But the second I heard she was sick, I couldn't sit still.
I needed to see for myself that she was okay.
The thought hit me when I parked across the street, but I still killed the engine, still pushed open the door, still stood on that quiet street before Juliet could jump out of the back seat, watching the woman sitting on the steps.
She didn't see me.
Head down, hands wrapped around a coffee cup, probably cold by now. She just sat there, staring at the lawn, an expression on her face I'd never seen before. Not guarded, not detached. Something she only showed when she thought no one was looking.
Then I saw the kid.
Middle of the lawn, a little boy with brown curls and a blue jacket, head tilted back, chasing dandelion fluff. When he ran, his legs pumped fast, hitting the edge of the lawn before spinning around and shouting something up at Olivia. She lifted her face from the steps, and her mouth moved.
That smile.
The thing I'd been searching for on her face for so long—it just appeared. Because of that kid.
Juliet had already rounded the hood and taken off. I called after her, too late—she was already standing at the edge of the lawn, head cocked, staring at the boy.
I walked over.
Olivia spotted me when I reached the steps.
She stood too fast, nearly dropped the cup—caught it, steadied herself with a breath, and that smile vanished just as quick, so quick I almost thought I'd imagined it.
"Why are you here?"
Not a question.
"Juliet wanted to see you," I said. "You said you were sick. She was worried."
A lie. Juliet asked this morning if we could visit Miss Vivi. I said yes. Simple as that. But Olivia didn't need to know I'd said yes first.
She looked at me for a second, expression flat, said nothing.
Then the boy from the lawn ran over.
He stopped beside Olivia, looked up at me. Those eyes were green—not ordinary green, but deep, like something pressed down on them, weighted with color.
My heart kicked.
"Mommy," he said, "who's that?"
Olivia placed her hand on his shoulder, subtle but deliberate. I knew what that gesture meant.
"Juliet's dad," she said. "Call him Mr. Visconti."
I kept my voice casual, level. "This your kid?"
"Yes. From my ex-husband."
Ex-husband.
The word drove in like a thorn, straight into my chest.
She'd had an ex-husband.
In these five years, she'd been married, had a kid, built a family with another man.
