by Mia Ford
She looks away, her lips pursed. “It doesn’t matter. Owen is at daycare today. So he isn’t here.”
Good. It means I don’t have to hold my tongue. I can say what, exactly, has been on my mind not just all these years, but since I found out about her son earlier in the day.
“Take a seat,” she says, though she looks like she’d dearly love to just throw me out. “Coffee?”
I open my mouth to refuse. Then I hesitate. Jessica makes an awesome cup of coffee. And drinking coffee will give me an excuse to stay longer.
“Yeah,” I say after a moment.
She bustles around the kitchen wordlessly, avoiding my eyes as she puts out coffee cups and boils the kettle. I take that moment to get a good look at her, now that it’s daytime and she isn’t half hiding in the crappy lighting of a bar. The shorter hair she’s sporting is a good look for her, though she still has that same habit of brushing it aside impatiently when it falls into her eyes. She is sporting a look of constant stress, too, her expression tight as though the entire world is against her. There are dark bags under her eyes, no longer hidden by makeup, and she just looks so very tired, from the lines of her face to the slump of her shoulders.
I feel a brief spark of sympathy. She looks like she’s had a hard life since I last saw her. Then I remember that this is likely because she’s been raising a child from another relationship alone, and my heart hardens once more. I’m not here to sympathize with the woman who broke my heart, especially after her betrayal.
The spoons clink gently on the china as Jessica stirs both mugs and then puts the utensils in the sink. I see her take a steadying breath before carrying the cups over to the table, her chin risen as though in defiance.
“Here,” she says, placing a coffee down in front of me.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
I take a sip. The coffee is as good as I remember. For a moment, it could almost be three years ago again, with Jessica and I sitting around a small table, drinking coffee together, laughing at some joke. Then the thought fades and, with it, the memory of Jessica’s smile.
I haven’t seen Jessica smile much at all since we reunited. It’s an odd thing to think about, but I can’t help but cast my mind back. I don’t think she’s smiled at all since I came by, certainly not in the way I remember. Not that I can complain; I haven’t smiled at her, either, and for good reason. Neither of us were expecting to reunite last night, and neither of us expected to end up having sex, either.
Remembering my loss of control, I bitterly wish I had just thrown her in a taxi last night and then taken a nice, long holiday until I could be sure she was gone.
“Alright,” Jessica says after a long moment. “What do you want to know?”
I look at her incredulously.
“Where do you want me to start?” I ask her with a hollow laugh. “There are far too many answers that I want. But let’s start with this one. Why?”
Why did she cheat on me? Why did she run off? Why did she throw herself at me last night at the first chance she had?
“That’s a loaded question,” she asks. She closes her eyes. “There’s…not a good answer.”
The first question, and she’s already trying to redirect me. It tells me a lot about how this conversation will go.
“Look, before anything else… Let’s talk about Owen,” she says before I can respond. “I’m guessing you want to meet him now?”
I stare at her.
“What?” I ask.
No, I want answers about our relationship. Why do I want to meet some other man’s kid?
“Owen is three now,” Jessica continues, as though she doesn’t notice or understand my surprise. “Just. Naturally…I’ve never told him about his father.”
“Naturally,” I find myself repeating.
My mouth is suddenly dry. My heart is pounding. Something isn’t adding up here, and part of me is screaming that I got something horribly, horribly wrong somewhere.
“He’s curious, of course,” she continues. Her expression twists. “I…should have told him, before now. It wasn’t fair to anyone to keep him in the dark. He deserves to know that…” She swallows. “That his father didn’t abandon him. His father…”
“…didn’t know,” I finish.
My palms are sweaty. I’ve fucking messed up big time. I jumped to conclusions. Worse, I jumped to a conclusion that didn’t even make sense, just because I wanted to be as mad at Jessica as I possibly could. I should have said something to Kyle. I remember the pitying look in his eyes; he’d already put it together. He would have said something, if I had told him my own, foolish theory.
But maybe I didn’t want to put it together. I didn’t want to think that Jessica would actually…
“I…am sorry,” Jessica says quietly, looking down. “After all this, you probably can’t believe that, but it’s true. Even if I wanted to leave you, I had no right to lie to you.”
All my righteous indignation about being betrayed has faded now. All that’s left is something awfully hollow in the middle of my chest. Jessica looks up, pleading.
“But, if you really want to be in Owen’s life, then it’s a forever thing,” she continues, and holy fuck, she’s really talking as though… As though… “He deserves to have his father there for him. So you can’t run off if it gets too hard. He’s only three, he wouldn’t understand.”
There’s a ringing in my ears. I can’t barely breathe.
“Owen…is my son?” I finally manage to force out through numb lips.
Jessica has the gall to look surprised.
“You said you figured it out!” she accuses.
“I thought…” I just want to laugh and laugh and laugh, until my sides ache and tears come out of my eyes, despite the fact that none of this is even remotely funny. It’s ridiculous that I could have been so very wrong. “I thought you cheated on me. I thought you ran when you realized you were pregnant. I thought Owen was some other guy’s kid.”
