22. Adrian
Chapter twenty-two
Adrian
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, the ice cubes clinking like a chime of regret. There’s a silence in the house that Caleb’s snores from down the hall barely dent. It’s nearly 9 p.m., and here I am sitting solo in the semi-darkness, letting the shadows play on the walls as the fight with Isabella plays on a loop in my head.
Work issues—that’s how it all kicked off, but damn if it didn’t spiral into something uglier, something personal. She wants the whole package: love, commitment, the white picket fence. And honestly? So do I. But I hesitated, one stupid moment of doubt, and now she thinks I’m not all-in for her or the baby.
We didn’t even get to the gender reveal.
The liquid fire in my glass does little to warm the chill of loneliness creeping up my spine. Then the door swings open, no knock—because who needs courtesy when you’re family—and there stands my mom, eyes wide at my disheveled state.
“Adrian,” she starts, voice laced with that maternal brand of worry, “what happened?”
“Isabella and I had a disagreement,” I mutter, the taste of understatement bitter on my tongue .
“Disagreement?” She arches an eyebrow, folding her arms. “That’s why you’re drinking? Over a disagreement?”
I offer a shrug, the gesture feeble even to me. “It got ... messy. We dove headfirst into some deep stuff. Commitment stuff.”
Her gaze is all laser focus and silent “go on”.
“Let’s just say, she might have the impression that I’m not serious. About her. About our future.” The words hang there between us, heavy and sour.
“Adrian Cole, since when do you let a good thing walk out of your life without a fight?” Her tone suggests she’s ready to ground me, and hell, I’m thirty-six years old.
“Since I turned into a walking cliche, apparently.” I lift the glass, eyeing the amber liquid like it holds some kind of truth serum. “Tonight’s special feature: successful lawyer, single dad, clueless with women.”
“Enough with the self-pity,” she says, voice sharp enough to cut through my bourbon haze. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Right now?” I glance at the clock, considering another drink. “Drown in this rather than my thoughts?”
I slump further into the couch, my mother’s silhouette framed by the dim light of the living room lamp.
“Have you even called her?” Her voice slices through the fog of self-loathing that’s settled around me.
I shake my head, staring at the half-empty glass cradled in my hand. “Why bother?” The words fall flat, defeated before they even hit the air. “She’s not going to believe me. She’ll think I’m only backtracking because of the baby.”
“Adrian,” she starts, and there’s that tone, the one that used to send me straightening up in my high chair. “When you want something, you go after it. You’re straightforward, determined. But now, suddenly, you’re a mute?”
“Mom, it’s complicated,” I try, but she’s having none of it.
“Life’s complicated. You still have to deal with it.” She stops pacing and faces me, her eyes like twin lasers boring into mine. “You need to tell her how you really feel.”
“Feelings,” I scoff, swirling the drink. “Since when did they ever simplify things?”
“Since always, if they’re true,” she counters, unflappable as ever.
“Colette happened,” I remind her, and the name tastes like stale coffee on my tongue.
“Isabella isn’t Colette,” she fires back with surgical precision. “That woman was a walking red flag. Hell, she led the parade. Isabella is—”
“Nothing like her,” I admit grudgingly, the truth of it settling in my chest. It feels like a kick to the gut.
“Exactly.” My mother nods, vindicated. “You’ve known Isabella since you were ten. She’s seen you with food poisoning, bad haircuts, and through your ‘experimental’ music phase in college. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
“Experimental phase” is putting it lightly. I wince at the memory of my first and last rave.
“Point is, she’s in love with you, and you’re head over heels for her,” she continues. “Don’t throw that away because you’re scared.”
“Scared?” I echo, trying to inject some bravado into the word.
“Terrified,” she corrects, and damn it, she’s right. Because underneath all the sarcasm and swagger, there’s a part of me that’s absolutely petrified of messing it all up again. “Do you think your father jumped right into marriage with me? He had cold feet about commitment and family. It wasn’t ‘part of his plan.’”
“What changed his mind? ”
“Knowing I wouldn’t wait for him. When I showed him that I’d walk away if he kept stringing me along, he finally came to his senses. He admitted that he wanted marriage, too.” She smiles to herself now. “Before he died, he said deciding to start a family with me was the best decision he ever made.”
“Love makes fools of us all,” I say, trying for a philosophical note and failing miserably.
“Then be a fool,” she challenges, her eyes softening just a touch. “But be a fool who fights for what he wants.”
I look down at the drink in my hand, the liquid courage that suddenly seems more like cowardice. And then at my mother, the epitome of tough love standing before me.
“Go talk to her, Adrian. Before it’s too late.” Her voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency that I can’t ignore.
“Alright,” I concede, pushing myself up from the depths of the couch. “I’ll go.”
“Good,” she says, satisfaction coloring her words. “Now put that glass down. You’ve got work to do.”
I place the glass on the table with a clink, the sound of a starting bell for the fight I should’ve been waging from the beginning.
The corners of Isabella’s image in my mind start to sharpen, each line drawing her further away from the ghost of Colette. Isabella, with her relentless logic and that infuriatingly endearing way that she scrunches her nose when she’s deep in thought. Always pushing forward, always honest. Honesty—a concept Colette treated like an optional accessory.
My contemplation is shattered by the jarring buzz of my phone. Sam Velasquez’s name lights up the screen, and confusion sets in. We’re friendly, sure, but our conversations usually don’t go beyond “Your kid just spilled his juice” at parent-teacher conferences .
“Adrian, listen,” Sam cuts in before I can even get a “hey” sideways. His voice has that edge, the kind that says this isn’t about juice stains or bake sales. “I need to tell you something very important.”
“What is it, Sam?”
“Leo’s gone rogue,” he says, dropping it like a hammer. “I overheard a conversation between him and my boss earlier today. He’s planning to take down the merger, and he’s doing it with my firm—Lancaster it’s sprinting like it’s got a finish line to cross. The buzzing in my ears isn’t just from the shock of Sam’s bombshell—it’s pure, unadulterated guilt. I’ve been a first-class idiot, letting my misplaced trust in Leo blind me to Isabella’s sharp instincts. Mom’s voice slices through the fog of betrayal, “Adrian, what’s wrong?”
I wave her off, fingers fumbling over my phone screen to text Isabella. I need to tell her right away. But there’s no answer, no comforting “ding” to signal she’s heard me. Tapping into my overly concerned baby daddy skills, I check her location. Bingo—she’s at the office. She didn’t come into work today, though. Why would she suddenly be there now?
“Mom, can you watch Caleb?” My voice comes out more desperate than I intend. “I need to go see Isabella.”
“Of course,” she replies, eyes narrowing in concern. Mothers—gotta love their built-in worry radar.
I’m all thumbs as I snatch my jacket, keys jingling a frantic melody as I scoop them up. If I were a superhero, my superpower would be screwing things up at light speed.
“Adrian,” Mom calls after me, her tone laced with a mix of caution and care, “be honest with her.”
“Plan A,” I mutter, because let’s face it, Plan B is basically “Adrian screws up again.”
The night air slaps me awake as I stride to the car. It’s time to put on the charm, unleash the wit, and for once, get real with the one person who’s seen through my polished facade. As I peel out of the driveway, I can only hope that Isabella’s still willing to listen, and that I can fix the unfixable before it’s too late.