Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Hailey
If You Have to Cross-Check Reality
This might be the lowest point of my life.
Not the fact that I puke every night like clockwork. Not the sudden realization that my body is no longer my own, hijacked by a very tiny, very demanding squatter. Nope. This right here—spying on a man who I think is the father of my child—definitely wins.
Under normal circumstances, this would be an incredibly bad idea.
Yet here I am.
Hunched behind a menu in a dimly lit, far-too-expensive restaurant, I attempt to look inconspicuous while absolutely looking like a woman on the verge of a breakdown. The mood lighting casts everything in a soft glow, smoothing edges and making flaws disappear—unfortunately, that includes Marcus Carter, potential baby daddy, who now looks even more irritatingly flawless than usual.
Across the room, completely oblivious to my low-budget-detective routine, Marcus is standing next to a tall, stunning blonde. His date, presumably. According to his latest post, he had dinner plans with @cookingwithlove2day—a cooking influencer whose poblano quesadillas look delicious enough that I briefly consider DM’ing it to George along with a link of her food blog.
If this weren’t the most awkward situation of my life, I’d probably be fangirling her. Instead, I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
Marcus doesn’t look exactly how I remember him . . . Right now, he seems polished, every detail carefully in place. Tousled hair, styled just enough to seem effortless. An expensive watch that probably costs more than what I made in my last documentary. When did he start making this kind of money? His suit—sleek, tailored—practically announces, I make high-six figures and drive a car that never breaks down.
And, oh, yeah, he might be the father of my child.
I chew my gum aggressively and sip on the fizzy lemon-ginger drink George prepared for me. A miracle in a glass. Well, technically in a water bottle I shouldn’t be drinking out of, because the waiter keeps coming by trying to figure out how to kick me out.
My phone buzzes.
Leif: Where are you? It’s puking o’clock in here.
I exhale, already feeling marginally better and respond, I’m at a restaurant . . . about to talk to Marcus Carter.
A few seconds later he responds, Who the fuck is Marcus Carter? But then there’s a second adding, Oh, that Marcus. You’re actually doing it? I thought you were going to wait.
I simply type, It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better doing it fast, right? You must know, you’re an injury expert.
He doesn’t acknowledge my text; instead he asks, Are you sure it’s him?
I turn to glance at Marcus again and there’s a moment of self-doubt—but if not him, then who? I’ve tried everything. I’m at eleven, almost twelve, weeks of this pregnancy thing and I have to have a plan. So far there’s not much, but telling the father and getting that part done will help. I’ll know for a fact if he’s interested or not.
Before I can answer anything to Leif, he types, Do you need me?
I swallow. Do I need him? Probably. But I type, I’ll message if I do.
Leif: You should’ve brought me. I hate that you’re doing this alone.
I hate it too. But showing up with a six-foot-four famous hockey goalie would be weird, right?
Hailey: That would be positively weird.
Leif: Maybe I should just leave now.
Wait. No. He didn’t actually type that. That’s my thought, not his.
I shove my phone into my bag and take a shaky breath. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m about to humiliate myself in the middle of a very expensive restaurant, in front of a very expensive-looking man, and his very expensive-looking date?
But what if I’m not wrong?
I can’t go through the next eighteen years of my life wondering. Wondering if I denied my child a family. I square my shoulders, drop the menu, and get to my feet.
Showtime.
With all the grace of a woman who is absolutely not internally spiraling, I march toward Marcus’s table. And because I’m having that kind of year, I accidentally bump into him. I’m sure it wouldn’t have happened if I had tried.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say, gasping as I meet his eyes. Then I let my face light up in faux-surprise. “Wait . . . Marcus?”
Marcus Carter blinks at me. No recognition.
Fantastic.
“It’s me, Hailey.” I flash a nervous smile. “We met in Greece a few weeks ago.”
His brow furrows. “Greece?” He turns to his date, looking genuinely perplexed. “Baby, when did we go to Greece?”
The blonde tilts her head and studies me. She has that gracious, polite expression women use when they sense something is happening but aren’t quite sure what.
