"Is he... Is he serious?" she asked.
"Yeah." Connor's mouth twisted. "Sawyer's already talking solicitors and evidence, and 'that kid deserves better' on a loop. He feels guilty for not stepping in sooner."
The wind picked up, tugging at Fern's hair, bringing with it the earthy tang of rain that hadn't quite started yet. She stared at the cracked phone in his hand, then at the automatic doors, anything but his face.
"If the DNA test comes back positive... "
The words scraped her throat like a serrated knife on the way out. "If Jacob is yours...what happens then?"
He took a breath like he was about to dive underwater.
"I don't know what it'll do to Matilda's allegations," he said slowly. "I don't know what story she'll spin. But I do know I need to do right by him. By Jacob." His eyes met hers, bleeding guilt and resolve. "I can't pretend I didn't ask for that test. I can't pretend he's not mine if he is."
A pulse thudded in Fern's ears. "And what about us? What about Coral?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, lashes dark against the bruised skin beneath them. When he opened them again, they were damp, but his voice was steady.
"I know you're not staying," he said. "I know I've lost the right to ask you to. After everything... I get it. I do." His throat worked. "But if you move away, I'd like to move, too. With Jacob, if that's how it has to be. I can't abandon him if he's mine, Fern. Not again. Not—" His voice cracked. "Not like I've abandoned everyone else. But if it is either you and Coral or Jacob, I'd choose you... I am sorry, I have let Coral down for so long, I can't do it again."
The words hovered like hummingbirds between them. She pressed her lips together as she took it all in.
He let out a long breath and tipped his head back, staring up at the washed-out sky. "If I say I hope he isn't mine," he asked softly, "does that make me the worst person on the planet? I know I'm already a bottom feeder. There's nowhere to go but up from here, right?" A shaky smile ghosted over his mouth and died. "But the selfish part of me wants it to be a mistake. For all of us."
Fern's fingers clenched around the strap of her bag until the canvas dug into her palm. "It doesn't make you the worst person," she said at last. "It makes you human. And tired. And scared."
He laughed, sharp and humourless. "That's one way of putting it."
"Fine," she said, hating how thin her voice sounded. "Let's get it over with."
***
They drove in silence.
He kept his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, eyes on the road, jaw clenched. The local radio burbled quietly in the background, some DJ cracking jokes about the weekend, hopelessly at odds with the tight coil in her gut.
Twice, he opened his mouth like he was going to say something—I'm sorry, or thank you, or if it's true—and both times he shut it.
Fern stared out of the window, watching the familiar streets slide by. The row of takeaways where they'd once argued over which curry house was best. The park where he'd pushed Coral on the swings while Fern drank lukewarm coffee from a paper cup and tried to remember what it felt like to sleep more than three hours in a row.
She slipped her hand into her bag and touched the folded school letter, the paper soft from being handled too much.
Whatever happened in that lawyer's office, she still had a place to go and a plan that was hers.
The solicitor's building was one of those posh Victorian terraces converted into offices, all frosted glass and brass plaques. Inside, the reception smelled faintly of polish and old carpet.
"Hi," Connor said to the young woman at the desk. "We've got an appointment with Gareth Hughes. He rang about... about some results."
The receptionist looked him up and down before checking her screen while her nails clacked lightly on the keyboard. "Mr. Ashbourne? Yes, he's just finishing up with another client. Take a seat. He won't be long."
They sat in the small waiting area beneath a faded print of some Welsh hillside. Fern could feel the clock on the wall ticking behind her, each second stretching.
Connor's knee bounced. His hands were clasped so tightly on his lap that his knuckles had gone white. Every now and then he turned his simple gold wedding band absently.
She folded her arms to stop herself from reaching across and stilling his leg.
"Where are your rings?" he whispered.
His eyes were on the band of pale skin where her wedding and engagement rings had rested—rings she had never taken off since he had placed them on her finger.
