Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
JULIETTE
“ I s Arnie my dad?”
PJ’s voice stops me cold. My hand freezes mid-air, laundry clutched just above the duffel bag I’m packing.
“What?”
“Arnie—is he my dad?”
His question slams into me like a gut punch. Of all the things I’ve prepped for—like how to handle it when PJ inevitably asks about his father—this? This wasn’t on my radar. I don’t even know how to feel. The idea of marrying Arnie doesn’t spark any excitement in me.
Then, why do it at all?
My brows pinch together. Why am I dating Arnie? The only reason I can come up with is to give PJ a father figure. But if I’m not truly happy, wouldn’t that do more harm than good? My mother would say it’s better to be happy than to sacrifice everything, but being a parent is about sacrifice, right?
Fuck, I’m so confused. But I do know one thing: PJ can’t believe that Arnie is his real dad.
Slowly, I place the folded clothes into the duffel before turning to meet PJ’s gaze. His hazel eyes are brimming with curiosity and, worse, hope. My heart cracks like a fragile ornament.
I open my mouth, but the words refuse to come. Unsure of what else to do, I push the duffel aside and sit on my plush bed.
“Come here,” I say softly, patting the gray comforter next to me.
As PJ climbs up, I rummage through my brain for a way to explain my choices. The only answer is the one I hate most: honesty. I’d love to blame everything on Dean, but that’s not fair. I ran off before he had a say in anything. How the fuck am I supposed to explain that to a five-year-old?
My gaze drifts to a framed picture on the nightstand—my dad’s face, smiling back at me. He was always so joyful and unburdened, even with the kind of work he did. He only spilled blood when there was no other option. My brother follows that same moral code now. Maybe they aren’t the most ruthless, but they always get the job done.
I pick up the photo, brushing my fingertips over the gentle crinkles by his eyes. “Remember your Grandpa Patrick?”
PJ nods. “I’m named after him…and the great boxer, Jamie Walsh.”
“That’s right, buddy. You are.”
He tilts his head. “What about them?”
God, he’s growing so fast—too fast. And this is only the start of the tough conversations. There’s every chance he’ll want to meet Dean someday. My chest tightens with anxiety. Have I been selfish? I feel like I’m a terrible mom for not considering any of this before.
“Mom?”
The fog in my head clears just enough to see PJ. I’m on the verge of a panic attack. My chest constricts, but I can’t break down in front of him. He shouldn’t see me battling my anxiety. I inhale slowly, trying to recall the grounding techniques my therapist taught me—if only I could remember them better right now.
“Mom?”
His worried voice amplifies my panic. While my body is frozen in place, my mind’s going a thousand miles an hour. But then PJ’s small hand lands on my arm. The contact anchors me, reminding me of one of those exercises: focus on the five senses.
Touch: PJ’s hand.
Smell: the apple pie in the oven—store-bought, naturally, because I’m nowhere near patient enough to bake from scratch. Unless it’s pecan pie, which is definitely worth the effort.
Focus, Juliette.
Hearing: Warren in the living room, talking to someone on the phone.
Little by little, I come back to the present.
“I’m here,” I manage.
“What about Grandpa Patrick and Jamie?”
I hesitate. Shit, I forgot where I was going with that. “Uh, I don’t remember what I was going to say.”
PJ laughs. His laughter coaxes a small chuckle out of me, too. “Can you answer my question now? Arnie is my dad, isn’t he?”
I inhale deeply, trying to quell the alarm bells in my head. “No,” I say. “Arnie isn’t your father.”
PJ’s shoulders slump, and the sadness on his face squeezes my chest.
“Oh, okay.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo. Why did you ask?”
He shrugs. “Emory said he must be because you kiss him sometimes. He said mommies can only kiss daddies.”
My mind reels. “Uh, well, that’s not entirely true.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every family is different, kiddo. Some families have two mommies or two daddies. Sometimes kids live with grandparents instead of parents.”
