Chapter 13 Perry
PERRY
Olivia shows up with an overnight bag and the kind of expression usually reserved for intervention episodes. “I’m not saying you’re spiraling,” she says, scooping Nicholas out of my arms like she’s done this a hundred times. “I’m just saying…you’re spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling,” I say, adjusting Walker’s blanket. “I’m dating.”
“You sexted your ex’s father.”
“That was recreational.”
She snorts. “He’s the father of your kids.”
“Stop,” I say immediately, sharper than I mean to. “We are not doing that tonight.”
She studies me for a second. “You can’t just put that on a shelf.”
“Watch me.” Because if I let that thought sit in the middle of the room, I won’t breathe. “I’ve been cleared by my obstetrician. Do you know how long it’s been?”
“Since December—”
“And it’s almost Halloween. Which means I am due for an adult night of fun. I need this. And I want it to be with Damian.”
Olivia softens. “You’re getting in deep.”
I blow out a breath, stalling. “Liv, I can’t stay away from him.”
That’s the part that scares me. It’s not the taboo. Not the age gap. Not even the Jason-of-it-all. It’s that I think about him constantly. His voice. His laugh. The way he says my name like he’s decided something about it.
“That’s probably because he’s their father,” Olivia says gently.
“I am not having this conversation.”
“You should.”
“Tomorrow,” I insist. “Tonight is about fun. How do I look?” I bought a new dress for the occasion—it’s looser than what I usually wear, with a flattering A-line skirt that hides everything I want hidden.
She sighs, but she doesn’t push again. She’s taking the twins to her place. I’ve triple-checked the diaper bag. I’ve written instructions like I’m deploying overseas.
“You look great, and you deserve a fun night,” she says as she heads for the door. “Just…don’t lose your mind.”
“No promises.” I kiss my babies and close the door behind them. It feels wrong to see them leave. Like she took part of me with her when she left. I don’t like it.
But I also need a night of grown-up fun, or I’ll go nuts. Tonight is about fun. And brisket.
And a man who makes my pulse misbehave.
Damian’s “favorite barbecue place” is exactly what I hoped it would be.
No linen. No spun-sugar desserts. Just picnic tables covered with red-and-white checked tablecloths, walls covered in faded concert posters and local high school football photos, dented wood paneling, and the kind of smoky air that makes your hair smell like happiness for two days.
There’s even a serve yourself soda station in the corner.
He’s already there when I walk in.
Jeans. Dark sweater. Sleeves pushed up just enough to expose forearms thick enough to make me sigh.
He looks up when the door opens. And smiles. It’s not polite. It’s not restrained. It’s unabashedly pleased to see me. “You came.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m happy to see you, that’s all.”
That does something warm and inconvenient to my stomach. He’s just so honest that it throws off my usual dating MO.
Normally, I manipulate men for fun. It’s a part of dating—you use them to get what you can before they fuck you over. That’s the truth of dating and relationships, even if most people don’t say it out loud.
My mother taught me this. After putting her life on the back burner to put my father through college, he jumped on the first skinny blonde who looked his way.
And the second one. And the third. His affairs went on for years, and when Mom finally called him out on his cheating, he shrugged and said, “I do it because you let me.”
It took a long time for her to even file for divorce. She was middle-aged and had no education of her own, since she dropped out of her master’s program to support my father.
I will not be my mother.
I learned young that men will always fuck you over, even if they say they love you or they’re trying to be a better man or whatever excuse they give for their bullshit.
So first, you have to fuck them over as much as they’ll tolerate.
Then you break up and move on to the next one. It’s not personal. It’s reality.
But with Damian, I don’t have the urge to fuck him over. I just enjoy his company. Which is dangerous, I know, but I like him.
We order at the counter. Brisket. Ribs. Mac and cheese. He doesn’t even glance at the menu.
“I’ve been coming here since residency,” he says as we carry trays to a table. “It’s the only place in town that doesn’t pretend to be something else.”
“I approve,” I say, eyeing the sauce bottles lined up on the table. “This smells like heaven.”
“It’s better,” he swears as he reaches for the sauces.
We sit. We eat. We laugh. And it’s easy. God, it’s easy.
He tells a story about a rafting trip where he almost tipped the boat because he insisted on taking the hardest line through the rapids. I tease him about having a quiet death wish. He tells me I’d love it because I look like someone who enjoys controlled chaos.
