I curl back into his side, hiding my face against his chest so he can't see the conflict in my eyes. He doesn't push, just holds me tighter, and I let myself pretend, just for a little longer, that I'm not tearing myself apart inside. What the hell am I getting myself into?
14
LENA
A quiet house is what I wake up to, and it puts my brain in an immediate situation of panic, because silence usually means my four-year-old is climbing something he shouldn't. Gabe's side of the bed is empty, but the sheets are ruffled and there's a small note on the table just beside it.Went out to get breakfast for your boy. Rest. G.
My heart does a strange twist. It feels good and bad at the same time, which is exactly how most things related to Gabe feel. I cover my face with both hands as the night rushes back in one heavy wave. His mouth. His hands. The way he held me like he had been starving for five years. The way I let him.
I dropped every boundary I ever built and now here I am, having a full existential crisis before seven in the morning.
I groan and sit up, waiting for a bone to creak after the night I just had. A moment later, I pad outside lightly and check in on my son. He's still in his room, asleep on his stomach with one leg hanging off the bed and a stuffed dinosaur under his chest. He's fine. He's breathing and drooling onto the sheets. All normal.
I back up before I wake him. I need ten minutes to breathe before the chaos starts.
With a sigh, I go to the kitchen and drink from the coffee Gabe must've made before going out. It warms me just fine, but my brain is going a mile a minute. Did I make a mistake? Yes. Did it feel perfect at the time? Also yes. Am I ready to rebuild my walls? I've no idea.
A soft thump hits the porch. Delivery, or the neighbor's cat. Hard to say.
I walk to the front door and open it. A package sits on the mat. Normal. What isn't normal is the way two women across the street stop talking the second they see me. They stand by the mailbox with matching mugs and matching raised eyebrows. Sarah is one of them—the same woman who made that sugar daddy comment two days ago. Both are in full makeup even though it's barely morning. Thick eyeliner, bold lipstick, hair sprayed into next week. Nobody looks like that unless they're either hiding a bad night or trying to convince the world they're doing great.
Sarah leans in toward her friend, speaking just loud enough for me to hear the tone, not the words. The friend glances at me, then my house, then back at me with one of those tight little smiles that says she's dying to know everything but too polite to ask.
They both try not to stare. They fail instantly.
And here's the thing. I actually like Sarah most days. She's chaotic, but she's entertaining. I also know half her gossip comes from the fact that her husband spends more nights at the town bar than at home because he's terrified of her legendary temper.Poor guy once hid in the alley behind the bakery for an hour because she blew up at him for scratching her car.
So yeah, she talks about other people because it's easier than dealing with her own mess.
I lift the package and give them a small wave, just a "yes, I see you" wave. Sarah lifts her mug in return like she's saluting me. Her friend nudges her, and they both look away fast, like kids caught peeking through a window.
Instead of slamming it, I close the door gently, which should qualify as a medal-worthy achievement today. Once it clicks shut, I lean my forehead against it and breathe out slowly. My life doesn't have room for this kind of nonsense, but the nonsense keeps showing up anyway.
This is exactly why I shouldn't have slept with Gabe. One night with him and suddenly, my neighbors are acting like I faked a paternity test on a daytime talk show. I straighten up when I hear footsteps on the gravel outside.
I look through the peephole. It's Gabe, still in yesterday's T-shirt, holding a paper bag and two drinks. He's smiling, but like a man who's already decided something and will not leave until he says it out loud.
My stomach flips as I consider all my options. But turning him away wouldn't stop the gossip or solve anything. Disgruntled, I unlock the door and pull it open. He lifts the bag slightly. "Breakfast for your boy. And a latte with half-and-half for you."
I don't speak right away, which is ridiculous because he is standing on my porch, offering me food, while two women across the street pretend they are not watching us. He studies my face. "Rough morning?"
"You could say that." I accept his peace offering and stare at him a minute longer. The corner of his mouth twitches, but he waits patiently, and something in that ridiculous look of his makes me sigh. "Fine," I mutter. "Come on in."
I step back and he steps forward. From the corner of my eye, I notice Sarah smirking and giving anI told you solook at her friend.
Gabe steps inside smelling like warm bread and fresh air and something steadier than the mess in my chest. He sets the bag on the counter and takes a long look around, like he is checking the space for threats. Old habits. Military men never let it go. "I can wake him if you want," he says, nodding toward the hallway.
I almost snort but hold it together. "Have you ever woken up a sleeping toddler?"
"How hard can it be?" Gabe shrugs, looking blissfully unaware of what's about to happen.
I stare. "You're serious."
"Of course I'm serious," he says and lifts his chin like he is about to march into battle. "Do I need instructions?"
"Yes. Don't touch him. Don't stand too close. Don't breathe too loudly. And if he's in a bad mood, he'll cry like you stole his future."
Gabe huffs a laugh. "Noted. Let me try."
