8. Chapter 8
“I’m just saying,” Madison’s voice cracks through my phone, “Reese sounds like a catch. He’s hot, loves kids, and is one of the best wide receivers in the conference according to Zach.”
“I know, I know,” I interrupt, pushing Ella’s stroller along the tree-lined path that cuts through campus while she naps for the first time in three weeks. “Zach’s already given me the full scouting report, and a play-by-play of everything good Reese has ever done.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Madison’s tone shifts from teasing to genuinely curious.
What’s the problem? My baby daddy came to my house, left a letter for me, and I’ve been low-key spiraling ever since because I’m too chickenshit to tell anyone—even Madison.
When she doesn’t get a response from me, she sighs dramatically.
“Look, I love you, but you need to get back out there. Reese is perfect. He already knows about Ella, he clearly adores her, and Zach vouches for him. Plus, from what I hear, NFL scouts want to draft him and Zach together. The guy has a future, and a plan.”
“Great, so he’ll be gone next year like Zach, too, then,” I mutter.
“Or he’ll ask you to go with him. Maybe he’ll even take you to some exotic locations… you might even be happy for once.”
“Damn, you get dicked down by your brother’s best friend and all of a sudden you’re a relationship guru?”
Madison laughs, unbothered. “Please. I’ve seen the light, and it’s six-foot-six with a grumpy attitude but a stupidly hot smile. You’d be surprised what a good orgasm does for you.”
“I don’t know, Mads. It’s complicated.”
I stop for a second to check on Ella, who’s still fast asleep.
“I hate to say it, T, but everything is complicated with you,” she says.
“Which I get, I really do. I mean, shit, I don’t think I could’ve survived being kicked out by my father and raising a kid all on my own, but I love you, and sometimes I need to tell you the hard truth.
You can’t keep using Ella as an excuse to never live your own life. She needs a happy mom, not a martyr.”
The words sting because they’re true. Zach said basically the same thing to me the other day, and now Madison’s piling on. When did everyone decide to coordinate their intervention?
Apparently, when Jamie also decided to show up in my life.
“I’m happy,” I protest weakly.
“Bullshit. You’re content. There’s a difference.” Madison pauses. “Wait, did I just hear birds? Are you outside?”
“Yeah, we’re meeting Zach for lunch on campus, and I thought I’d leave early so Ella could have a nap.”
“Okay, well, think about what I said about Reese. At least let him take you to dinner or something. What's the worst that could happen?”
I could fall for someone who isn't my daughter's father, I think but don't say. I could build something real and then have it all ripped away when Jamie decides he wants to play dad after all.
“I'll think about it,” I lie.
“You better. I'm calling Zach if you don't.” She pauses. “I mean it, Tiff. You deserve to be happy. Not just content. Happy.”
“I know. I love you—”
I stop walking completely, my feet frozen.
“Tiff? You still there?”
Dark hair. Navy peacoat. Hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walks out of a brick building with “Student Services” above the entrance.
No. No, no, no.
“Tiff? Hello? Earth to Tiffany?”
“Jamie,” I whisper, his name barely audible.
“What?” Madison’s voice sharpens. “Tiff, what’s going on?”
“Jamie.” My voice is still barely above a whisper, but somehow it feels too loud, and I worry he’ll be able to hear me across the quad.
“Jamie?” Madison’s tone shifts from confused to alarmed in half a second. “You mean your baby daddy Jamie? What about him?”
“He’s here.”
“Where?”
“Here.” My throat feels tight. “He’s been here for a while now.”
“What?!” Madison practically shrieks through the phone. “And this is the first time you’re telling me? Tiff, what the hell—”
“I, uh, have to go.”
“Wait, don’t you dare hang up on me! Tiff—”
I end the call, my thumb fumbling over the screen. My phone immediately starts buzzing with Madison’s callback, but I silence it and shove it into the stroller’s cup holder.
Jamie still hasn't seen me. He's looking at his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm standing twenty feet away having a complete meltdown.
I should turn around. I should leave before he notices me. But my feet won't move, and some traitorous part of me—the same part that fell for his whiskey eyes four years ago—can't look away.
And God, I hate that even now, even furious and terrified, I recognize how handsome he is. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his hair falls across his forehead. Those same eyes that made me forget my own name at that party.