“You might be confused,” she says with a perfectly curated smile. “I don’t think we met you then.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m really good with faces.” And instead of saying, Your boyfriend and I might have brought back a souvenir from Greece in the form of a tiny human, I add, “I’m pretty sure.”
Her smile stays perfectly in place. “We went to Greece four months ago.” She eyes Marcus. “Maybe she’s confusing you with someone else. You do have one of those faces.”
And if I have any doubts, she actually pulls out her phone and shows me pictures of them. I should tell her that his pictures on social media don’t have them—he’s cut her face out. But that’s definitely not the hotel where we stayed and now I’m totally doubting that this is my . . . was his name even Marcus?
Fuck.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Then I laugh.
Too loud. Too forced. The laugh of a woman who has made a catastrophic mistake but is pretending it’s a totally normal Tuesday night.
“Oh my God, you’re absolutely right,” I say, nodding like my head is on a spring. “Silly me. Wow. What a mix-up, huh? Greece? Hah. Can’t believe I—” I let out another too-high laugh, like this is a hilarious misunderstanding and not a sign that I should never be left unsupervised.
Marcus still looks vaguely confused, but his date? She’s already done with me. She’s giving me that polite but firm smile women use when they’re internally deciding whether to call security.
I need to leave.
Now.
“You two have a great night,” I chirp, backing away. “Enjoy your—” I wave a hand toward their untouched cocktails. “Yeah, okay. Bye.”
Then I turn and bolt. I make it out of the restaurant, past the hostess stand, through the front doors, and?—
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
My stomach revolts, and I barely have time to lunge for the nearest trash can before everything I’ve eaten today decides to make an encore appearance.
Awesome. Fantastic. Just outstanding work all around.
I brace a hand against the cold metal, my forehead pressed to my sleeve, willing the world to stop spinning. My face is on fire, my pulse a drumline in my ears, and I don’t know if this is morning sickness, sheer humiliation, or the universe punishing me for my life choices.
Probably all three.
A few people pass by, giving me a generous radius like I’m a stray dog they’re afraid might bite. One guy in a suit slows, eyes full of concern, before wisely choosing self-preservation and moving along.
I fumble in my bag, my fingers barely functioning as I wrestle the cap off my travel-sized mouthwash. The second it’s open, I take a swig, swish with the intensity of someone trying to rinse away their sins, and spit into the bin. The burn is better than the alternative, but it does nothing to scrub away the mortification sinking into my skin.
I exhale through my nose, press my lips together, and walk. Anywhere. Nowhere. Just away.
By the time I stop, I’m in Central Park.
The air is crisp, biting against my overheated skin, the kind of night that should feel refreshing. A couple strolls past, their hands laced together, and a jogger breathes steadily as his shoes slap against the pavement. In the distance, someone plays a violin for tips, the notes hauntingly beautiful.
It’s a moment that should feel peaceful, but it doesn’t. My brain is doing cartwheels.
What now?
That was definitely not the guy. Was his name Marcus? Was it even an M name? No wonder the hotel disregarded my call when I tried to get his information. I was out here throwing darts in the dark, hoping one would land.
And now?
Now, I have no idea who my baby’s father is. The thought sinks into my stomach, twisting hard. I find a bench, drop onto it, and pull out my phone. There’s only one person I know will pick up.
Hailey: Well. It’s official. Marcus is NOT the father. I don’t even think I remember his name.
The response is instant.
Leif: Are we celebrating or panicking?
I rub a hand over my face.
Hailey: I don’t know.
Another text appears before I can blink, Where are you?
Hailey: Central Park. The bench near the weird statue that looks like an old-timey librarian.
Leif: Stay there. Don’t get kidnapped.
I huff a laugh, dropping my phone into my lap. But then, out of nowhere, something inside me unravels.
My baby doesn’t have a father. I spent so much time trying to find him, trying to confirm what I already suspected, that I never considered what it would mean if I was wrong. And I was so wrong.
Now, it’s just me.
Me.
A person who once left a pot of boiling water unattended for so long, the entire thing evaporated and nearly melted the pan. A person who has, on multiple occasions, lost her keys while holding them. My chest constricts, and before I can stop it, my face crumples.
