“We can’t all be as lucky as you and find our soul mate in high school.”
Pen tugs at her ears. “Sorry, I must be hearing things. What did you just say?”
Esme throws a cushion at Pen. “You heard me, and you also heard me the million times I apologized for ever doubting you and Eric.” Esme smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “I’m happy to admit I was wrong and you were right. I envy what you have, Pen. Marriage might not be in the cards for me, but I can see how happy you are. You love your husband and your kids, and you have the career too. You make it look easy, and I’m in awe of you.” She turns to me. “And you too, Sierra. You made the right choices for you and your son, and you’re a fucking amazing mother. No matter what happens with Ben, don’t let him take any of that credit, because it’s all on you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Esme,” I reply, fighting a sudden wave of nostalgia. “I know we didn’t talk for a few weeks after I found out I was pregnant, but I always knew your heart was in the right place. You have always had my back, and you came through for me when it counted.”
“And you’re going to be the most successful female lawyer Chicago has ever seen,” Pen loyally adds. “Look at your amazing track record so far. You are the only attorney in your firm who has won every single case. That is freaking incredible, and you deserve it because you work damn hard.”
“To us,” Esme says, raising her glass.
“To us,” we agree, joining in her toast.
* * *
“When will he get here?” Rowan asks the following day for the umpteenth time. I glance at the clock on the wall, fighting the anxiety clawing at my throat.
“Ben should be here any minute now,” I tell him, wiping the kitchen counter down for the tenth time. I barely slept a wink again last night despite the alcohol sloshing through my veins. I’ve been antsy all morning, worried over how this is going to go down.
The bell chimes, and Rowan whoops, racing toward the door. Nausea swims up my throat, and my stomach is twisted into knots as I run after him, grabbing him before he reaches the door. “What did Mommy tell you about opening the door?”
“I am not to open the door on my own, but Mommy, this is different. Ben’s not a stranger. He’s my friend.”
“Firecracker.” I brush strands of his dark hair out of his eyes. “We don’t even know for sure that it’s Ben, which is why you must let Mommy check first.”
He bobs his head, his eyes darting to the door with eagerness.
Butterflies swoop into my chest, and I offer up a silent prayer as I inspect the excited glee on my son’s face. Please God, let this go okay for his sake. While I am still furious at the way Ben has treated me, I am determined to take the moral high ground and act civilized for Rowan’s sake. Clutching my son’s small warm hand, I peer out of my new peephole before opening the door to Ben.
Unlike me, he is the epitome of cool, calm, and collected as he stands on my porch looking hotter than any man has a right to look. He’s ditched the suit for dark jeans, black loafers, and a fitted black shirt that molds to his impressive chest. Like yesterday, he has rolled the shirt sleeves up to his elbows, showcasing his strong tanned arms and a coating of sexy dark hair. A flashy black and silver Patek Philippe watch is strapped to his wrist. When he kneels in front of Rowan, the air swirls around him, blasting his spicy scent in my face. He smells as good as he looks, and I swear my ovaries swoon.
“Hey, Rowan,” Ben says, smiling. “It’s good to see you again.” He lifts his clenched fist, and the second Rowan presses his much smaller knuckle against his father’s, I almost choke on the messy ball of emotion lodged at the back of my throat. Rowan grins, and his blue eyes glow with happiness. Watching them up close like this, the resemblance is so uncanny it blows my mind. They are like carbon copies of one another, and cracks fissure the temporary walls I erected around my heart.
“You wanna see my art studio or see my bugs first?” Rowan asks, grabbing Ben’s hand without hesitation.
Ben straightens up, keeping a firm hold of Rowan’s hand as his glassy eyes meet mine. He looks how I feel, and I’m glad to see it. I’m glad to know that cold veneer he hides behind shields genuine emotion. Right now, he’s feeling the magnitude of this moment as much as I am.
My heart is mincemeat behind my rib cage. A shredded mess barely sustaining my life force. My knees buckle, and I’m seconds away from losing all control.
“Why don’t we start with the art room,” Ben suggests, smiling down at his son. Rowan needs no further encouragement, dragging him forward. Unspoken words pass between Ben and I as Rowan tugs him into the house, chatting away, oblivious to the almost crippling emotion threatening to bring his parents to their knees.
“You go ahead,” I croak, leaning against the wall in the hall. “I’ll be right there.”
Ben glances at me, opening his mouth like he wants to say something, but I shake my head, smiling as I fight tears, urging him to go with his son. He’s used to containing his emotions, so I know he’ll keep it together in a way I’m incapable of.
“I just need a minute,” I mouth.
Leo exchanges some hushed words with Alesso before slipping quietly into the house. He tips his head in acknowledgment at me as he moves past, following Ben and Rowan. A strangled sob escapes my lips the second they turn the corner out of my sight, and I clamp a hand over my aching chest.
“Is everything okay?” Alesso asks, stepping into the hallway.
Tears stream down my face as I offer him a watery smile. I can barely speak over the lump in my throat. “I imagined this sometimes,” I rasp in between choking sobs. “On rare occasions when I indulged stupid fantasies.” I stare at him through blurry eyes, my chest heaving with raw emotion. “But nothing could’ve prepared me for seeing them together.” My heart aches with a mixture of happiness and pain.
Watching Rowan with his father is indescribable. All thoughts of the kind of man Ben is fade from my mind. In this moment, he is just a father meeting his son for the first time, and I’m drowning in wave after wave of self-loathing. “How could I deprive my son of his father? How could I deny Ben all the precious moments he has missed?” I voice the questions out loud even though I’m talking to myself. Right now, I kind of hate myself despite the voice in my ear telling me my motives were pure and it was never my intention to hurt either one of them.
It doesn’t exonerate me though. Like being Rowan’s dad doesn’t exonerate Ben of all the blood on his hands.
I’m a certifiable mess, and my head is anything but clear. My emotions veer like crazy, bouncing from one emotion to the next, as I grapple with what is right and what is wrong. And does it even matter now? It’s not like Ben or I can change the past. The only thing that matters is how we move forward, and I’m determined to do that with my son as the sole priority.