My phone buzzes again.
Madison.
Then again.
And again.
The movement must catch his attention because suddenly his head jerks up, and those whiskey eyes lock onto mine.
For a moment, we just stare at each other across the quad. The world narrows to just the two of us—him with his hands in his pockets looking caught, me gripping the stroller handle because it's the only thing keeping me upright.
But then white-hot anger surges through my veins, burning away the shock and the fear and that stupid flutter in my chest.
I don't think—I just move, my feet carrying me toward him while my hands grip the stroller handle so hard my knuckles turn white.
He doesn't run. Doesn't move. Just watches me approach with something that looks almost like relief on his face, which only makes me angrier.
“Tiff—”
“Stay. Away,” I hiss, keeping my voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise outside. I'm close enough now that I don't need to shout, and the last thing I want is to wake Ella or cause a scene. “What the hell are you doing here? Are you stalking me now?”
“What?” He blinks a few times, genuinely confused, which only pisses me off more. “No, I'm not—”
“Jamie.” I take another step forward, and he raises both hands in surrender.
“I promise. I wasn’t here for you. I had a meeting at student services. I wasn’t—I didn’t know you’d be here. I swear.”
“Student services?” I laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “Right. What would you need with student services? You go to Southern Collegiate. In California.”
“Not anymore.” The words come out quiet but firm. “I'm transferring.”
The world tilts sideways.
No. No, he did not just say what I think he said.
“Transferring,” I repeat numbly. “Here. To St. Michael's.”
He nods, and I see something flicker across his face—nervousness, maybe? Hope? I don't know and I don't care because my brain is too busy short-circuiting.
“You can't—” I start, then stop, shaking my head. “Why? Why would you transfer here?”
His eyes drift to the stroller, to Ella's sleeping form, and the answer is written all over his face before he even opens his mouth.
“You know why.”
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “No, you don't get to do this. You don't get to just show up and upend our entire lives because you suddenly decided you want to play daddy.”
“I'm not playing anything,” he says, and there's an edge to his voice now, a crack in that careful composure. “She's my daughter, Tiff. I want to know her. I want to be here for her. For both of you.”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “Both of us? You don't even know me. You gave me a fake name when we slept together.”
He flinches. “I know. I know I fucked up. That's why I'm trying to—”
“Trying to what? Fix it?” I shake my head, feeling tears burn behind my eyes.
I will not cry. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset.
“You can't fix this, Jamie. You can't just transfer schools and think that makes up for four years of nothing. For three of those years with your family trying to destroy me in court. Four years of—”
I cut myself off, swallowing hard against the sob threatening to break free.
His jaw tightens. “I didn't know. About the lawsuit, about Ella, about any of it. My parents—”
“Oh, don't.” I hold up a hand. “Don't you dare blame your parents. You're an adult. You could have looked for me if you'd wanted to.”
“How?” The word bursts out of him, frustrated. “You think I didn't try? I searched for you, Tiff. But all I had was a first name and a vague memory of a party I was too drunk to remember properly. Do you know how many Tiffs there are in the world?”
“Then maybe you should have thought about that before you—” I stop, glancing down at Ella, making sure she's still asleep. When I look back at Jamie, I drop my voice even lower. “Before you slept with me and forgot I existed.”
“I didn't forget you.” His voice is raw now, stripped of pretense. “I've thought about you every day since that night. Every. Single. Day. And when I found out about Ella, when I realized what my parents had done, what I'd done by not being there—”
“Momma?” Ella's sleepy voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I immediately crouch down, blocking Jamie from her view as much as possible. “Hey, baby. We're almost home, okay? Just close your eyes.”
“Where are we?” She rubs at her face with one small fist, her tiara slightly askew.
“Just out for a walk.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, not mentioning meeting Zach for lunch because there’s no way that’s going to happen now. “You can keep sleeping if you want.”
“I’m not tired.” But her eyes are already drifting closed again, her body relaxing back into the stroller.
I stay crouched until I'm certain she's settled, then slowly rise, turning back to Jamie. He's watching us with an expression I can't quite read—longing, maybe? Regret? Whatever it is, I try to ignore it.
“You should go,” I say quietly. “Before she wakes up again.”
“Have you read it?” he asks instead. “The letter?”
My silence is answer enough.