Chapter 8 Lena
LENA
Gabe is still on my front step when I realize I'm gripping the edge of the door so hard my fingers ache. "I mean it. Please don't," I say again, quieter this time. My voice feels like it has to fight its way through my chest.
His eyes are locked on mine, stormy and stunned and far too sharp. He looks older and rougher than he did five years ago.
There are new lines at the corners of his mouth.
His shoulders look even broader in that plain T-shirt. The same mouth I remember tasting is tight now, like he is holding back an entire speech.
"I'm not leaving," he says. His voice comes out rough but unshaken. "Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."
I let out a breath that feels more like a scrape. "You need to go."
"Lena." He plants a hand on the frame, not pushing, just there, claiming space like he did once on that porch. "You sent me a message. You sent me those pictures. I get on a plane, I knock on your door, and a four-year-old with my face opens it. You really think I'm just going to walk away?"
My stomach pitches hard enough to make me feel a little sick. I glance back toward the kitchen. "I don't owe you this conversation," I tell Gabe.
His jaw flexes. "You owe him the truth."
That lands straight in the spot I've been guarding since the test turned positive.
Anger slides up my spine, warm and fast. "I owe my son safety," I shoot back. "I owe him stability and a mother who doesn't hand his life over to someone who already proved he doesn't know what to do with it."
He flinches at that. From inside the house, Jace's voice carries down the hall. "Mama? Is Gabe eating? He should eat!"
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. Of course he heard his name. "Come on, Lena," Gabe murmurs, voice pitched low. "Let me in. We can talk like adults, you and me. We can figure this out."
I open my eyes and stare at him.
The man who once fed me warm brownie bites in bed and then left a note like a coward.
The man whose face I still think about when I touch myself, even when I hate myself for it later.
The man whose eyes just looked at my kid and went raw.
"I am talking like an adult," I say. "And the adult answer is no."
He exhales through his nose. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You don't get to just plant yourself on my porch."
"You had my son," he replies, voice sharp now. "And you never told me. You think I'm going to leave because you closed a door in my face? I am not going anywhere until you tell me why."
There it is. The burn I have been waiting for.
"Because it was a mistake," I snap, heat rushing up my throat.
"Because that night was a mistake. Because you made it very clear where I ranked in your life when you left a note and walked away before I could even shower.
I'm not going to raise a kid in a house where his father drops in between flights and deployments and decides he knows what's best for us. "
"I never said he was a mistake," he growls.
"That's not what I meant." My voice cracks anyway.
"I meant trusting you was. I was already raising him on my own just fine.
I have been doing everything, every night, every diaper, every doctor's visit, every fever, every rent payment, and I wasn't doing it while wondering if you were flying over some ocean thinking, ‘She can do better than me,' like that excuse somehow makes leaving noble.
Men love that line. ‘You deserve better.
' All it means is ‘I don't want to stay. '"
He stares at me, eyes dark and wounded, chest lifting in slow, heavy breaths. For a second, I think he's going to argue, or shout, or walk away.
"Mama," Jace calls again, closer this time. "Is Gabe staying for lunch?"
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. My head starts to pound. "Go back to your food, baby," I call. "I'll be right there."
Silence from the kitchen. Then a tiny, hopeful, "Can he come in?"
Gabe's shoulders drop about an inch. His eyes soften in a way that tears at something I have spent years trying to stitch together.
"This is not about you," I tell him in a low voice. "You behave yourself. No raised voices. No guilt trips. No acting like you suddenly get a say in my life. I'm not forgiving you. I'm letting you meet him."
His throat works. "I'll take that."
I hate that the earnestness in his eyes almost reaches me.
I step back from the door. "Come in," I say, and the words taste strange.
He walks past me into the house. He looks huge in my narrow entryway. My space feels smaller around him, like the walls are pulling in. Jace is already standing on his chair in the kitchen, hands pressed on the table, eyes bright. "You came inside," Jace says.
Gabe's whole face shifts and softens. He actually smiles, wide and real, and I have to hold onto the back of a chair for balance. "Yeah, buddy," he answers. "Your mom said I could."
