rest was history.
