Except she’s not the only one who lost everything that day. I lost her, lost the life we’d planned, lost any chance of proposing to her that Christmas morning. All because she was too proud or too hurt or too goddamn stubborn to let me speak.
My phone lights up with notifications. Three missed calls from my assistant and a string of urgent emails asking when I’m returning to LA.
I silence the phone and set it aside. Whatever crisis is brewing will have to wait until I can think clearly.
From across the room, comes the soft sound of Axel shifting in his sleep, and my body tightens with a wave of sickening guilt and resentment that I hate myself for feeling.
It’s not the kid’s fault. I know that. Logically, rationally, I understand that Axel is as much a victim in this as I am. But every time I look at him, I see what was supposed to be mine and Cassidy’s.
What kind of man does that make me? What kind of person resents a seven-year-old for existing?
I stand up and pace to the window, looking out at the wall of snow that’s imprisoned us here together. After eight years of silence, we’re finally in the same place with nowhere to run.
Maybe it’s time to tell Cassidy what really happened. Maybe it’s time she learned she’s not the only one whose heart was broken.
With a sigh, I grab a couple of logs from the stack by the fireplace and carefully arrange them in the fireplace. The wood catches and flames lick up the sides of the bark.
I settle back onto the lumpy couch, pulling the thin blanket over me. Despite my racing thoughts, exhaustion eventually wins out, and I drift into an uneasy sleep.
I wake to the sound of muffled crying.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. Then I remember where I am, and why, and the crying registers as coming from across the room.
Axel.
I lie still for a moment, hoping it would stop, but the crying continues. I sit up, running my hands through my hair.
The house is freezing. The fire has died down to almost nothing, and I can see my breath in the dim light. Outside, the wind is still howling, making the old house creak and groan.
I stand, and my joints protest, but I pad over to where Axel’s mattress is. The floorboards are ice cold and creak under my weight.
Axel is curled up in a ball under the covers, his small shoulders shaking. I hesitate.
This isn’t my job. This isn’t my kid. This isn’t my responsibility.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You okay?”
He goes completely still and slowly turns toward me. His face is tear-streaked and blotchy.
“Sorry,” he whispers immediately, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to be loud.”
“You didn’t wake me,” I lie, squatting. “I was already up. Couldn’t sleep.”
He watches me carefully as I squat beside his mattress. “Bad dream?”
He nods, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to leave. Or yell. Or both.
“Want to talk about it?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then, in a small voice says, “I dreamed about Mama. She was really mad, and she slapped me. She hit me again and again when I cried. Like before.”
The rage flooding through me takes my breath away. Not at him, but at her. At Britney, who’s dead and beyond my reach but who left this little boy behind.
“When I go to my new family,” Axel continues, his voice trembling, “will they hit me when I cry too?”
And just like that, the last wall around my heart crumbles.
“No.” The word snaps out, and I clear my throat. “No, buddy. Good families don’t hit kids. Ever.”
