elief and heartache.
The child isn’t his.
He went to New York.
What did he do while he was in New York? Did he and Molly hang out? Did they reconnect? Did she explain to him why she’s kept this secret? Does she even care that she’s widened this fissure between us? Did he feel anything for her while he was there?
The child isn’t his.
“Who’s Noah?” Colton snaps.
Ellie flashes me an apologetic wince. “Noah is Molly’s son. No one knew about him.”
He stares at Ellie like she just sprouted a couple more heads. “Molly?”
“Molly McKinley? Your stepsister?”
Colton scowls. “Molly doesn’t have a son.”
Ellie rolls her eyes. “Did you miss the part where I said no one knew about him? The kid’s four years old, and Jake thought he might be the father.”
“The fuck?” Colton’s jaw goes tight, and his eyes blaze with anger. “I’m pretty sure Jackson wants me to bloody his face.”
“Don’t,” I say. “It was years ago.”
“And the kid isn’t his,” Ellie says, pointing to the screen. She shifts her worried eyes to meet mine. “Does that make this all better?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” It’s not that simple. “Even if Noah isn’t his—and forgive me if I’m skeptical—Jake still hurt me.”
Colton shakes his head. “Leave it to Molly to keep a kid secret from the whole damn world.”
Ellie turns to me. “Okay. Now we know that she’s sticking to her story. What’s next?”
I shrug. “Next, I need to find a job in case moving to Florida doesn’t pan out.”
She nods and heads to where my laptop is sitting on the table. “Let’s get to it.”
Jake
I have a key to Ava’s, so although I’m not breaking any laws when I let myself in on Friday night, I’m definitely in ethically shady territory. She won’t return my calls, and her responses to my text messages are monosyllabic more often than not. Then tonight, Lilly came home from play practice, chattering on as she always is, and said Miss Ava is spending her weekend in Florida. “Isn’t she lucky?”
Florida. Seaside Community Schools and the job I’d pushed from my mind as the least of my worries. Suddenly, it’s jumped to the top of that list.
She’s on her couch with her computer on her lap and her headphones over her ears. She jumps when I come into the living room. Her eyes widen, and she yanks the headphones off. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m making you talk to me.”
She shrugs and puts her computer on the end table. “Okay. Talk.”
Hope is a bubble in my throat, and now that she’s in front of me, it all feels so fragile. Now that I’m here, I’m afraid my words will be met with the anger still so clear in her eyes.
I’m not sure where to start. “Noah isn’t mine.”
“That’s what you said in your text.”
“Molly said we never slept together that night.”
A flicker of something—hope? understanding?—brightens her expression, but I see the moment she snuffs it out. “She said you didn’t, or you didn’t?”