CHAPTER SEVEN
KADE
I should know. I should know about her hormones. About the things that make her sick now. And I hate that he does.
I push my plate away, throwing the napkin down but keeping my eyes on Eden. She glances at the half-eaten steak, and I almost smile at her predictability. “Have it,” I say, pushing it closer to her.
“I’m fine with pasta,” she mutters, her cheeks blushing slightly.
“Eden,” I say firmly, and her eyes rise to mine, “eat the damn steak. I’m done.”
She bites her lip to stop the smile as I stab the steak and put it on her plate. Whenever we ate out, which wasn’t often in the later days, she’d order something bland and spend the rest of the meal eyeing up my food. And I always made sure to leave her half. It just became a thing.
When the dessert menu arrives, Peter glances at his watch. “I should take off.”
Eden’s hand shoots out, gripping his arm like it’s a lifeline, and I look away, jaw tight, determined not to let the jealousy crawl up my spine.
“I’ll come too,” she offers quickly.
“No,” he says gently. “I know how much you love dessert.” He smiles at her, soft and familiar, and I picture myself strangling him with his own damn belt. Then he turns to me. “Kade, it was a pleasure.” He reaches for his wallet.
I lift a hand. “I’ve got it covered.”
He hesitates. “If you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
He tucks the notes away and leans down, pressing a kiss to Eden’s head. “Text me when you’re home.”
“I’ll get her there safely,” I cut in, my smile tight.
He studies me for a second then nods stiffly and heads out.
The silence he leaves behind is loud.
We both pretend to read the menu. When the waiter returns, I order two lemon meringues without looking at her. I know it’s one of her favourites. Always has been.
As I hand the menu back, I catch the faint curve of Eden’s smile before she schools it away, and the sight of it gives another glimmer of hope.
“We didn’t do this enough,” I say quietly.
“At all,” she corrects.
I lean back, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “That’s not true. We went on dates all the time at the beginning.”
“Three times,” she says flatly.
“Three great dates,” I counter. “One of which ended with us getting hot and bothered in a bathroom.”
Colour creeps into her cheeks, and I lean forward slightly, my fingers hovering close to hers on the table. “Good times.”
She clears her throat. “So . . . visiting.” I frown. She draws in a slow breath. “How often? Where? When?”
“I’m not following.”
“Visitation,” she says clearly. “With the baby. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“All in good time.”
Her hands clasp together, knuckles whitening. “I’m not sitting here reminiscing about bad decisions and three mediocre dates, Kade. Did you really think reminding me about sex and nostalgia would make me fall back into your arms?”
“Of course not,” I lie.
“Good.” Her eyes don’t leave mine. “Let’s talk about visitation.”
I ignore her and pull a folded leaflet from my pocket, sliding it across the table. “I booked us in for this.”
She snatches it up, scanning it quickly. “I’m already registered.”
“I know. The woman running it told me. I added my name.”
Her glare is sharp enough to cut. “Why?”
I shrug, honest for once. “Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and apparently, these classes help.”
“You won’t be at the birth,” she says, anger shaking her voice.
I smile, slow and certain. “Oh, I absolutely will.”
Her eye twitches—there it is—and before she can explode, I reach across and take her hand.
“I didn’t say it enough,” I murmur, “but I love you, Queenie.”
She yanks her hand back like I burned her.
“Don’t call me that,” she hisses.
And just like that, the distance between us stretches wide again. It’s like we have two steps forward and three back.
The desserts arrive. Two lemon meringues. Identical, neat peaks of toasted sugar with bright yellow centres. The smell hits me first, sharp and sweet, and it drags me back to a thousand small moments I didn’t realise were slipping through my fingers.
“You made this once,” I say thoughtfully.
“Several times, actually. I craved it at the beginning of my pregnancy.” Then she scoffs, cold and angry. “Oh, I forgot, you weren’t around then.”
I let it go, deciding that biting back won’t fix anything.
She doesn’t make any move to touch the dessert, and eventually, I look up. “You’re not eating.”
Her eyes flick up then away again. “I will.”
“You said that last time.”
Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t ask you to monitor me.”
I lean back in my chair, forcing my hands to stay flat on the table instead of reaching for her again. “Old habits.”
“Exactly,” she replies.
We fall silent, and the low hum of the room around us—cutlery clinking, murmured conversations, laughing—seems to grow louder. Everyone else is living their normal, uncomplicated lives while mine feels like it’s balancing on a blade.
