Chapter 14 Noelle
NOELLE
It’s been three days since I stormed out of that hotel room with Eli in one hand and my shattered dignity in the other.
Three days of silence.
Three days of trying not to check my phone every five minutes for a message that’ll never come because I blocked them all. Three days of pretending that I don’t care.
The first night, I didn’t sleep. Not even for a second.
Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined Grant and Callum standing in an aisle inside of Milton’s Hardware and Supply, their faces drawn tight with anger.
I imagined Jared’s smug grin, the one I know he would’ve worn during that entire confrontation.
Not because he was right, but because he knows exactly how to twist the knife to make it hurt most.
And then I imagined the fallout.
The aftermath of them all getting kicked out.
I’d thought maybe, just maybe, I could have a normal life again after the three of them had blown into town.
That the worst was behind me despite my fears that our shared secret would come to live.
That peace wasn’t just a fantasy I used to cling to between police showing up at my door trying to convince me to give Jared another chance because he was just misunderstood, and the whispered gossip that I was a bitch for teasing him about fatherhood in the first place.
I thought that what I was rebuilding with the men that I actually did want in my son’s life, the ones I knew would be a better example than the man I thought I wanted years ago, might finally hold.
But that phone call from Jared shattered every illusion I ever held in one single blow.
The second I heard his voice on the other end of the unknown number he called me from, the rage laced with triumph as he spat at me, something inside me buckled.
“Your little heroes showed up today,” he’d said, laughing. “Guess they think they can scare me off. Maybe I should remind them which one of us actually belongs to this town. You know the cops will always be on my side, right?”
That wasn’t just a threat. It wasn’t even a warning shot.
It was a bullet that hit dead center in the middle of every single sliver of hope I’d managed to collect, shattering all of it completely.
I wanted to scream.
Not at him, but at them.
At all three of them for thinking I needed saving.
For acting like I was some fragile thing they could shelter from the storm that was my ex when they went and made things worse by stirring old problems up.
For believing that showing up to his workplace with their fists clenched and their righteous anger would fix what an entire year’s worth of manipulation and threats over custody couldn’t.
It didn’t matter that Jared wasn’t Eli’s biological father.
It didn’t matter that Evelyn’s claims to her “grandson” were bogus.
What mattered was that the people in this town believed I owed both of them something because of my young and naive stupidity to let them into my, and Eli’s, life in the first place.
Truth didn’t matter when my lie is what got me entangled in that mess to begin with.
Underneath all of my anger and frustration sits something else, though.
Guilt.
Because when I told Grant and Callum to stay out of it, I heard the way their voices changed.
The shock, the uncertainty, the desperation as I slipped between their fingers.
I can’t take back any of what I said to them.
I had to draw a line somewhere.
For Eli’s sake.
For mine.
He’s been my only focus these past three days.
Every morning he wakes up, curls his small hand into mine, and asks if they’re ever going to come around again.
At the shop, he watches out the window and hopes they’ll stop by again. I never have the heart to tell him no.
A part of me wants to cave.
To pick up the phone that sits on my nightstand every night and call them, just to say something.
To ask if they’re okay, to tell them I miss them so much it hurts.
But every time I reach for the phone, I remember the sound of my own voice that day when I told them, “I told you I could handle this on my own.”
I meant it when I said it. I think I still do.
But that doesn’t stop the ache that comes with the absence that followed after it was all said and done.
Because the truth is, I didn’t just cut all ties with them when I said not to contact me again. I cut out the one sliver of safety and security I’d started to believe in.
And now I’m back to where I started.
Alone.
I should be relieved. I should feel better knowing my secret will never be exposed.
But all I feel is hollow.
I end up telling Eli they went back to their home state.
The lie rolls off my tongue smoother than I’d like to admit. It’s small, simple, easy enough for him to believe, but it carves a hole in my chest every time I repeat it.
It had been born out of desperation, because after almost every morning since we’d left the hotel, he’d ask with his mouth full of cereal, eyes wide and expectant: “Will they come by today? So we can play out in the snow?” and I had no idea what to say.
Or when I’d tuck him in at night and he’d whisper, “Can they come over to read me a bedtime story? Maybe tomorrow night?”
