22. Chapter 22
Chapter 22
Lily
"What Noah said hurt you, Carino?" Dad asks, his voice gentle as he settles into the seat beside me in the car.
"It’s not his words that hurt me, Dad," I say softly. "It’s my own regret. What happened that night—it was my fault. I can’t blame anyone for the consequences. The guilt, the hurt, the shame—they’re mine to carry. I just hate that Noah feels like he has to walk on eggshells because of my mistake."
"I'm sure he understands," Dad says, his voice gentle. "You were young. Who doesn’t make mistakes at that age?"
"Yeah, but my mistake cost me everything," I murmur, the weight heavy in my chest.
Once we arrive at the hotel, I help Dad with his things—a suitcase, a bag, and several neatly hung shirts. The room is spacious and comfortable, yet I still feel a pang of guilt for not insisting that he stay with me. "Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me, Dad?" I finally ask, setting everything on the bed.
"I told you," he begins, shooting me a mischievous smile. "I want this to feel like a vacation."
"Okay," I reply. "Are we still on for that hike tomorrow?"
"Are you up for the six-mile loop?" he asks, pulling me into a hug and kissing my forehead.
"See you at ten," I answer before waving goodbye.
As I step outside, the brisk breeze nips at my skin, reminding me that fall is just around the corner. I slip into the car, gripping the steering wheel, and for the thousandth time, I wish I could turn back time—back to that night. If only I’d declined the party invitation. If only I’d been more responsible. If only I hadn’t taken that first drink... then the second, and the third. I strain to remember what really happened, but the mental block feels like both a curse and a blessing—a shield keeping me from reliving the biggest mistake of my life.
When the first tear rolls down my cheek, I don’t wipe it away—I know more will follow, so why bother? I’m starting my own business. I have a man in my life who loves me and a little boy filling the space in my heart left by the emptiness in my womb. My dad is here. By all accounts, I should be on top of the world, happier than ever. But right now, all I can focus on is that I will never carry life inside me.
I think of Loren and Katherine, and envy stings deep. They can give their husbands children and create a life together. I see the pride and joy on Aaron’s and Adam’s faces, and I know I’ll never see that on Noah’s. That thought alone is enough to break me.
I absentmindedly reach for my purse to grab some tissues, but when I glance beside me and into the back seat, a wave of panic hits—where’s my purse? But then relief follows when I remember I left it in Dad’s room. Frustration bubbles up as I fumble through the glove compartment, pulling out some leftover napkins and dabbing at my face. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the rear-view mirror and sigh. Maybe if I sit for a few minutes, the redness and puffiness in my eyes will fade. But who am I kidding?
I walk back into the hotel and slip into the ladies’ room. Splashing cold water on my face, I groan inwardly—this is the worst possible time for a meltdown. I stare at my reflection, debating. Should I just leave my purse and come back tomorrow? But if I go home, Noah will know something’s off—he always does—and let’s be real, I’m not exactly a pretty crier. Either way, I’ll have to explain myself. With a heavy breath, I decide to face Dad.
I reach the third floor and walk down the long hallway, the sound of voices growing clearer as I approach Dad's room. The door is slightly ajar, and I can make out two voices—one is unmistakably my father's, while the other belongs to a woman. A woman with a distinct British accent. Marian.
My heart starts pounding. The tone in their voices is not cordial, not friendly. It’s definitely an argument. I press myself against the wall, straining to catch every word without being noticed. I feel like a voyeur, intruding on something deeply private. What am I doing? I feel guilty. I should walk away, but I'm frozen, unable to pull myself away.
"I'm not going to ask you again," Dad says, his voice low and demanding.
"Let go of me!" Marian counters, her tone sharp and defiant.
"Not until you answer my question," he replies, his voice clipped. I can almost picture him grinding his teeth in frustration.
"You're hurting me, Mateo."
"I. Don't. Care," he snaps, the tension in his words palpable.
What the hell is going on in there? My mind races. Should I walk in and demand an explanation? Or maybe I should leave? But I do neither. I stay put, heart racing, praying I don’t get caught. Marian could burst through the door at any moment and catch me eavesdropping. That would be a disaster. I try to breathe deeply, willing my heart to calm its erratic thumping in my chest.
"I did the math, Marian." Dad's voice is laced with accusation. The math? What is he talking about? I try to focus making out every word.