"You didn't eat your sandwich," Jace scolds. "You have to eat. Mama says food gives you power."
Traitor, I think at my own child.
Gabe glances at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Mama is right," he says. "Food does give you power."
Jace beams at me like I just won a prize. "See?"
Gabe sits slowly in the chair across from him, like he is approaching a live wire. Jace pushes the plate toward him, offering the half sandwich he left there. "You can have this," he says. "I'm full. I still have room for dessert, but Mama says dessert is a sometimes thing."
Gabe's throat moves again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "I'll take good care of it."
He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. It's just ham and cheese. Grocery-store bread. Nothing special. The way he eats it, though, you'd think it might explode if he moves too fast.
I stand by the counter holding a dish towel, hands useless as I watch them.
My son talking a mile a minute about his toy cars.
Gabe nodding along, asking questions at just the right spots.
"How many cars do you have?" "Which one is fastest?
" "Do you line them up in a race?" His voice goes gentle without turning fake, and Jace leans toward him like plants do toward the sun.
After about ten minutes, Jace points both hands at him. "Do you want to see my room?" he asks. It comes out like an invitation and a challenge at once.
Gabe looks at me again, as if I'm holding the keys to the universe.
"Go ahead," I say. My voice is flat. My heart is not.
Jace grabs his hand and pulls. Gabe lets himself be dragged down the short hall to our shared bedroom. I follow at a slower pace, leaning on the doorway as Jace shows off his bed, his stuffed animals, the shelf of books, the basket of cars.
"This one is Thunder," Jace tells him, holding up the chipped red car. "He always wins. This one is Smoke. He likes to crash."
Gabe huffs out a sound that might be a laugh. "You gave them good names."
Jace climbs onto the bed and pats the mattress. "You can sit here."
Gabe sits on the edge of the bed like it's made of glass. His big hand picks up one of the smaller cars and rolls it back and forth on his knee while Jace explains the rules of some very complicated game that only he understands.
I watch them. My son on his dinosaur sheets. Gabe's broad back taking up too much space. The world is suddenly two inches to the left and my lungs aren't sure how to work.
The afternoon unfolds in strange, careful steps.
We play cars together on the floor for a while.
Gabe stretches out long and easy, listening and responding, never once looking at his phone.
Jace climbs half on top of him at one point to make "a car ramp" out of his thigh, and Gabe just laughs and goes along.
Later, after snack time, the doorbell rings.
It's my neighbor, Sarah, with her son Noah nestled against her side.
"Noah's sleepover bag," she says, lifting the tote. "You sure you're good for tonight?"
"Of course," I say. "These two wear each other out. It's a service."
Noah spots Jace behind me and barrels in. They do a chaos greeting, all elbows and shouts and toy car trades. Sarah's gaze flicks past them and lands on Gabe, who just stepped into the hall.
"Hi," she says slowly.
"This is Gabe," I say. My throat tightens around the word. "An old friend."
Her eyebrows move in a way that promises questions later, but she just smiles and says, "Nice to meet you."
Gabe gives a short nod. "You too."
Once the boys are deep in negotiations about which movie to watch, Sarah leans close to me by the door. "We still good for pick-up at ten tomorrow?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say. "Text me when you're on your way."
She squeezes my arm. "And text me later if you need an excuse to walk someone out."
I manage a weak laugh. "You're terrible."
"I'm useful," she whispers, then leaves me there with a house full of boy noise and one very large man in my living room.
Evening comes in small pieces. We order pizza because I don't have the energy to cook for the extra stomach.
The boys are in heaven. Tomato sauce on their cheeks, cheese on their fingers.
They eat on a picnic blanket on the floor so they can be "camping".
Gabe sits on the couch, a slice in his hand, eyes on them like he's trying to memorize every smear and crumb.
"Can Gabe have a sleepover?" Noah asks at one point, completely serious.
I choke on my drink. "No," I say, maybe too fast. "Gabe has his own bed at his own house."
Jace's eyes flick between us. "But he can stay for the movie?" he asks.
My heart does a little drop. "He can stay until the movie is done," I say slowly. "Then adults need sleep too."
Everyone accepts this as a sacred rule of the universe.