Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mara
Things can’t possibly get worse, right?
I mean, sure, I’ve made questionable choices. Like falling half in love with my neighbor who kissed my nose like it meant something. Or letting him hold my hand without combusting. Or maybe just existing in this moment where my life feels like a tragic musical staged on a tight budget.
But fate? Oh, fate is a bitch with a flair for public humiliation.
Because my daughter—my unapologetically brilliant, socially unpredictable daughter—barrels out of the school doors like she’s on a mission.
“Cyndy’s mom brought her baby sister today,” she announces with zero regard for personal space or emotional landmines. “And I’ve decided I really, really want one.”
I blink. I try to process. I fail. I could probably interrupt her and ask if the name of her friend wasn’t . . . there was another name, I’m sure of that. I just . . . this is too much.
I don’t act fast, and then she turns to Alec.
To Alec.
To the man who, five minutes ago, practically whispered that he’s falling for me, like it was just a casual update sandwiched between conversation and an elevator door.
And with the same breezy confidence she uses when asking for chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and “just a tiny bit of syrup, not the gross kind,” she says:
“Would you like to be the dad?”
Oxygen. Where is the oxygen?
I don’t breathe. I can’t.
My body freezes.
I think my soul leaves my body and floats three feet above the pavement just to protect itself from what’s about to happen next.
There’s no earthquake. No divine thunderclap or tragicomedy score swelling in the background. The sidewalk does not crack beneath me and swallow me whole.
I am here. I am awake. And I am being publicly propositioned into additional parenthood by her eight-year-old, in front of the man who just told me he’s falling in love with me.
This is my life.
I chose this life.
Kind of. Maybe. Accidentally.
And Alec?
He doesn’t run.
Doesn’t stutter. Doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t fling himself into traffic.
No, he sighs like a man who has absolutely had this conversation before with Mila—which is absurd—and responds with terrifying calm.
“For someone to have a baby—or adopt one,” he says, his tone insufferably reasonable, “they need to be in a long-term relationship. Preferably stable. That’s sort of . . . foundational.”
He says it like he’s explaining algebra. Or toaster manuals. Slightly monotone, overly exact, like he’s downloaded the concept of ‘how humans fall in love and build families’ from a CD-ROM titled Emotions for Dummies.
Mila squints at him, as if parsing this logic. Hands on her hips. Her tiny brow furrowed like a tiny, disappointed life coach. “So you need to fall in love first?”
“Correct,” he replies. No hesitation. No embarrassment. “It’s a prerequisite. Like passing a test.”
I might actually implode. There’s a chance I visibly cringe.
“How do people fall in love?” Mila presses, because of course she does. Because her entire personality is a long-form essay of follow-up questions and inconvenient truths.
Alec groans, not dramatically—more like someone who knows he just stepped into a test he didn’t study for.
“Let’s wait until we get to my place,” he mutters. “I’ve got two encyclopedias and an entire section on human behavior. We can research all of this. Properly.”
“Shouldn’t we go to the library?” Mila counters.
“You’ve seen my apartment. It’s full of books,” he replies without missing a beat. “Qualitatively speaking, it qualifies.”
And that’s when the rain starts—gentle at first, like it’s trying to pretend it’s not going to absolutely soak us in five minutes.
Alec crouches before I can even react.
He takes Mila’s jacket from me and helps her into it with careful hands. He zips it up slowly, avoiding her hair, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders like he’s done it a hundred times.
Then he opens her pink umbrella and tilts it just right, making sure every raindrop lands anywhere but on her.
I want to scream. Or cry. Or crawl into the nearest drain and live there forever.
Because I’m not supposed to want this.
Not him. Not the quiet way he steps in and makes it look so easy.
Not the part of me that aches when I watch him do things my late husband never thought to.
Not the part of me that wants to believe—just for one reckless moment—that maybe I didn’t screw up everything beyond repair.
But I’m the girl who second-guesses the good moments because they’ve never lasted. I’m the one who learned that love comes with receipts and timelines and abrupt endings you don’t get to prepare for.
And Alec Horvath? He’s still holding the umbrella. Still shielding my daughter. Still treating this moment like it matters.
God help me.
I think it does.
Mila . . . she beams up at him. Alec looks at her with a softness he probably doesn’t even realize he’s showing. And something inside me breaks apart in a way I don’t recognize.
He takes her hand once they’re both set, and she accepts it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s always expected him to be there beside her on rainy afternoons. They start walking toward home—her tiny hand swinging, his stride adjusting to match hers.
I follow behind them, a breath caught somewhere between awe and fear. Because of this, this is strange, unexpected sweetness. This image of the two of them walking side by side hits me harder than any confession he could’ve whispered.
It tugs at my heartstrings. This shouldn’t feel like a glimpse of a life that almost fits. It shouldn’t feel warm. It shouldn’t feel so perfect.
But damn it, it does.
The rain comes down a little harder, blurring the edges of the street, and for a moment all I see is them—Alec slowing his steps so Mila can hop over a puddle, my little girl giggling as he guides her around a slick patch on the sidewalk.
A man who once told me he didn’t trust himself around anyone, is caring for my daughter, as if it costs him nothing. As if she’s precious and worth his undivided attention.
And I’m left behind them trying to breathe past the truth curling inside my ribs:
I’m not just in trouble—I might be falling too.