“Oh…so our family is just me, you, and Uncle Warren?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Will Arnie be part of our family?”
My mouth goes dry. “I’m not sure. Maybe someday if we get married.”
The second the words slip out, I wish I could snatch them back.
His eyes light up. “Then he can be my dad if you get married.”
It’s a statement—not a question—and laced with so much hope. I can’t bring myself to crush that hope by telling him there’s almost no chance of me marrying Arnie.
“Hey, have you packed your toothbrush yet?” I ask, swiftly changing the subject.
PJ shakes his head.
“Go grab it. We need to finish packing.”
He hops off the bed and races out of the room, heading for the bathroom he and Warren share. As soon as he’s gone, I press my palms to my face. Relief, guilt, fear—I’m not even sure what I’m feeling. It’s like I’ve just tiptoed through a minefield. No panic attack this time, but I’m wiped out.
I flop back on the bed. How many more of these conversations can I survive? How do other parents handle this?
Then again, other parents aren’t running halfway across the world to hide from their kid’s father.
I rub my temples, wishing I could root out the cruel, nagging voice in my head. Life would be a lot simpler if my brain wasn’t fighting me twenty-four-seven.
A sudden beep right next to my ear jolts me upright, my heart pounding. My phone. Of course. I exhale hard at my own jumpiness, then pick up the device and drop back onto the bed.
One message from Arnie. Probably letting me know he’s on his way to get us. Dread wells up inside me—I really don’t want to meet his parents.
Another beep, and my phone lights up again. Startled, I drop it, and it lands on my face.
“Way to go, Juliette. You’re a fucking disaster.”
“I heard that!” PJ yells from the hallway. “Money for the swear jar, Mom!”
I lift the phone off my stinging face, half irritated and half impressed that he caught my slip. He definitely has selective hearing.
Then the phone rings. A picture of Arnie and PJ flashes on the screen. With a sigh, I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Juliette, hey. Did you get my messages?”
“Uh, we’ve been packing, so I must’ve missed them.”
He exhales. “I’ve got bad news. I have to leave the country for work—last minute. Can we reschedule this weekend?”
A weight settles in my chest. PJ’s going to be heartbroken. The tiny dose of relief I might’ve felt is buried under how much this will hurt him.
“Really? PJ’s going to be sad.”
“I know,” Arnie sighs. “I’m sorry. If I had any other option, I’d stay. I promise I’ll make it up to both of you.”
“Yeah, no, I get it. Your job is important. We can always visit your hometown another time.”
“Thanks, Juliette. Please tell PJ I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you guys, I swear.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Have a safe trip.”
“Thanks. Hey, can I ask a favor?”
I tense. “Sure. What’s up?”
“Could you pick me up at the Dublin airport next week?”
My stomach plummets. Dublin is on the opposite side of Ireland, and I avoid that place like the plague. Arnie doesn’t know why.
“Um, you don’t have a friend who’s closer?” I ask.
“No. Too busy?”
“Uh…” I’m stalling, uncertain if I should lie or tell him I’m afraid someone in Dublin might recognize me—and who I really am.
“It’s fine if you can’t,” he says. “I’ll just rent a car and drive myself. It’ll cost more, but I’ll figure it out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Arnie replies. “Just hope I’m not too exhausted from the trip.”
Guilt crushes me. What kind of girlfriend am I if I make him drive across Ireland simply because I’m terrified of being spotted by someone who might know Dean? If something happened to Arnie, it would destroy PJ. Maybe I should just do it. Stay in the car, avoid being seen. No one will recognize me.
“I can pick you up.”
I blurt it out before I can change my mind, and a sense of dread sinks in as Arnie tells me he loves me and hangs up. It’s stupid. I haven’t been to Dublin since I was a baby. My family lived there before we moved to Vegas. What are the chances anyone remembers the McBride family, anyway?
Right?