The baby’s father.The faceless problem I created on a night I didn’t want to remember.A condom from a wallet.A name I never learned.A body I didn’t keep.A story with no second act.
This isn’t a grand love story.
There isn’t going to be a scene where he turns into the perfect man because the plot demands it.There’s no montage where we co-parent in matching sweaters and laugh over pancakes.
There’s just ...me.
And now a baby.
And the fact that my mother is not here for me to call.
That thought hits so hard it makes my mouth go bitter.Because if she were alive, she would know what to do.She would have words.She would have a plan.She would tell me the truth and make it sound survivable.
Instead, I have rain and a bench and a folder with pamphlets.
I swallow and touch my belly—barely there, nothing to feel, just skin and muscle and nerves—and I whisper, “For us.”
It comes out shaky, like I don’t believe myself.
A hand taps my shoulder.
I flinch—more irritation than fear—and look up to find John standing there in a dark jacket, rain beading on his shoulders like he’s been carved out of patience.
“Miss,” he says, polite but firm, like he’s been trained to speak to women who are pretending they’re okay.“Are you ready to head back to the apartment?”
I blink at him.My brain has to load him back in.Right.John.The guy who’s supposed to drive me.Check on me.Babysit me while two hockey players pretend they can’t feel anything.
I wipe my face quickly, because tears are embarrassing and also because my pride is a stubborn little demon.
“What if I ask you to drop me at the airport?”I say, like it’s casual.Like I haven’t already started packing in my head.
John’s expression barely shifts.He pulls out his phone anyway, thumb hovering.“I have instructions to take you home.I’d need authorization to take you to the airport.And I’d need to book a flight and travel with you.”
I stare at him.“Why would you travel with me?”
“I’m your temporary bodyguard,” he says.
The words slide under my skin and snag.
“Why do I need a bodyguard?”I ask, and my voice does this small, humiliating thing where it tries to squeak and I crush it.
John shrugs like this is normal.Like women get assigned bodyguards every day.“Probably because you’re connected to two high-profile men.”
I want to say I’m not connected.I want to say I’m not anyone’s.I want to say I’m a grown woman with a camera and a passport and a life I built on my own.
But the truth is that I do love those two men.Even when I should leave them, I just can’t live without them.If I have to, I guess I would need to tell them face-to-face.
“Okay,” I mutter, standing up even though my legs disagree.“Fine.Take me home.”
John nods and steps aside, letting me pass like he’s being respectful, like he’s giving me space.
But the moment I start walking, I see it.
Across the street—parked too neatly, engine running, window cracked just enough—someone watching.
A lens.
A person holding a camera the way people hold a weapon.
