Chapter 21
Mia
When I see him—six foot two, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses hooked onto the collar of his shirt, crouched beside the craft table helping four-year-old Olivia Jacobs make pipe-cleaner dragonflies—I nearly drop the basket of sunscreen and bug spray I’m carrying.
There’s glitter on his forearm and a bright yellow sticker on his chest that says “HELLO, MY NAME IS: AIDEN.” There is a heart over the letter I in his name. A pink one.
Olivia is giving him serious instructions on wing symmetry, and he’s nodding like she’s an expert in aerodynamics.
Of all the places I thought I’d bump into Aiden, it wasn’t at the Little Luminaries Spring Fundraiser. We hold it every May to raise money for our summer enrichment programs—nature walks, gardening kits, language classes, and healthy lunches for kids who don’t have access to them when school’s out.
There’s face painting under the maple trees, lemonade stands with biodegradable cups, and kids giggling over hula hoops and scavenger hunts.
“Mia,” a colleague says with what is a combination of awe and envy. “Your husband is magic with the kids. He got two of the grumpiest four-year-olds to share a cookie.”
Almost ex-husband!
And that’s a good thing, right?
He’s so good with kids, and maybe now he can have his own with someone who can have them.
My heart aches at the thought.
The idea of him being a father—and Diana slipping into that role—still hits me like a punch to the gut. I hate that she still lives rent-free in my head, even after everything, even after I know he’s done with her.
You’re making progress, Mia. You know she’s not the threat anymore. It just takes time to let go of the ghost of her.
I press my palms against my thighs, steadying myself.
Get it together, Mia. You’re at work. Having a nervous breakdown with little kids around is a serious no-no.
I take a steadying breath, and walk over to him, my heartbeat louder than the cheerful, child-friendly music playing from a tinny Bluetooth speaker.
He sees me. Stands. His eyes warm.
“Hey,” he greets, like we’re meeting on a sunny sidewalk and not on the Little Luminaries’ playground, which is strung with paper sunflowers and smells like cotton candy.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, genuinely baffled.
“The city email newsletter mentioned the Little Luminaries fundraiser. I made a donation, but”—he shrugs nervously—“I thought showing up would be better. Is it okay that I’m here?”
This man, who once scoffed at school functions and politely nodded as I talked about my work, is now gently helping a child make a pipe cleaner insect, and is letting children paste bumblebee stickers onto his expensive shirt.
“Of course, it’s okay,” I murmur, because it seems catty to say, “It’s a free world. Be wherever you want to be.”
He grins. “Good! I was hoping it would be. I haven’t broken anything…yet.”
A kid tugs his sleeve. “Aiden, can you help me staple this butterfly wing?”
He winks at me. “Duty calls.”
I watch him, confused, emotional, and completely unmoored.
I take a picture surreptitiously, because he looks so good playing with children, and send it to Katya.
Me: He’s here. At the fundraiser.
Katya: Damn!
Me: What’s he doing?
Katya: Trying to impress you with his crafting skills?
Me: He does have very nice hands.
Katya: Geez! Are you horny?
Me: For him? Always. You know that.
Katya: Remember the kiss.
Me:
Katya: But also…maybe forget it?
Me: Hell no!
Katya:
Later, after the last glitter-covered child has been picked up, and the cookies are gone, he walks me to the nearby café, Kru Coffee, on Pine Street.
It’s cool inside, filled with the smell of espresso. We find a table at the back.
He doesn’t ask if he can join me. He just settles in and sets our coffees in between us.
“Is this one of the eight dates?” I demand.
“Did I ask you out?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not a date. We’re saving that for Saturday.”
I stick my tongue out at him. It’s a childish gesture and came out of nowhere.
He chuckles. “You’re adorable, you know that?”
I flush and then take a deep breath. “You’re good with kids.”
He waits, his eyebrows lifted.
“Maybe…maybe now you can be with someone who can—”
He raises a hand, palm out. “Stop right there. You and I are not about the kids we can or can’t have. You’re more than your ability to have a child. I’m more than my ability to be a parent. We’re more.”
Silence sits between us, companionable and heavy.
Then, softly, I say, “We never really talked about…our disappointment about not having them.”
I said I was sorry. He said it didn’t matter. And that was that. We swept it under the rug, like it was just a mundane life event, and moved forward.
