I sent a few updates. Ultrasound pictures. Notes that I was fine and didn’t need anything, but in case he hadn’t seen my last messages, I wanted him to know I was pregnant, and he was the only possible father.
My last message was almost two years ago.
The day Bash was born in mid-October.
I emailed him a birth announcement.
And I got crickets in return.
“Youleft.” My voice cracks and my eyes get hot. “You made me think you cared. You made me think I mattered. You made me think we werefriends. Then you slept with me andyou left. And I sent you at least a half dozen messages in the only way I could find to contact you. And then I started thinking that I’d been the biggest fool in the history of the world, and that someone wholookedlike you and knew all the right things to convince me that you were you had fooled me. All because Ididn’t want to believe that you would’ve fucked me and ghosted me. So please excuse me if I don’t want you to seemyson. He has excellent,reliablefather figures in his life, and that’s what he deserves. Once again,you can go.”
“Emma—”
I march back toward the house. Bash is ready to get up, and I’m ready to get away from Jonas Rutherford. “And if you won’t go on your own, I’m calling the sheriff.AfterI call my brother. I’m sure he’d like to finish what he tried to start yesterday.”
Do I mean it?
Completely.
Absolutely.
Unequivocally.
There is no room fornicewhen my son’s safety, comfort, privacy, and possibly even his future are on the line.
12
Jonas
That went well.
Ifwellis synonymous withhorribly.
But she didn’t have her brother waiting inside to come beat me to a bloody pulp. She didn’t call the sheriff before she came outside.
She didn’t wake me up with that hose she offered me.
Probably could’ve been more horrible.
The worst part, though?
I’m glad to see her.
Glad that she’s strong. Thriving. Happy with her friends and family.
I saw the way she was smiling at her—ourlittle boy at the wedding yesterday.
The sight of her robbed me of my ability to breathe. My heart quit beating. My entire life stilled to one singular thought.
My friend is even more beautiful than I remembered.
And she hates me.
As she should.
I sink onto the porch swing and drop my head in my hands, belatedly remembering that I have deer shit on my face.
“Maybe you should’ve called first,” a surprisingly familiar voice says from the side of the house.