Tears spill over. I try to shove them back into whatever emotional junk drawer I’ve been stuffing everything into, but they don’t stop. Then, before I can spiral too far, a shadow falls over me.
I blink up.
Leif.
Holding two cups of something steaming, like he somehow knew this was coming. He doesn’t say anything at first, just hands one to me.
“Hot cider,” he says, voice familiar, warm in a way that makes my throat tighten even more.
I sniffle, staring at the cup like it might hold the answers to my life. “You . . . brought me hot cider?” and I cry louder.
Leif shrugs. “I knew you’d be sad. Figured you could use something warm.”
Something in me cracks, deeper than before. I take a slow breath, pressing my lips together because if I speak, I will absolutely start ugly crying again.
Leif lowers himself onto the bench beside me. His knee bumps mine, a casual touch, grounding in a way I don’t know how to process. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I take a sip of my drink, still swallowing emotions along with the cider, my thoughts tangled in a mess of what-ifs and regrets.
Leif glances at me. “Want to tell me what happened, or do you want to keep staring at that statue like it personally wronged you?”
I let out a weak, pathetic laugh. “I think I hit a new low tonight.”
He smirks. “It’s impressive. You managed to get yourself kicked off a potential dad’s contact list in record time.”
I groan, tilting my head back. “I asked him about Greece, Leif. In public.”
“That . . . was a choice.”
“A bad choice.”
He takes a sip of his own drink. “Definitely not your worst, though.”
I narrow my eyes. “Name one worse.”
His mouth twitches. “That time you convinced a bartender to give you absinthe because you swore you could ‘probably handle it.’”
I groan. “We don’t talk about that night.”
“Oh, we do,” he says, smirking.
I sniff, wiping my nose, half-laughing. But then the laughter dies as another wave of reality crashes down. “Leif?”
His expression shifts. “Yeah?”
“This poor baby doesn’t have a plan B or a parachute. They’re stuck with me—” I pause, staring at my cup, “—me. A human disaster with zero qualifications for parenthood.”
Leif exhales, setting his cup on the bench beside him. “Wow. Okay. We’re having a full-blown pity party.”
I glare at him. “I think I’m allowed.”
“No, you’re not,” he says flatly. "Because you’re not a disaster, and that kid is lucky to have you as a mom."
I scoff, but he keeps going.
"Whatever that general made you believe is bullshit. Your mom’s car accident wasn’t your fault. Yeah, you forgot something, and she had to drive back—but it wasn’t on you. He dealt with losing her by blaming a kid. That’s not grief. That’s cruelty.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “And if I were you, I’d stop letting him have a say in your life. You deserve better than that. You deserve love, happiness, a family.”
I stare at him, throat closing, emotions tangling into something too big to name.
“You say it like you believe it.” I start crying again.
“I do because I know what you’re capable of, and because I love you,” he states, pulling me closer. “Now, we’re going to go back home. You’ll be eating some dinner—and then we’ll start a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yes, you need to be nesting. Then find a therapist, because this baby deserves a mom who’ll love herself,” he continues. “Just as everyone who knows her loves her.”
I stare at my cup, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I mess this up?”
His expression softens.
“Of course you will. No one is perfect, Hailey Bean,” he dares to say. “Look at my parents. They’re amazing, but I know for a fact that they’ve fucked up a lot. The important thing is that they learned, and no matter what, they always loved us.” Leif watches me for a moment, like he’s making sure I believe him. “So . . . any other males you need to interrogate, or are we officially closing the investigation?”
I snort. “Investigation closed.”
His smirk grows. “Good. I was wondering if you were going to need a lawyer, but it seems like we don’t need anything—no restraining orders against the cyber stalker.” He pauses and glares at me. “That’d be you. And no angry girlfriends.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m a lot of things, but impossible isn’t one of them,” he states. “Now let’s go home, lady.”
And maybe I can go to his house now, but I do have to figure out what I’m going to do now that I know it’s just me and the little one. We’ll be okay, right?