Before Him

“Yeah.” Why the hell do I sound amused? “If you think I’m gonna walk away, you really don’t know me at all.” The words come out harsher than they should as I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. A hundred regrets, a thousand could’ve beens, like a nervous, prickling chuckle just dying to burst free.

“I guess truer words were never spoken,” she mutters.

Fuck this. Fuck not being able to say the right thing as I wrap my fingers around her upper arm. “You need to help me understand—”

“I don’t think I need to give you anything,” she says, pivoting with a flicker of the girl I remember. Flashing eyes and a high chin.” This is the girl I recognise.

“Please, Kennedy. I know I’ve fucked up, but don’t do this to me.”

“His name is Wilder. Wilder James.”

The fist around my heart relaxes, and I find myself smiling, maybe because he looks anything but wild. Milder James. Wise young James. “That’s a good name.”

“And yes, he’s seven years old. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“I don’t need to ask if he’s mine if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Her eyes skate across my face, testing for veracity, widening as I step closer. “We have . . . we have a lot to talk about,” she says, holding up her hand to stall my steps. “But not now.”

“When?”

“Just give me a little time. This is all so sudden.”

“Sudden.” The word wobbles unsteadily in the air as I swipe my hand through my hair. My attention slides to the café, where Wilder, my son, is. It might be sudden, but I’ve missed so much already, haven’t I? It’s only been minutes, but my life and priorities feel like they’ve already changed in ways I can’t even begin to explain. I feel changed. Altered. But how can I explain that to Kennedy when I can barely explain it to myself. I just know it, know that things will never ever be the same as they were a few minutes ago.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. I guess I need to realise this is sudden for her, too. “But soon.” She nods, but I’m already speaking again. “What do we do? I mean, how will I find you?”

Her gaze dips, and I look down at the envelope, now crumpled in my hand.

“I know where you’ll be.”

“You’ll come find me,” I say, disliking the desperate lilt at the end. “You won’t do a bunk or anything, will you?”

Her expression hardens as I try a smile, hoping to take the sting out of my words. Hoping to take the sting out of my words, and finding I’m the one with the burn as she replies.

“Disappearing is your specialty, Roman. Not mine.”

“Okay. Right,” I find myself answering because arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere. “I guess I’ll just wait for you, then.”

She stares at me a beat longer before seeming to take me at my word when she nods and turns. Before I know it, I’ve lifted her phone from where it poked out of the back pocket of her jeans.

“Hey!” She reels around and makes to grab it, but like a fuckhead, I hold it out of her reach. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her voice is low, and her expression kind of murderous.

“Relax, I’m just gonna give you my number.” Properly this time. No mistakes. I keep my tone even, my expression innocent. Fair warning, little love, if you’re expecting me to play fair, you’re going to be disappointed.

Her jaw tenses as she gives a terse nod of agreement. She doesn’t use a screen lock, and just seconds later, my own phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’ve stored my number in her phonebook. I pass her handset back, my smile all relief because while I wanted to be sure she had my number (and I had hers), but I also wanted a sneaky peek at her contacts.

There was no bae, my honey, or my man.

No sign of Tinder Tom, Match Dot Dick, or Plenty of Fish Harry.

Which is pretty bloody excellent.

“I’m glad you’re not still using that piece of shit phone,” I say as she starts to slide it into her back pocket. With a suspicious glance my way, she drops it into the front pocket of her flowery apron instead. I smile. No, actually, I give her the smile, the one that Anna Twintour once called the smile of the decade. The same smile that some Cosmo journalist said could impregnate at ten paces.

Bad analogy. Best keep that one to myself.

Anyway, the smile is wasted on Kennedy as she pivots and charges for the door. The doorbell jingles a protest as she yanks open the door, and as the wood connects with the frame, the sound seems to echo the sudden hollowness in my chest.