Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m a problem he hasn’t solved yet.
“You were barely holding it together,” he says, voice lowering. “I stepped in when no one else did.” He points at his chest. “I was there when she was born. I was there for the late-night feedings. I was there for the diaper changes. I was there for her first steps. First words. First tooth.” His voice cracks. “He wasn’t.”
Aaron steps closer.
“Who are you going to believe here, Alie?” He puts his hands on his hips. “This guy you’ve really only known for a short time? Or someone who’s been in your life forever?”
I stare at him. “You manipulated me.” My hands flatten harder against the desk. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. “You don’t get credit for inserting yourself into a story that wasn’t yours,” I say steadily.
His expression tightens.
“And now what?” he asks. “You just let him waltz back in? Play dad?”
The way he says dad—like it’s a performance—makes something inside me snap into clarity.
“He is her father,” I say, each word precise. “You don’t get to minimize that because it’s inconvenient for you.”
“I love you,” he says, abruptly.
The words slice through the room.
I blink. My brain doesn’t process them fast enough. “What?”
“You think I did all that because you’re my friend?” he says, voice lowering. “I loved you. I loved her. I still do.”
My heart feels like it’s pounding outside my chest. My fingers curl against the desk to brace myself.
Love.
He says it like it explains everything. Like it absolves him.
“You had no right.”
“Andhedoes?” Aaron counters immediately. “Don’t you think it’s weird that he came here and suddenly decided he was okay with being a dad?”
“He didn’t know.”
“That’s what he’s telling you.”
The crack widens a fraction.
I freeze.
Aaron sees it. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, not triumphantly—clinically. Like he’s testing structural weakness.
“You didn’t hear it from his mouth back then,” he continues, calmer now. Controlled. “You heard it from me. And you trusted me.”
The memory flickers in my mind. The night I sat on the couch, swollen and exhausted, phone pressed to my ear. Aaron’s voice firm.
“He doesn’t want this, Alie. Football comes first.”
“You said he didn’t want her. That football was his priority.”
“Maybe he didn’t want her. But I think we both know football is his priority.”
Tap.
“He said you never told him about her.”