She actually looks hurt that I would think something like that. Three years in and she expects me to understand how she thinks, especially after everything that happened between us before we finally broke up?
If anything, it’s more of a surprise that I hadn’t suspected her of cheating before this point.
Maybe some of my thoughts show on my face. Jessica eyes my expression, and then she slumps as she realizes that I’m actually serious, that these are the thoughts that I had originally come here to confront her with. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, searching for something to say, before she finally sighs, defeated.
“No, none of that is true,” she says quietly. “You were the only man I...slept with. Owen is your son.”
Chapter Eight
Grant
What was worse? Believing that my ex-girlfriend had cheated on me and had another man’s kid, or being told that that kid is actually mine and my ex-girlfriend had kept this from me for three years? I wonder this dizzily, not sure what to say.
“I’m sorry,” Jessica says again.
Sorry? I laugh. It’s a harsh and grating sound that makes her flinch, and I can’t feel the least bit sorry about that.
“You’re sorry,” I say. There’s something painful growing in my chest, something tight and horribly crushing. “You sit here and tell me that I have a three-year-old child, something you would still be keeping secret if I hadn’t come to see you, and you’re sorry? How long were you planning on keeping it from me? When were you going to tell me?”
She averts her eyes. The answer to the last question, then, is likely “never”. I almost choke on the wave of hurt that hits me. What did I possibly do that warranted her doing this to me?
I have a son. A son I would have loved and spoiled. A son that has grown up without me, forcing me to miss every important milestone in his life. A son I wasn’t there for because I wasn’t allowed to be.
“How could you do this to me?” I ask, and my voice is shaking.
“I
t wasn’t about you,” she says sharply, as though I’m the one being ridiculous by getting upset over this. “It’s about what was best for Owen.”
I stare at her. Ah, there’s the anger back again.
“Fuck you,” I say with feeling. “What fucking right do you have to decide that? When did you decide that I was such a horrible person that I wasn’t even allowed to see my own son?”
She clamps her lips closed and looks away. She obviously doesn’t intend on answering that. I want to try and force her, but my nerves are too frazzled to attempt it right now. I can’t even think straight without my thoughts coming back around to I have a son!
This is definitely worse, I decide. Way worse than her cheating on me. At least then I could have yelled at her for a second and then gone on my way, comfortable in the decision to never want to see her again. Now, though, I have a son that I need to think about, a son that I want to meet so badly, and the reminder of this, far worse, betrayal will be in my face every time I see him.
Jessica didn’t just separate me from my son. She separated her son from his father. How was this doing what was best for him? I’ve always tried my best to be a good person, and I always treated Jessica well. So why did this happen?
“I want to meet him,” I tell her. There’s a burning anger starting in me, but now isn’t the time to address it. That can wait until my head is on straight once more. “I want to be part of his life.”
“We’ll organize a meeting,” she assures me.
At least, now that the secret is out, she’s not trying to hide it anymore, and she’s willing to work with me to introduce me into our son’s life.
Our son. It’s such a strange thought. When Jessica left me, there was a part of me that mourned the loss of a potential family as well. There’s a part of me that’s always wanted to be a father, that was a little envious of Ethan and his relationship with his daughter. As time passed and I became unable to look at anyone who wasn’t Jessica, I had given up any hope of having children.
Now I have a son, with Jessica, of all people. I run a rough hand through my hair and close my eyes, unable to look at the woman I once loved with all my heart. We have a son, together.
A son that Jessica kept from me for three years.
“Why?” The question bursts out of me without permission. I’ve already asked, and I know Jessica isn’t going to answer, but the emotion driving me, this time, isn’t anger. There’s a bone-deep sadness that trembles in my breath, and drags Jessica’s unwilling eyes to me.
So much time lost. How could she do this.
“I…” Jessica falters. Something flashes through her eyes and, for a moment, I think she might be about to tell me. But then her expression hardens. “We broke up, Grant. I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“We broke up…but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a right to know I had a son!” I shout, shocked at her words. “I…”
I’ve never told Jessica about my dream of one day having a family with her. She’s always seen me as the strong, tough bartender, and part of me didn’t want to disabuse her of that notion. She always had stars in her eyes when she told me how strong I was.
Maybe, if I had told her, she wouldn’t have kept Owen from me.
I slump back in my seat. Part of me had hoped that I could let go of all my regrets if I could only talk to Jessica one more time. It was a fool’s errand, I know. I have more regrets than ever and I’m angry on top of all that.
Angry, sad and hurt.
“Can’t you just give me something?” I ask her quietly. I’m not above begging her now, and I see her eyes widen as she stares at me, taken aback by my demeanor. “Please?”
She’s sitting still, staring at me like she’s never seen me before. I see her leaning forward, bending toward me like a branch in the wind, and I brace myself for whatever she has to say.
I don’t expect her to grab my collar and pull me into a fierce kiss.
Chapter Nine
Jessica
What am I doing?
My body moved on its own, and I can feel Grant stiffening beneath my hands, his hands on my shoulders as though he isn’t sure whether or not to push me away. Pull away, my mind screams at me. I’ve already ruined things enough. I shouldn’t make this any worse than it already is.
