Her hair is pulled up, a few strands loose.
She wears a soft T-shirt and sleep shorts. Her eyes meet mine and go wide.
Everything in her expression hits at once. "Gabe," she says, barely louder than a breath. My name in her mouth after all this time does something ugly and raw to my ribs.
I still can't form a full sentence. I glance at the boy again. At her. At him. There's no room left for doubt. He'smine. He has my eyes and my mouth and my serious expression.
All color drains from her face and her hand tightens on his shoulder. She shifts, body angling in front of him. "Jace, sweetheart," she says quickly, "go inside and eat the rest of your yogurt. I left your bowl on the table."
The boy looks up at her with trust so open it almost floors me. "But Mama, I wanted to show you something."
"You can show me in a minute," she answers. "Inside, please. Now."
He hesitates for only a second before nodding. He steps back, pushes the door wider with both hands, and disappears into the house.
Lena turns her full attention on me. "Gabe," she repeats. "Please do not."
8
LENA
Gabe is still on my front step when I realize I'm gripping the edge of the door so hard my fingers ache. "I mean it. Please don't," I say again, quieter this time. My voice feels like it has to fight its way through my chest.
His eyes are locked on mine, stormy and stunned and far too sharp. He looks older and rougher than he did five years ago.
There are new lines at the corners of his mouth.
His shoulders look even broader in that plain T-shirt. The same mouth I remember tasting is tight now, like he is holding back an entire speech.
"I'm not leaving," he says. His voice comes out rough but unshaken. "Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."
I let out a breath that feels more like a scrape. "You need to go."
"Lena." He plants a hand on the frame, not pushing, just there, claiming space like he did once on that porch. "You sent me a message. You sent me those pictures. I get on a plane, I knock onyour door, and a four-year-old with my face opens it. You really think I'm just going to walk away?"
My stomach pitches hard enough to make me feel a little sick. I glance back toward the kitchen. "I don't owe you this conversation," I tell Gabe.
His jaw flexes. "You owe him the truth."
That lands straight in the spot I've been guarding since the test turned positive.
Anger slides up my spine, warm and fast. "I owe my son safety," I shoot back. "I owe him stability and a mother who doesn't hand his life over to someone who already proved he doesn't know what to do with it."
He flinches at that. From inside the house, Jace's voice carries down the hall. "Mama? Is Gabe eating? He should eat!"
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. Of course he heard his name. "Come on, Lena," Gabe murmurs, voice pitched low. "Let me in. We can talk like adults, you and me. We can figure this out."
I open my eyes and stare at him.
The man who once fed me warm brownie bites in bed and then left a note like a coward.
The man whose face I still think about when I touch myself, even when I hate myself for it later.
The man whose eyes just looked at my kid and went raw.
"Iamtalking like an adult," I say. "And the adult answer is no."
He exhales through his nose. "I'm not going anywhere."
