Page 2
I was twenty-two when Theo was born. Neither of us had a clue what we were doing. Blaire had some experience with kids because of her younger siblings; I had none. I didn’t even know how to hold a newborn. I kept myself at arm’s length out of fear I didn’t want to admit to. The therapist called it lingering trauma from my own up-bringing.
It took years of Blaire being patient, dragging me to classes, and finding the best therapist she could. Years of learning how to show up even when I felt clueless. That’s why I’m the father I am now, and why I take the rules we set seriously.
The six-month rule was simple: no partner meets Theo until the relationship is stable and long enough to be real. And before that happens, they meet the other parent.
No one—on my side or Blaire’s—has ever made it to six months.
“I don’t think that’s a fair rule. Time doesn’t matter if you know someone is the one,” Veronica says.
There it is—that little spark of certainty she keeps throwing at me like it’ll catch fire if she says it enough. The problem is, every time she says she’s sure about me, I feel nothing but pressure in my chest and the urge to look anywhere but her eyes. She’s speaking a language I don’t understand.
I don’t know her enough to be certain. I know what wine she likes and what take out is her favorite and how to make her cum. That’s about it.
“You’re letting Blaire dictate who can be involved in your son’s life,” she presses.
I sit back, jaw tightening. It’s not Blaire pulling the strings. If anything, I’m the one gripping them too tightly.
What I want to say is that six months is generous compared to what actually goes on in my head. That I’d wait longer. Much longer. Because six months doesn’t feel long enough at all to decide if someone belongs in the same world as my kid. It doesn’t feel long enough to know if a woman is someone who can touch the part of me that cracked open the day Theo was born.
I enjoy the company on my days without Theo. I enjoy her company. But that’s all it is right now. Company. A warm body across a table and in my bed. I don’t picture her at Christmas with my son. I don’t picture her standing next to me at school pickup. I don’t picture her in any real part of my life that involves more than dinner reservations and messed up sheets.
“It’s not about Blaire dictating anything,” I say. “It has nothing to do with a lack of commitment to you. It’s about what’s right for Theo. ”
Veronica huffs and rolls her eyes, leaning back just enough to put space between us. She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but the waiter walks up to the table before the words can leave her lips.
She plasters on a smile so quick and so fake it almost makes me laugh, except nothing about this moment feels funny. We both order and he walks away, leaving me alone with her in awkward silence.
The silence sits for a beat too long. She picks up her wine again, and I watch the rim touch her lips without really seeing her.
I glance at my phone. It’s almost 8:30. Theo’s probably asleep by now.
I missed goodnight.
That alone makes me want to end the night early. Makes me want to grab the check, text Blaire, ask if I can call just to hear him breathe. But that would start another fight I don’t have the energy for.
So instead, I take a sip of wine, and go back to being a good boyfriend.
Chapter two
Blaire
My therapist assures me it’s perfectly normal to still have lingering feelings for your child’s father.
Right now, the only thing I feel toward Simon Crane is irritation, with a strong side of judgment. Because what kind of undignified asshole shows up to his son’s T-ball game with hickeys all over his neck?
I spot him before Theo does. He’s standing by the chain-link fence in a faded ball cap and sunglasses, scanning the field with the kind of paranoia you earn after you spend eight years in the military.
I blink twice.
Nope. Still there.
Theo finally sees him and squeals, dropping his mitt to run over. “Daddy!”
Simon’s whole face changes instantly. He crouches just in time to catch him mid-run, lifts him up, tosses him once into the air—just enough to make Theo shriek—and then pulls him into a tight hug like nothing else in the world exists.
Theo is Simon’s carbon copy. Always has been. Everyone who’s ever seen them together says the same thing—my DNA didn’t even try. That Simon must’ve somehow done all of it himself: the conceiving, the carrying, the delivery. It’s always said with a laugh, but there’s truth buried in it.
Theo’s curls are a few shades darker than Simon’s, closer to my own hair color, but everything else? Pure Crane. Same golden brown eyes, same bronze skin that tans the second it sees sunlight, same slope to the nose and tilt to the smile. Even the way he laughs—it’s Simon’s laugh, just a little higher currently.
