He lifts a shoulder. “You’re right, the judge will take care of that.”
Panic surges through me, sharp and ugly, tightening my chest until it hurts. He sees it. He likes it.
“You should welcome the help,” he says. “Maybe things would be easier for you.”
The old me would have believed that. The old me would have begged. The old me would have apologized until he was satisfied.
But I’m not her anymore.
Still—his words land right where he aimed them.
“I think you should go,” I say, voice soft but steady.
He nods, as if he’s won something. “I’ll be back.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter.
He steps off the porch, walks halfway down the path, then glances over his shoulder. “Tell Evie I stopped by.”
“No.” The word comes out before I can think. “If you want her to know, you can earn that yourself. Figure it out.”
His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t reply. He just turns and walks to his car, leaving me standing in the doorway with my heart racing too fast and my hands trembling too hard.
When he’s gone, I shut the door and press my back against it, inhaling shakily. The house is quiet again, but it doesn’t feel peaceful anymore. It feels invaded and fractured. Like the past I outgrew just broke back into my home and reminded me how easily it can still find me.
I slide down until I’m sitting on the entryway rug, knees pulled up, hands threaded in my hair. My heartbeat won’t settle; my skin feels wrong, too tight. Every old habit scratches at the back of my mind—apologize, minimize, pretend it wasn’t that bad. Make yourself small until the storm passes.
But I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore.
Still, my breath comes uneven. I hear Daniel’s tone echoing in my chest, a condescending certainty that he knows better. That he always has. And for a moment, fear flickers—not of him, but of who I used to be around him.
I close my eyes and let the feeling move through me instead of swallowing me.
My gaze drifts toward the living room, where Cam’s sweatshirt is draped over the back of the couch—left behind one night when he carried a sleeping Evie in from the car. It’s just a hoodie, soft from wear, sleeves stretched at the cuffs. It shouldn’t hold meaning, but it does.
I stand and walk to the couch, my fingers reaching for it. I flop down and pull it onto my lap, smoothing the fabric, breathing in the faint scent of him that clings to the cotton—peppermint gum, cedar, and just him. It settles me almostinstantly.
I want him here. Not because I’m falling apart. Not because I need rescuing. But because he’s the person I trust to steady the parts of me that still shake.
The person I want to be here.
A tremor rises in my chest, and I wait for the usual instinct to shove it down but it doesn’t come. Instead, a different voice whispers beneath it.
Call him.
My phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. I stare at it for a long moment, my pulse beating too loudly, as if this decision is bigger than just a phone call. Maybe it is, because all I want right now is him. I want his voice, his calm, his presence, his arms around me.
I reach for the phone.
My hand shakes—just once, just enough to remind me that this is new. That choosing someone is harder than pushing them away. That vulnerability isn’t a failing; it’s a choice.
I tap his name. The call rings once. Twice.
By the third ring, my breath steadies. When he answers, his voice warm and deep, the knot in my chest loosens.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Can you come over?”
Chapter thirty-seven