Every time he’d ask, I’d feel it.
That pinch behind my ribs, sharp and unexpected.
So, on the third night, I smiled through it, smoothed his hair back, and kissed his forehead before saying, “They went back to their home state, sweetheart. They had to work.”
He’d been sad but trusted me without question because that’s what kids do.
It’s selfish, I know. I could tell him the truth that I’m the reason he can’t see them anymore, that I’m the one who drew the line in the sand and told them to stay away.
But how do you explain that to a five-year-old?
How do you make a child understand that sometimes love gets messy, and protection doesn’t always look kind?
He wouldn’t understand why I’m angry, or scared, or why hearing Jared’s voice still makes my stomach knot until I’m nauseous.
He wouldn’t understand that the men he looks up to, the ones who did everything they could to make him laugh, might not come back .
Not because they stopped caring, but because I pushed them away to keep us safe.
If I let Eli keep hoping, if I let him wait by the door or ask to call them again, it’ll destroy me.
I can’t carry that kind of guilt.
I can’t handle watching my child’s faith crumble when he realizes the people he loves aren’t coming back.
So I keep lying. Not out of malice, but out of mercy for him.
And maybe, if I’m being honest, for me too.
Dad never mentions the lie, never corrects me.
He just stays quiet and spends his free time with his friends away from our home, but the disappointment in his gaze still lingers on my back.
Yet I know he wouldn’t be feeling this way if he knew the truth.
And that’s what gives me the motivation to keep going.
To get some sense of normalcy back into my life, I close up my shop early on Thursday and take Eli to the grocery store with me.
The bell above the door jingles as I lock it behind us, and for once, the sound doesn’t feel festive, it just feels depressing.
The little sign flipped to Closed in the window feels like an admission of defeat, but I need a break.
A night away from the endless hum of customers coming in to buy their loved ones gifts, the smell of my pine and cinnamon candles, and the pitying looks of those who ask if I’ll be spending Christmas “with family” after picking up on my horrible mood.
Dad’s birthday is tomorrow, and since it falls three weeks before Christmas, every store in town has been pure chaos.
The grocery store is no exception.
Even the parking lot feels like a battleground with honking horns, carts rolling free, and people bundled up shoving past each other like the world might run out of sugar and butter if they don’t hurry.
So I figure getting my shopping done a day early and prepping tonight can’t hurt.
It’s an excuse, really.
Something to keep my hands busy, my mind distracted.
Anything’s better than standing behind the counter pretending to care about wreaths and wrapping paper when all I can think about is the sound of that phone call replaying over and over in my head.
Eli’s restless the moment I put him in the cart.
He kicks his little sneakers against the metal bar behind his heel, humming some half-remembered Christmas tune.
Normally I’d smile at that, maybe join in just to make him laugh, but tonight I just feel bone-deep tired.
“Mama,” he says, drawing out the word like he’s testing how far my patience will stretch. “Can we get the marshmallow pops that we saw last time? The rainbow-colored ones?”
I sigh, pushing the cart toward the back of the store. “We’ll see, buddy. Let’s get Grampy’s cake stuff first.”
He pouts, folding his arms. It’s a look that would be funny if it didn’t mirror my own mood so perfectly. “You said that last time we were here…and then we never got them because you said you forgot…”
“I know.” My voice comes out flat, distant even to my own ears.
He huffs and kicks the cart again.
Normally, I’d tell him to stop, maybe even threaten to take away his tablet for the night, but I don’t because I know this isn’t just about marshmallows or him not getting his way.
He’s been like this all day—whiny, easily frustrated, talking back in ways that are so unlike him that it startled me the first few times it happened.
I know exactly why he’s misbehaving.
It’s not the holidays, or the crowds, or the sugar crash from the cookie dough he snuck this morning from Mrs. Ida’s fresh batch when we popped next door for a quick snack.
It’s me.
Eli’s always been sensitive to his surroundings, even as a baby.
He’s the kind of kid who notices when your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, or when your voice trembles even though you’re saying everything’s fine.
He’s smart, maybe too smart for his own good sometimes, and lately he’s been picking up on my moods like a sponge soaking up a spill.