"When I met Noah," he says, "and he told me he was Shay David, I thought back to six years ago when I met a gorgeous English woman in Mérida. Do you remember? I mean how many Shay Davids could there be?"
As silence hangs heavily between them, it dawns on me that they know each other.
"Do you remember?!" Dad's voice rises. "You told me your husband's name was Shay David."
How long before Marian storms out of there? God, help me. Please don’t let them find me here. Why would God help me? I haven’t talked to Him in years, and what would He protect—a snoop, a meddler like me?
Wait... What did he just say? Shay David... Mérida... My mind races to connect all the pieces. Oh, God, no! This can’t be happening. No, not this . While Noah was at the writer’s conference, his wife had an affair—with my father.
"Look, Mateo." Marian’s voice is calm, too calm, and it throws me off. "Noah was busy, and I was bored. You were just… there. Tall, dark, and gorgeous. Right place, right time. That’s all it was. We had fun, but it was a fling. Nothing more."
"You’re right," Dad says, his voice hardening. "It was just a fling. But you still haven’t answered my question. Is Davey my son?"
Dad's words echo in my ears, sounding distant, as if they're coming from the far end of a long, dark tunnel, muffled by the sound of my breath catching. I swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat and press my hand over my mouth to stifle what might be a yelp, a scream, or maybe vomit. I don't know.
I struggle to keep my breathing steady, pressing my hand tighter over my mouth. If I make a sound, even the slightest gasp, they'll know I'm here. My heart hammers in my chest. A tear rolls down my face, and I’m jolted by the realization that I'm crying, completely overcome by the sheer terror of the moment. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to regain control, but the warm trickle of despair reminds me that this isn’t a nightmare; I'm wide awake.
"Is he my son?" Dad asks again, his voice insistent and heavy. The walls seem to close in on me as the weight of this revelation sinks in, suffocating me. I take a step away from the door because I don't know if I can bear to hear the answer. My legs tremble, threatening to give out beneath me, but I manage to stumble away. Desperate to escape, I find the nearest stairwell and push the door open. Once inside, I slump down to the floor and weep, the tears flowing freely now, the sound of my cries echoing in the empty space.
I'm oblivious to the time as the minutes tick by, lost in my thoughts. Then it hits me—Noah’s waiting for me at home. I pull my phone from my back pocket and check the time. Almost half an hour has passed. I wait until the hiccups subside, and then I walk back to Dad’s room, wondering how I'm going to deal with this new reality. The door is now shut, so I knock softly and wait.
“Mija,” Dad greets me with a smile, but it quickly fades when he spots the unmistakable traces of my hour-long cry. His brow furrows with concern. “What’s wrong?”
"I left my purse here," I mutter, brushing past him.
His voice softens, “Why are you crying?”
That simple question breaks through the wall I’ve been holding up, and before I can stop myself, my words come tumbling out.
"I heard you arguing with Marian, Dad," I say, locking eyes with him. "I heard everything."
“Mija,” he starts, his voice faltering. “It’s not what you think.”
“Please, don’t lie to me,” I say, raising my hand to stop him. “You had an affair with her.”
“I didn’t know she was married, Carino,” he pleads, trying to defend himself.
“Don’t Carino me, Dad," I snap, my voice breaking.
“Let me explain,” he says, raising both hands, palms out like he’s trying to ward off an attack.
"How am I supposed to explain this to Noah?" I ask, my voice trembling. "God, how am I even going to face him?"
“It’s not your fault,” he says, reaching out for me.
“Don’t,” I reply, stepping back.
“Lily,” he begins, his voice softening. “This isn’t on us. I had no idea she was married."
"Were you two together the whole time she was there?"
"Yes," he replies, his gaze dropping to the floor. "We were together every day."
"Dad, is Davey your son?" I ask, bracing myself for the answer.
My question hangs in the air, the silence stretching painfully before he finally answers. "I don’t know," he admits, his usually bright blue eyes now clouded with uncertainty.
Unable to fight the rising nausea any longer, I sprint to the bathroom and retch violently, emptying my stomach of everything I’ve eaten today. I drop to the floor, tears streaming down my face for the third time today.
Dad walks in and tries to lift me off the floor, but I instinctively push him away. “Please,” I beg, my voice breaking. “Just give me some space.”
"I'm sorry, Mija. I'm so sorry," he says softly before stepping back and closing the door behind him. The click of the latch leaves me alone with my thoughts, the silence punishing me with every passing second.