He looks out the window for a long moment, and then turns to face me. “I made a promise to myself that I’ll only be honest with you, from now on. So, no lies. Not even pleasant white ones. Some of this is…hell, Mia, it’s not gonna help me win you back.”
I draw in an unsteady breath. “Tell me anyway.”
Do I want to know his thoughts about me not being able to have babies? No, not really, because it’s going to hurt. But just as he made a promise to himself to be honest, I know I have to do the same. I have to listen to him being candid.
His shoulders tense. I can tell he’s not sure how far to go. But then he leans in, elbows on the table, hands cradling his cup like he needs the warmth. “I should’ve made it safe for you to talk about it. I should’ve let you grieve. With me.”
“Grieve?” The word comes out like a croak.
“Yeah, baby.” His eyes are gentle as he holds my gaze. “I know it hurt you to find out. It hurt me, too. But I didn’t want to hurt you more, so I didn’t talk about it.”
“Did you…love me less because of it?” The question has been haunting me.
He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing in this world could make me love you less, Mia. Nothing. I felt guilty for not being able to adopt. I wanted to give you…us…children, but I knew my parents would….”
I know what he means. His parents would’ve treated our child like they weren’t part of the family because they weren’t blood.
“So”—he clears his throat—"I took, once again, the path of least resistance when it came to my family. I screwed you over.”
“You did,” I admit, tears stinging.
He nods, his eyes filling with emotion.
“I hated how they made you feel like it was your fault.” He looks defeated. “I didn’t correct them, and you kept thinking there was something wrong with you.”
“You screwed me over,” I use his words because they’re so fitting.
He flinches. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
I suck in air and then blow it out to prevent the tears from falling. Now, that would create all sorts of drama. It was already going to be all around town that we were talking when everyone knew I had moved out. If I also cried….
“Give me a chance…give us a chance,” he pleads.
I’ve never seen Aiden beg for anything. He’s always been the man who avoids, who papers over the cracks with charm and pretense, acting like everything is fine, even when it’s burning down around him.
The fact that he’s sitting here now, laying his feelings bare, tells me how sincere he is.
But my broken heart cannot forgive, forget, or move on.
I can’t trust him not to screw me over again.
He meets my eyes, firm and clear. “I want to have a child with you, Mia. So fucking badly. My parents don’t deserve to meet any child we raise. Adopted or not.”
He’s so honest, I want to weep.
“I still want to be a father,” he adds. “Even if it’s not in the way we imagined. But more than that…I want to be a husband again. Yours.”
I look down for a moment and then raise my eyes to him. “What if you…put them first again?”
It’s the truth. He put them first, himself, too. He didn’t want conflict, so he sold me out. It’s a harsh fact and one that crushes me further.
“I’d never do that again, Mia.”
I feel exhausted. My heart hurts all the time. My head feels like it’s exploding because I can’t stop thinking about how my life has imploded.
“I don’t trust you.”
If heartbreak could be an expression, Aiden wears it.
I don’t want to hurt him, but I am. I just don’t know how to protect myself and him.
I can barely take care of myself right now; I can’t carry his burdens as well. I did that for so many years, and the result is that we sit across from each other with an abyss between us.
“I’ll show you that you can.” His voice is hoarse, heavy with tears. My stupid heart flutters.
I think about the ache of wanting something so badly and the fear of being broken by it again. I do believe he’s telling me the truth right now. But the past makes me doubt the longevity of his truth.
“You kissed her.” I close my eyes, and lean back against my seat. “You kissed her, Aiden.”
He covers his hand with mine. “I’m going to work to be the man you deserve.”
I open my eyes, and he smiles at me. There’s no arrogance in it, just hope.
“I don’t know what I deserve,” I confess. “I’m lost, too, Aiden, without you. But I was lost with you as well.”
“Give us a chance,” he repeats.
I give him a watery smile. “Well, you did get me to sign a contract for eight dates, didn’t you?”
He grins, and some of the sad leaves his eyes. “I did.”
I don’t want to give him false hope—because, honestly, I still can’t see how I could ever fully forgive him, how we could ever fit back together without breaking in the same places.
But I also know I want to forgive him. I want there to be an us.
So I’ll walk into these eight legally-binding dates with as open a mind as I can manage.
That isn’t going to be easy.