10. Jo
— ? —
Jo
On the third day, Rory tries to fix me.
He has watched it happen for seventy-two hours, his mother folded on the couch in yesterday’s pajamas, the curtains drawn, the phone lying face-down and buzzing with a number I can’t make myself answer, Grace slipping in and out with groceries and the mercy of no questions.
He doesn’t understand any of it. So he does the only thing a kid knows how to do.
He climbs up beside me, holds out a crayon drawing with both hands, a T-Rex with an enormous jagged smile taking up the whole page.
“This one is for making you happy,” he says. “Because you’re sad.”
The sob that escapes is impossible to contain. Pulling him into my lap, holding him tight, crying into his hair while he pats my back with his small hand and says “It’s okay, Mommy, it’s okay” like he’s the parent and I’m the child.
“I love you,” manages to come out between sobs. “I love you so much, baby.”
“I love you too.” He pulls back, studies my face with those eyes, the one part of him that came from me and not from the man we’re talking about. “Is the yelling man why you’re sad?”
The yelling man. Matthias.
“It’s complicated, sweetheart.”
“Is he really my daddy?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable. Lying isn’t an option, not anymore, not after what he saw.
“Yes.” The word comes out small. “He’s your biological father. That means he helped make you. But that doesn’t make him your daddy, not really. A daddy is someone who’s there for you. Someone who loves you and takes care of you. And he... he wasn’t those things.”
“Because he’s bad?”
“Because he made bad choices. A long time ago, before you were born. And I wanted to protect you from being hurt by those choices.”
Rory considers this with the solemnity of a judge weighing evidence. “Okay,” he says finally. “I don’t want a daddy who makes bad choices. Can Mr. Nick be my daddy instead? He’s nice. He reads voices good.”
The laugh I manage is watery and broken. “It’s not that simple, baby.”
“Why not?”
“Because... because I think I made Mr. Nick sad too. By not telling him about the yelling man.”
“Then you should say sorry.” Rory’s logic is bulletproof. “When I make someone sad, you tell me to say sorry. And then we’re friends again.”
“You’re very smart, you know that?”
“I know.” He grins, gap-toothed and perfect. “Can we have waffles?”
Waffles happen. Then a movie. Then bedtime, with extra stories and extra hugs, and when his breathing finally goes soft and even, the weight of everything comes crashing back.
Day four arrives with weak sunlight through the curtains and a knock at the door.
The sound freezes every muscle. Knocks at the door have become sinister since the notes started, every unexpected visitor a potential threat. The peephole reveals...
Nick.
My breath stops. He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, clothes he has clearly slept in. If he slept at all. He’s just standing there, staring at the door like he can see through it, like he knows exactly where I’m frozen on the other side.
The lock clicks. The door opens.
“Can I come in?”
Stepping aside is the only answer, letting him pass into the small living room where toys are scattered and crayon drawings cover every surface.
He looks around, at the dinosaurs on the fridge, at Rory’s sneakers by the door, at the evidence of a life built without him, and something in his expression shifts.
He’s close enough now that I can smell the long day on him, coffee gone cold and the faint cedar of his skin.
My mouth goes dry. My pulse knocks hard against my throat.
I should be bracing for whatever he came here to say.
Instead I’m looking at the curve of his lower lip and thinking about how it would feel under mine, and I despise the part of me that can’t stop.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out before anything else can happen. “I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you, I just. I didn’t know how. And I didn’t think you’d...”
“Jo.” He steps closer, and the proximity makes breathing difficult. “I’m not angry at you.”
The words don’t compute. “You’re not?”
“I’m angry at my brother. At my parents. At the whole fucking situation.” A heavy sigh leaves him. “But I’m not angry at you. You were protecting your son. That’s what mothers do.”
The tears come without warning, hot and messy, spilling down my cheeks as the thing I have held shut for years finally cracks open. Hands cover my face, trying to hide the breakdown, trying to hold together the pieces that keep falling apart.
Then his arms are around me.
He pulls me into his chest, solid and warm, and the scent of him, familiar now, comforting, makes everything worse and better at the same time. The sobs come harder, ugly and raw, muffled against his shirt while his hands stroke up and down my back.
“I’ve got you.” His voice is quiet against my hair. “I’ve got you, Jo.”
“I thought I lost you.” The words are barely coherent. “I thought you’d never want to see me again.”
“It would take a lot more than this to get rid of me.”
The crying continues until there’s nothing left, until the sobs fade to hiccups and the hiccups fade to shaky breaths. He doesn’t let go. Just holds on, steady and patient, like he’d stand here forever if that’s what it took.
“My parents know by now,” he says finally, quietly. “About Rory. Matthias will have told them.”
The fear that spikes is immediate and sharp. “The notes...”
“What notes?”
The story comes out in fragments. The anonymous threats. The escalating messages. The one that mentioned Rory by implication, that promised consequences if I didn’t leave.
Nick’s arms tighten around me. “My parents,” he says grimly. “Or someone working for them. They’ve been trying to drive you away since they found out you existed.”
“Can you stop them?”
“I’ll stop them.” There’s steel in his voice. “Whatever it takes, Jo. I’ll stop them.”
“Nick...”
“I’ll stop them.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, one hand sliding to the back of my neck, the other warm between my shoulder blades. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to let them hurt you. Not you, and not Rory.”
“Why?” The question comes out desperate, broken. “Why do you care so much? About me? About Rory? We’re nothing but complications for you. Your family hates me. Your brother is a nightmare. Why would you...”
“Because you’re worth it.” His eyes are fierce, certain.
“Because when I’m with you, everything makes sense.
Because Rory is the best kid I’ve ever met, and you raised him alone, and that makes you the strongest person I know.
Because I haven’t felt this way about anyone in my entire life, and I’m not going to let my family’s bullshit take that away from me. ”
“Nick...”
“I’m not expecting anything. I just want you to know that you’re not alone anymore. Whatever you need. Whatever it takes. I’m here.”
I kiss him before I can plan it.
My body just moves, rising on tiptoes, hands fisting in his shirt, mouth pressing against his. He goes still for one heartbeat, and panic floods through me, what the fuck, what the actual fuck, that’s my BOSS, that’s my ex’s brOTHER...
Then his hands are in my hair and he’s kissing me back.
The kiss deepens. His tongue sweeps against mine and a sound tears out of my throat, needy and desperate. His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer, and the heat of his body seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt.
When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing hard.
“Rory,” I whisper.
“At school?”
“For another two hours.”
His eyes darken, the brown going almost black. “Then we have time.”
“This is reckless.”
“Spectacularly.”
“We’ll regret this.”
“Probably.”
“Nick...”
He kisses me again, cutting off the protest, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
His hands slide under my shirt, palms warm against bare skin. My back hits the wall and then his thigh is between mine and the friction makes me gasp into his mouth.
“Bedroom?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Too far.”
He laughs, low, rough, and then he’s lifting me, and my legs are wrapping around his waist, and we don’t make it past the couch.
This is a mistake, some distant part of my brain insists.
This is perfect, another part answers.
Both are probably true.