Chapter 13
Sam - Six Days After Chloe’s Birthday
The morning at The Copper Fox had gone smoothly — produce delivered, weekend prep done, Kate handling the lunch rush. I was heading home early with one purpose: finally telling Chloe everything.
I had the paternity test results printed and folded in my wallet.
I’d rehearsed what I was going to say during quiet moments this morning.
I was going to start with an apology – for the lies, for the birthday disaster, for handling everything so badly.
Then I’d explain about Jenna’s arrival, about Leo, about the impossible position I’d found myself in, and why I’d thought keeping it secret was the right thing to do.
Then I’d show her Leo’s picture, tell her about the paternity test results, and ask for her help figuring out how to be a father while keeping the woman I loved.
It wasn’t going to be easy, especially since Chloe had met Jenna and Leo without my knowledge and had no doubt formed a view on what was going on.
She would be hurt that I’d kept this from her, angry that I’d let her encounter them without warning or context.
But she was reasonable, compassionate, and she loved me.
We’d work through it together the way couples were supposed to work through difficult situations.
The way I should have approached it from the beginning.
Everything felt charged with possibility as I drove home, like I was finally about to stop managing separate pieces of my life and start building something whole.
The driveway was empty when I pulled up at 12:30, which made sense — she’d texted this morning that she’d be home by 1 PM for our talk. I was early, but that gave me time to collect my thoughts one more time before the conversation that would determine our future.
I let myself in through the front door, dropping my keys on the counter. The house was quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
I checked my watch. 12:32. Maybe I should make some coffee, review what I wanted to say one more time.
That’s when I saw the note on the kitchen table. My name was written on the outside of a folded piece of paper in Chloe’s precise handwriting.
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my feet because that hadn’t been here this morning when I left, and as far as I knew, Chloe had gone straight from the Jenkin’s farm to her clinic.
With shaking hands, I unfolded the note and read the words that shattered my world:
Sam,
I know what you want to tell me this afternoon. I’m making this easier for all of us.
I understand that being a father has to come first. I understand that Leo needs stability and your complete attention. I understand that the life we were building together isn’t possible anymore.
I’ll be gone for a few days. Please be moved out by the time I get back. I’ll call when I’m ready to talk about logistics - our joint bank account, bills, etc.
Take care of yourself. Take care of Leo.
Chloe
I read it twice, then a third time, each reading worse than the last, the sick certainty growing that everything I’d planned was gone. She knew about Leo - I knew that - but she thought – what?
I understand that being a father has to come first.
The life we were building together isn’t possible anymore.
She thought I was choosing Leo over her. She thought I wanted to end our relationship because I had a son.
My fingers went numb, that tingling sensation spreading up my arms. The kitchen tilted, and I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself, but my legs felt like they were made of water.
I couldn’t breathe.
No, that wasn’t right – I was breathing too much, gasping in air that didn’t seem to reach my lungs. Hyperventilating.
I slid down to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, and tried to remember how to make my lungs work properly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The paper bag technique. Something. Anything.
But all I could think about was Chloe. The physical absence of her was so overwhelming that it felt like a wound. Like someone had reached into my chest and removed something vital, and now I was just bleeding out on the kitchen floor.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone when I finally picked it up. My heart was doing something painful in my chest. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead.
This was what a broken heart felt like in actual physical terms. Not a metaphor, not a poetic description.
Because losing Chloe was physical trauma. She’d become part of my daily existence – her morning kiss, her hand in mine, her voice calling my name – and now those pieces were missing, and my body was going into shock.
I forced myself to breathe slowly. Forced myself to stand up, even though my legs were still shaking. Forced myself to function despite my body screaming that something essential had been torn away.
“No,” I said aloud to the empty kitchen. “No, no, no.”
I had to find her. Had to fix this.
I called Chloe’s number, pacing the length of our kitchen while it rang. Straight to voicemail. “Chloe, it’s me. I just found your note, and you’ve got this all wrong. I’m not trying to end our relationship. I love you. I need you. Call me back. Please.”