I really hate myself right at this moment.
Touching Grant gives me such a thrill. It shouldn’t, because I left him, I kept his son from him, I did everything in my power to stay away from him. I have no right to touch him.
But it’s addictive.
Not once, in these three years, have I forgotten the feeling of Grant’s hands on me. His face was always in my mind. My mother once asked me, when I told her this, if I regretted leaving Grant the way I did.
I lied and told her I’ve never regretted it. She never asked me again, and I think she knows I wasn’t being truthful. But I didn’t want to regret it. If I regretted leaving Grant, all it would do was bring me pain. So I threw him out of my mind and focused on raising Owen.
Owen, who Grant now knows about. I remember the look in his eyes when he realized the full truth, and something in me withers at the pain that had been etched onto his face. I know, in my more honest moments, that I had no right to keep Grant from his son.
But I had been scared and alone. Part of me had grown paranoid about what Grant was doing, or how he would react if I let on that I knew his secret. Was he a criminal? Was I safe with him? So I ran, and then Owen was all I have left of Grant. So I clung to him; I couldn’t lose him, not even to his father.
I can still hear Grant asking me why. I’m not going to answer that. I can’t answer that. If I bring up all those thoughts and feelings again, I might just try and flee once more. This time, now that Grant knows about his son, it would be unforgivable.
But aren’t I fleeing, anyway? What I’m doing now... I’m just trying to avoid answering any of the hard questions. I’m desperately trying to pretend that nothing changed between us.
But everything did.
Suddenly, Grant pulls back. His breath is ragged and his eyes are wild. I can see the effect I’ve had on him, and I hate myself just a little more, because I know that it’s only his body that wants this.
“We…” He’s struggling to get out the words. “We need to stop. We can’t do this.”
I let out a choked laugh and bend my head forward so that my forehead touches his shoulder. My body is already trembling with need, in the same way his is. I know he’s right.
“I’ll step away if you can,” I say.
His breath catches. He can’t, not any more than I can. God, I’m a terrible person. But I can’t help but wind my arms around his neck and kiss him once more. This time, his lips move against mine, and I can feel his fierce anger and hate for this situation. It makes me want to cry.
“Stop.” The voice is weak. I’m not going to obey it.
I lay a palm on his chest and push Grant back, separating us once more. His ankles hit the couch behind him and he sits before he falls over.
“Shit,” I say. I reach out and my hands cup his cheeks gently. “Why is it so hard to forget you?”
He laughs. It’s a hollow sound that makes me cringe.
“Fuck if I know,” he tells me. “I’ve been asking myself that for years.”
I flinch, not wanting to hear about how the last few years have gone for him. I don’t want to know that he spent the last three years thinking about me, unable to stop wondering where I was and what I was doing while I was out here, raising his son and keeping it a secret from him.
For a moment, reason catches up and I almost pull back, caught in the realization that this is not something that should be happening when we’re both so bitter about how our relationship ended. His hands are on her hips, and my arms tighten, prepared to push him away.
Then my fingers relax and the moment is lost. His eyes blaze as I lean in, my breath hot and heavy against his lips. He shudders, pain and
desire warring in his eyes, but he leans back toward me.
“Fuck you,” he says quietly.
An apology gurgles on my lips again. But what’s the point? He doesn’t want to hear it. I don’t deserve to say it or be forgiven for what I’ve done. So I’ll just keep touching him so that none of it matters.
My fingers find the buttons on his shirt and begin undoing them, my skin brushing his chest every now and then. I’m moving quickly, impatient to get the shirt off, as though I’m scared to slow down and face the consequences of what we’re doing. When I slide it off, over his shoulders, I throw it somewhere. I run my hands over his smooth chest, tracing the outline of his muscles and stomach. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in closer, Grant’s legs falling open so I can step in between them. Just like me, he’s surrendered to the inevitable.
“Fuck, keep touching me,” I groan.
I smooth my palms over his sides and scrape my nails over his hips, my fingers dipping under the waistband of his pants. I’m dizzy with need, and his dick hard in his boxers as his hips thrust upward without permission, seeking some form of release. My hands wrap around his hips in a firm grip and hold him down, preventing him from moving again as I hover over him. I look down at him, my eyes dark with lust.
“I want to taste all of you,” I say, and he shivers at the promise in my voice. “I’m going to suck every bit of your cum out of you, and then I’m going to make you hard all over again so I can ride you hard.”
His hands tighten on my shoulders as he breathes out a ragged breath.
“Don’t just talk about it,” he says. “Fucking do it.”
I fall to my knees. I know we’re lost, now. There’s no going back from this, where we’re both sober and angry, yet still manage to drag ourselves together. So I close my eyes as my fingers find the zipper on his pants and surrender to the inevitable.
I really am the worst.
But, for now, I have Grant in front of me, his musky smell making my head spin, his heated skin like a furnace in front of me. I tug the zipper down and flick open the button. His penis is straining against the material of his boxers, a large, wet patch leaking on the front. I tug impatiently at the hem of his pants.