“You have no idea,” I say.
He wipes sauce from his thumb with a napkin, watching me with that steady, assessing gaze. “You look lighter tonight.”
“I outsourced my responsibilities.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I don’t know if it is.”
His smile fades into an expression that I can’t quite read. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“I hate Tuscany.”
He laughs, and it makes me feel like myself.
There’s no game between us, and that almost feels like a game in itself. I keep waiting for a cutting remark to put me in my place or something to go wrong and remind me that he’s just a man.
It never comes.
But something else does. Damian’s speaking, and I’m watching his lips form around the words, not really listening until I catch, “…makes me wonder, if I had it to do over again, would I do anything differently?”
I blink. “Do what differently?”
“Jason. Parenthood.”
Guilt slams into me. Technically, he has two do-overs, who are probably sleeping or screaming at Olivia’s.
I clear my throat. “I think everyone has something they’d do differently.”
“Oh? What about you? What would you do differently?”
My first thought is about the night we met, but it’s not true. If I hadn’t hooked up with him that night, I wouldn’t have my boys. So, that’s not it.
“Back in high school, I had a friend who made me feel like shit about myself—”
“How?”
I shrug. “She was a straight-A student, involved in five different extracurriculars, graduated early from both high school and community college, then left for real college at sixteen.”
His eyes go wide. “That’s a lot of pressure on a kid.”
“Yeah, it was. I was always hearing, ‘Why can’t you be more like Reina?’ from my family.”
“Do you regret not being more like her?”
I chuckle bitterly and sip my orange soda.
“Absolutely not. As it turns out, she was cheating for most of her classes. Then when she went to college, she couldn’t take the pressure.
All that time and money spent was for nothing.
She snapped, developed several addictions, and last I heard, she was barely able to keep a roof over her head. ”
“That’s awful. But where does your regret come in?”
“I saw it. Back before she left for college, I saw her suffering. Even with the cheating, it was too much for her to keep up with. She was miserable, and because of that, she became someone else. Someone cold and distant and bitchy whenever I tried to hang out with her.” I drum my fingers on the table, feeling the regret deepen.
“I should have said something to someone. Should have gotten her help back then before she tanked her life.”
He puts his hand on mine, and I can’t help but revel in the warmth of him. “That’s not your fault, Perry.”
“No. She made her choices. But I could have tried to help. Instead, I was mad about her being a bitch, so I didn’t say anything to anyone. Her life fell apart, partially because I was petty. That’s the regret.”
“You were a child. Cut some slack for the girl you were.”
“Only if you cut yourself some slack for not being there for every waking moment of Jason’s life.”
He smirks. “Thought you weren’t listening.”
“I can ogle your mouth and listen at the same time, thank you very much.” I give his hand a squeeze. “Jason’s a grown man. You are not responsible for his bullshit.”
“I know. On some mature level, I know. But as his father, it’s hard not to feel responsible for his bullshit.”
“All you can do is call him out when it happens. You can’t fix him anymore than I can fix Reina.”
He nods and shifts the conversation to better topics.
When I’m officially in a barbecue coma, he’s telling me about Scout—how the dog finally let him scratch behind his ears last week without flinching—and I’m watching his mouth move and thinking: You’re talking about patience and earning trust, and I am sitting here keeping the biggest secret of your life from you.
He looks up mid-story. “What?”
I blink. “What?”
“You disappeared for a second.”
“I’m right here.”
“Your eyes went somewhere else.”
God, he notices everything. I force a smile. “I was thinking about how you feed a stray dog soup.”
“You make it sound sentimental.”
“You are sentimental.”
He tilts his head. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I am.” And I really am. That’s the problem.
Because this isn’t a surface-level attraction anymore. This isn’t about revenge, novelty, manipulation, or adrenaline. This is laughter and comfort, and the way he watches me like I’m worth paying attention to.
He deserves to know that the boys he delivered are not just patients. They’re his.
The words almost climb up my throat. “Damian—”
He leans forward slightly. “Yeah?”
Not here. Not in a room that smells like smoked meat and beer and easy conversation. Not with people two tables over arguing about football. This isn’t a brisket conversation. This is a life-altering confession. And I don’t want the moment diluted by sauce stains and paper towels.