I hung up and immediately called again. Voicemail again.
“Chloe, please pick up. Whatever you think this means, you’re wrong. Leo doesn’t change how I feel about you. Call me back.”
Third call, same result.
I didn’t leave a message on the fourth try as I finally realized she’d turned off her phone. Chloe, who was always available for emergencies, who answered her phone in the middle of dinner if the clinic needed her, had turned off her phone.
I sank into one of our kitchen chairs – her chair, actually, the one that faced the window where she liked to watch the birds at the feeder while drinking her morning coffee. The seat still held the scent of her perfume, that subtle floral scent she wore that I’d come to associate with home.
The note sat on the table in front of me, Chloe’s handwriting blurring as I stared at it.
Please be moved out by the time I get back.
I felt something crack in my chest. How many mornings had I watched her wrap her hands around her coffee mug, eyes still sleepy, smile soft and meant just for me?
How many times had she kissed me goodbye at this table, telling me about her day ahead?
How many dinners had we shared right here, talking about everything and nothing, building the kind of intimacy that made a house feel like home?
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through our text messages, torturing myself with the evidence of what I’d lost. A photo she’d sent two weeks ago of a kitten that had come in for its first check-up – “Illegally smol, must arrest immediately” – with about fifteen heart-eye emojis.
A message from last month: “Running late, emergency, Deb’s lab found her chocolate stash and ATE IT ALL.
Save me some dinner?” My response: “Always. I’ll keep it warm. Love you.”
God, I loved how she’d text me random thoughts throughout the day.
“Sheba the cat is judging me, and she’s right to do it,” or “Successfully explained ‘no, chocolate is actually poison’ to yet another well-meaning dog owner,” or just a photo of her with a puppy with no caption because none was needed.
I loved how she’d come home from work and immediately start telling me about her day while she changed.
How she’d pad around the kitchen in her socks, stealing tastes of whatever I was cooking, asking about my day while absentmindedly petting any surface that vaguely resembled a cat.
How she’d curl up on the couch with veterinary journals and make these little “hmm” sounds when she found something interesting, then read the interesting bits out loud to me, even though I only understood bits of it.
I loved that she’d get irrationally excited about medical equipment.
That she’d tear up during animal rescue videos.
That she had strong opinions about the correct way to load a dishwasher and would absolutely rearrange it if I did it wrong.
That she’d leave sticky notes on the bathroom mirror with terrible puns just to make me laugh.
I loved every annoying, wonderful, specific thing about her. And I’d let her walk away thinking I didn’t want her in my life anymore.
I don’t know how long I sat there. The afternoon sun moved across the kitchen floor, shadows lengthening as the hours passed. My phone buzzed constantly – calls, texts, voicemails piling up. I could see Harper’s name. Jack’s name. Sarah from the clinic. I ignored them all.
The only person I wanted to hear from was Chloe, and she wasn’t calling.
The light in the kitchen had faded to dusk when my phone buzzed again with a new text message. For a wild, desperate moment, I thought it might be Chloe. But it was a number I didn’t recognize:
Hi Sam, this is Nigel Walsh. I understand Chloe needs emergency coverage for her practice. I can help, but I’ll need more details about the duration. Sarah was unable to provide any details, and I can’t get hold of Chloe.
Emergency coverage. Chloe had arranged for someone to cover her practice. She’d made contingency plans and executed them with the same efficiency she brought to everything else in her life.
Except this time, she was using that efficiency to run away from me.
The reality of it settled over me like a weight. She was really gone. She’d arranged coverage for her practice, turned off her phone, and disappeared. And I had no idea where she was or how to fix this.
I looked at my phone screen, at the missed calls and unread texts piling up. Harper had called six times. Jack four. Sarah three. They all knew something was wrong. They were all trying to help.
And I was sitting here alone in the dark, drowning.