Page 5

“Well, well, who do we have here? I’m Cassandra,” she says, offering Killian her hand.

He shakes it politely before dropping it. “I’m Killian. It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Cassandra’s gaze snaps to me. “He sounds just like your man.”

Jesus. “He’s not my— You know what, never mind. Look, Cassandra, I haven’t had the chance to tell my parents that Killian’s visiting, so could you maybe not mention anything?”

“My lips are sealed. Grab a seat, you two!”

We slide into opposite sides of the back-corner booth—it’s not much, but it’s as much privacy as we’re going to get around here—and order. Coffee for Killian, Red Bull for me.

“Is this one of those places where everyone knows each other?” Killian asks, nodding between me and Cassandra.

“Yeah, it is. But I also work here.”

Killian’s gaze is intense, like he’s scrutinizing me. He clears his throat. “I never actually introduced myself to you.” That’s true—he introduced himself to Caitlin. Which is fine by me. Small talk is much easier with kids. “I’m Killian Michaelson, but everyone calls me Kill. I’m thirty-three—and a half—I live in Dublin, and work in sales.”

He sticks out his hand, and I take it. It’s warmer than I expected, soft and smooth, and big.

“Scarlett Powell, but everyone calls me Scar. I live and work here, and I’m twenty-six—and eleven months.”

His grip on my hand tightens the second I say my age, his face twisting as he does the math.

It would be comical if it wasn’t my life. I squeeze his hand and drop it. “I was legal, if it helps.”

“Christ. Small fucking favors,” he mutters, shaking his head. “How did this happen?”

I lean back against the worn-vinyl bench and wring my hands in my lap. It’s been a while since I told this story, and it all feels like a lifetime ago.

“It was my first week working in a bar in Edmonton during my freshman year of college. Your dad was in town for work—that’s what he said, anyway—and he spent New Year’s Eve in the bar. I hung around after I got off work, and we hooked up. I was eighteen.” He was forty-eight. I didn’t know that at the time, but I wouldn’t have cared if I did—I never thought I’d see him again. “I found out I was pregnant a couple months later, but I had no way of contacting him. I didn’t even know his last name, so I finished out the semester and came home. Your dad went looking for me when he was next in Edmonton, and a girl I used to work with told him where to find me. I was seven months along when he showed up, and he was … happy.”

I tell him about the promises Dom made, the lies he told: how he didn’t have a family; how he’d always wanted to be a dad, but it had never worked out; how he worked at sea, but he would spend every free moment with us in Clover Pines; how he was going to marry me, take care of us, support us, love us. Once upon a time, I might have sounded bitter about every broken promise. Now, I’m just exhausted. A little numb. Cursing myself for being so fucking stupid, even if I was so young.

“At first, I believed him. I wanted to believe him. He was around a lot when Caitlin was a baby, but as she got older, he showed up less and less, and when he was here, I was so exhausted from juggling everything that he would get annoyed at me. I finally told him I was done on Caitlin’s third birthday, and he wanted one more night together for old times’ sake.”

Killian winces. “James?”

“James,” I confirm. “Dom was excited, but I was under no illusions by that point. I knew what to expect. He showed up for the birth—said he wanted to name him after his dad, who died when he was younger—and now he appears a couple times a year with no notice.”

“Jesus,” Killian says, rubbing his jaw. “My grandpa’s still alive, for the record, but his name is James.” Not entirely a lie, then. “So, you’ve been doing this on your own all this time?”

“I manage just fine.” My answer comes out more defensively than I mean it to, and Killian raises a brow. Whether people want to admit it or not, no one expects you to be a good parent when you have a baby so young. When I first had Caitlin, I rejected all offers of help, just to show that I could manage. My kids are older now, they’re happy and healthy, but I still spend every day feeling like I need to prove that I’m a good mom, a competent mom. I know I’m not fooling anyone into thinking I have it all together, but that doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying. “Caitlin’s in school, and James is in pre-school or daycare most days, so I can work part-time. If I have to work weekends, my parents, brother, or best friend look after them. I have it all under control.”

It’s a well-rehearsed answer, but Killian’s expression tells me he sees right through it.

“Does my dad send child support?”

“He bought us the house.”

“That’s not what I asked, Scarlett.”

I shake my head, and Killian sighs, an angry streak flashing in his emerald eyes. It’s so similar to the look Caitlin gets when she’s annoyed that I have to look away.

“Like I said, we manage. The kids have everything they need.”

And they do. But, truthfully, I’m drowning. I work as many hours as I can, and sometimes it’s still not enough to cover the basics. If I pick up extra hours, I feel guilty for leaving my kids with someone else. My house is falling apart, and I have neither the time nor money to fix anything; my car died months ago, and it’s just sitting in my driveway because I can’t afford to get it fixed. Hell, I had to sell my microwave just to buy new snow boots for James this year.

But I made the choice to have a kid when I was eighteen, and I made the choice to have another, even though I knew I’d get little to no help from Dom. I got myself into this, and I’ll get myself through it.