Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
JULIETTE
D ean freezes. He looks at me with wide, hazel eyes, like they’re about to pop right out of his skull.
“What did you just say?” His voice is low and cold.
My hands shake. A vicious gallon of fear sits in my stomach, but I square my shoulders and meet his gaze head-on.
“PJ is your son, Dean. Our son.”
He goes rigid—like a living statue, permanently rooted in my living room. The urge to rub my sweaty palms down my jeans nearly overwhelms me, but I resist. Dean just stares, unblinking, mute. I’ve dropped a nuclear bomb on him, and now he’s off in another universe, scrambling to piece my words together. While he’s busy reeling, I finally let myself look at him properly. I couldn’t do that yesterday, not with all the shock.
He’s dressed in a red flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white T-shirt underneath. The only part of him that’s moving is his chest, which is rising and falling in a manic rhythm. He’s freaking out, and I can’t exactly blame him.
Dean’s face is paler than it used to be, his skin tired, dull, and bruised. He looks like he’s been put through the wringer—something I imagine is part and parcel of working for the mafia. Not much time for beauty sleep, I guess. His light brown hair is long and shaggy now, sweeping into his eyes. My fingers itch to trim it, just so I can see those beautiful eyes of his again.
You’re not his girlfriend anymore.
The thought hits me hard. Right. I’m not supposed to care. Dean Walsh is no longer my concern. I have to remember that I don’t love this man.
Liar.
Nope. Not going there.
“He’s mine,” Dean whispers.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Uh, you don’t understand what?”
It takes a massive effort not to blow up at him. Does he really not understand how we made a baby? Seriously?
“How the hell could he be mine? You weren’t pregnant when you left.”
I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off.
“Why would you do that? Why would you not tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The same night I left,” I say, my anger spiking as I recall that miserable night. “The night you called me a mistake. I tried to tell you then, but you didn’t want to listen.”
“Because I had just found out you were fucking cheating on me,” Dean shouts.
Exactly as I figured. He’s furious about having a kid, but then something in his words makes me stumble.
“What are you talking about, Dean? I never cheated on you.”
“Don’t lie to me, Juliette. I heard you.”
He’s getting angrier by the second. My eyes flick down the hall, toward PJ’s room. The door is shut. I just hope Jamie and Margot can keep him distracted.
“What did you hear exactly, Dean?”
Because I know damn well I never cheated on him. It’s been six years since I left, and I’ve only slept with one guy—one time. Arnie. And it was not great.
“‘Baby, I love you,’” he says in a mocking tone. “You were on the phone.”
I narrow my eyes, rifling through my memories of that night. I’d gone to see Cian earlier in the day to get a blood test. I wanted to be sure before telling Dean. While waiting for my doctor to call, I kept myself as busy as possible. And then, finally, I remember the phone call.
A laugh bubbles out of my throat, and Dean’s face hardens. I laugh harder, because if I don’t, I’ll cry.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?”
“You,” I say. “You are an idiot.”
“Excuse me? What does this have to do with you cheating on me?”
“Because I wasn’t cheating on you, Dean. I was on the phone with Cian, finding out about the baby—PJ.”
My voice cracks as I throw those words at him. I didn’t think there was anything that could make me hate Dean Walsh more, but apparently, I was wrong.
Dean’s face falls. His eyes flood with guilt as it finally sinks in.
“W-what?”
For six years, I’ve tortured myself, wondering what went wrong—if I somehow caused it or if he’d been trying to protect me from some sort of threat. But this? This is just a huge, tragic misunderstanding that one simple conversation could have cleared up. Six years of my life, gone, because Dean didn’t trust me enough to ask one freaking question.
“Bluebi—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt. “You fucked up, Dean, and that stupid pet name won’t fix it.”
It feels like someone ripped my heart out, scraped away all the scabs, and then poured salt on the raw flesh.
“I know,” he says quietly. “But you still should’ve told me about PJ. I deserved that much.”
“And I deserved a conversation. But you didn’t give me that, did you?”
I rake my hands through my hair, pulling it just enough to stave off the burning rage. If I don’t, I might actually kill PJ’s father right here in my living room.
“You let your feelings for me keep me from my son,” he says, stoking my fury even more.
I know he’s right. I should’ve told him, or at least tried harder. But if he’d asked me once—just once—this might have gone differently.
“None of this would’ve happened if you had just asked me—or let me fucking talk to you,” I snap. “That’s always been your problem. You decide what’s best and cling to it like it’s the truth. But you’re clueless. A fucking waste.”
Six years. They could’ve been so different. We could’ve been so different.
Dean flexes his hands, his breathing ragged. He’s just as angry as I am, and neither of us is willing to see the other’s side. Maybe this is how it always would have ended. Even if he hadn’t kicked me to the curb back then, there’s no guarantee we would’ve lasted. It still hurts like hell, though.
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” he hisses. “I thought you loved me.”
“Now you know how I felt,” I mutter under my breath.
“Is that why you did it, Juliette?” he demands, voice shaking with rage. “To punish me for hurting your feelings? Is that why you hid my son from me?”
His hazel eyes burn. I’ve seen Dean angry a thousand times, but never directed at me. Now I see exactly why he’s Declan’s guard dog.
I take a step back. “I did it to protect our son. It was obvious you didn’t want me; I assumed you wouldn’t want him, either.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he roars.
“Lower your voice when you’re speaking to my sister, motherfucker.”
My brother, Warren, stands in the doorway to the kitchen. He’s sweaty from a run, his expression grim. Shit. I didn’t plan on him discovering Dean in Ireland.
I turn back to Dean, whose face has gone ashen at the sight of Warren—the brother who’s supposed to be dead. The gears in his head are turning.
“How many more secrets do you have, Juliette?” he asks, his voice cold and unyielding. “How many more lies?”
“Look, I know what I did was wrong, but it was the only thing I knew how to do, okay? You broke my heart, Dean. I was just trying to survive.”
“Bullshit. You left out of selfishness.”
“Fuck you, Dean.”
“Everything okay?” Jamie asks, stepping out of PJ’s room.
“Fine,” I say quickly, wiping the hot tears from my face. I hate that I cry when I’m angry. “Is PJ okay?”
“He’s fine. Ready for lunch.”
“I’ll be in the car,” Dean says. Then he stomps across my living room and out the front door, acting like a spoiled toddler. Believe me, I know a thing or two about tantrums—PJ’s thrown some epic ones.
“What the hell?” Jamie glances at me. “What happened?”
“He didn’t take the news well.”
Jamie’s brows crease. “I thought he’d be happy,” he murmurs.
I shrug. This is exactly what I expected. I knew Dean would be furious—though I figured it’d be more about suddenly having a kid, not just that I kept it hidden. But clearly, it’s both.
He has every right to be angry, but so do I. How could he ever believe I cheated on him? Has he thought that all these years? At the airport, he said he’d been looking for me. If he truly believed I’d cheated, why bother searching?
I thought telling him the truth would make me feel better, but it doesn’t. If anything, I feel even worse—like this weight has finally been lifted from me, only to reveal a thousand fresh wounds underneath.