What am I going to do now? I can't even begin to imagine how to fix this. I’m just a girl in love with a wonderful man who loves me—a girl who adores a little boy with bright blue eyes that mirror my own. A boy I thought I could help raise. A boy who might be my brother. If he’s not Noah’s son, then Noah has no children, and if he marries me, he never will. Guilt washes over me. Am I making this all about me? Am I selfish for these swirling thoughts? The immeasurable pain of losing it all crushes me. The little family I built in my mind and nurtured in my heart—gone. The fear of learning the truth feels like drowning, pulling me deeper into despair.
I kneel on the floor until my legs go numb, wishing my heart could feel the same. I know Noah is waiting for me at home, but I can’t face him right now. I need time to pull myself together. With trembling fingers, I dial his number, knowing I at least have to let him know where I am.
“Hi, Sweetheart,” Noah’s cheerful voice pierces my heart, and I fight to keep the tears at bay long enough to get through this conversation.
“Hi,” I manage, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Dad and I have been catching up, so I think I’m going to spend the night here.”
“Okay,” he replies, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “We also have plans early tomorrow, so—”
I wait for him to respond, but when he doesn’t, I add, “Everything’s fine. I’m just tired. It’s late.”
“Okay,” he replies softly. “Have a good night. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I leave the bathroom and find Dad sitting on the bed, worry etched across his face.
"What room is Marian in?" I ask, a steely resolve tinging my voice.
"Lily, you can't," Dad says, shaking his head.
"Her room number, Dad."
"Davey is asleep by now," he reminds me. "Can't this wait until tomorrow?"
"No, Dad. It can't wait until tomorrow. I have to go home tomorrow and face Noah. I need to figure out what I'm going to do right now." The urgency in my voice leaves no room for debate.
I watch as Dad rises to his feet and strides over to the adjoining door in the middle of the room, knocking softly. My mouth falls open in disbelief. “You have connecting rooms?” I ask, shaking my head in shock.
Two seconds later, the door opens, and there she stands, wearing nothing more than a scant red negligee. When she sees me, her eyes grow wide with shock, and she quickly retreats back into her room and returns moments later wearing a bathrobe.
"What are you doing here?" she demands in a hushed tone, quickly shutting the door behind her.
"A better question is, what are you doing in my father's room?"
"I'm a single woman," she counters. "It's a free country, and I can do whatever I want."
My father's face is shrouded in a mix of regret and apprehension, his eyes darting between us as the tension in the room thickens.
"Is Davey Noah's son?" I ask, cutting to the chase.
"Pardon me?" she replies, her brows knitting together in confusion.
"You heard me," I say, my voice steady. "Is Davey Noah's son, or is he the product of your affair with my father?"
Her poker face slips for a moment, revealing a flicker of shock. She’s visibly shaken, but it doesn’t take long for her to regain composure. I can almost see the gears turning in her mind as she formulates her plan of attack against me.
"I think you would be the first to agree that what can't be debated is the love Noah has for David," she smirks. "If Noah discovers David is not his son, it will devastate him. And make no mistake, I will take David away from him. Do we understand each other?" When I remain silent, she continues, "Good."
"And if Noah is his father?" I say, highlighting the obvious possibility.
"Are you willing to take that chance?" she counters. "If we keep this between us, Noah never has to know. Things will stay the way they are."
I look down, weighing her suggestion, and she waits, silent, for my response.
"If Davey is my son, I deserve to know," Dad's voice cuts through our tense standoff.
Marian ignores my father's protest and glares at me. "There's one more thing," she says, a grin spreading across her face. "You return that ring."
She's trying to blackmail me with her own infidelity. I shake my head in disbelief, meeting her gaze with defiance.
"You can't be serious!" I exclaim, the shock and anger bubbling over.
"Noah and David's continued happiness, well-being, and peace of mind rest solely on your shoulders," she says, her voice disturbingly calm. "You want to hear something interesting? Noah and I tried for ten years to get pregnant and never did. I spend one week with another man, and voilà, I'm pregnant. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Maybe our fertility issues were never about me. Maybe Noah’s the one who’s sterile. And if David isn’t his, well... he might never have a child of his own. And neither would you. Wouldn't that be tragic?"
Her words drip with contempt, the coldness slithering down my spine like a venomous snake.