“You looked happy last night,” I say after a moment. “When I walked in the pub.”
She stills, just for a second. It’s subtle, but I see it. “That was before,” she says quietly.
“Before I showed up?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t come here to ruin your life,” I say.
“And yet,” she murmurs.
I huff out a breath. “I came because I can’t stand the thought of you doing this without me.”
She finally looks at me, and her eyes shine with something raw and dangerous. “You already let me.”
“That’s not fair.”
She lets out a humourless laugh. “You don’t get to decide what’s fair anymore, Kade.”
The knife twists.
“I’m trying,” I say, my voice low. “I’m here. I drove hours. I’m sitting across from you while your . . . boyfriend just walked out.”
“Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re entitled to comment on my life, on who I choose to keep around.”
I sit there, staring at her, realising with a slow, sick dread that I’ve been walking into every conversation expecting her to still belong to me in some way. Like loving her automatically gave me a claim.
But it doesn’t.
“I don’t think you understand,” I say carefully. “I’m not here to take anything from you.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re circling?” she fires back. “Why does it feel like you’re waiting for me to slip?”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she insists. “You did it before. You stayed close, watched me unravel, and never once asked the right questions.”
My throat tightens. “I was scared,” I admit. “And I don’t do scared well.”
“No,” she says softly, “you do control.”
Her words hurt because they’re true. Silence stretches between us again. The lemon meringue sits untouched, slowly melting, the perfect peak collapsing in on itself.
She exhales, pressing a hand to her stomach in an absent, protective gesture that nearly brings me to my knees.
“It moves more at night,” she says suddenly. “Or maybe that’s just when I notice it more.”
I swallow, glad for the change of subject. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. Mostly it’s just . . . strange. I’m sharing my body with a tiny person.” She smiles to herself as she stares down at her bump.
I nod. “I wish I could feel.”
Her lips press together, emotion flickering across her face before she shutters it away. She finally lifts her fork, taking a small bite, and I watch like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“I’m not promising you anything,” she says, not looking at me. “Not forgiveness. Not reconciliation. Not even friendship.”
“I’m not asking for promises.”
She meets my gaze again. “Good, because right now, all I can offer is boundaries.”
I nod slowly. “Then I’ll respect them.”
She studies my face, searching for cracks, for anger, for the old me. When she doesn’t find it, something in her expression softens.
“Finish your dessert,” I say gently. “Please.” She hesitates then takes another bite. “Thank you.”
EDEN
Kade insists on settling the bill, and then we walk the short distance back to my place in silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the kind that presses in on your chest and makes you hyperaware of every step, every breath.
We stop outside the gate.
The streetlight casts his face in shadow, and when I finally look up at him, I see it—the hesitation, the pull. He’s thinking about kissing me. I know it. My stomach flips, my heart stutters.
I step back immediately, clearing my throat and glancing towards the house like it might save me.
“I should get inside,” I say. “Martha’s probably waiting up.”
He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. “Yeah. Right.” Then, quieter, “Thanks for agreeing to have dinner with me.”
I force a smile.
“Would it be okay if I came to the antenatal class tomorrow?” he asks. There’s no edge to it, no demand. Just hope.
I bite my lower lip, choosing my words like they might detonate if I’m careless. Eventually, I sigh. “It’s not a good idea.”
The disappointment is instant, sharp. It hits him like a physical blow, and suddenly, I feel like the villain in our story.
“I’m sorry,” I rush on. “It’s just . . .
I’ve already thought about the birth. I’ve made a plan.
The classes won’t really benefit you, and you won’t even be around long enough to finish them anyway.
” The words tumble out, defensive and clumsy, and I hate how thin they sound.
I fold my arms and clamp my mouth shut. “Sorry,” I add again, weaker this time.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “You said that part.” He takes a step back. “Goodnight, Eden.” Then, he turns and heads towards his bike.
I stand there, my heart pounding wildly, watching him walk away. Guilt claws at my chest, sharp and relentless. And just as I turn towards the door, I catch sight of Martha through the window, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes sharp.
Fantastic.
She dives onto the couch the second I close the door.
“I saw you,” I say, rolling my eyes as I slip out of my coat.
“It looked intense,” she replies. “And where was Pete?”
I shrug. “He bailed before dessert. I don’t blame him. The whole thing was a bad idea.”