Chapter 5 #2
His sticky muffin hand, because of course he found a muffin crumb somewhere in the carrier, shoots out and pats Gunther's cheek.
Directly on the dimple.
Gunther freezes.
Orry giggles. Pats again. Tiny fingers press into Gunther's face with the confidence of a baby who's never met a stranger.
Orry mumbles something and points his fingers through the hollow of Gunther's dimples.
It's not a real word. Just a sound. But it lands like a bomb. I peek at Orry. Colum gazes at Orry. Gunther looks at Orry. Then Gunther's eyes, pale green, wide behind his glasses, snap to mine. And I see it. Recognition. Calculation. Math.
He's doing math. Right now. I can practically see the spreadsheet unfolding in his head.
Eighteen months. Dimple. Eyes. Skin tone. Probability analysis.
"I—" Gunther's voice cracks. "I should—"
He doesn't finish.
Just stands there, Orry's muffin-sticky hand still resting on his cheek, while the entire office seems to hold its breath.
Colum breaks the silence.
"Aww. He likes you, Gunther."
"Yes." Gunther's voice is faint. "Apparently."
I should laugh. Make a joke. Diffuse whatever this moment is.
Instead, I'm frozen, watching Gunther's face cycle through approximately twelve emotions in three seconds.
Orry pats his cheek again.
"Same," he repeats, pleased with himself.
Gunther's hand comes up, slowly, carefully, like he's approaching a wild animal, and gently removes Orry's fingers from his face.
But he doesn't let go.
Just holds Orry's tiny hand in his much larger one, staring at it like it contains the secrets of the universe.
The junior analyst in the cat-eye glasses leans over to her neighbor. Whispers something.
They both glance at us.
Oh God. This is happening in public.
"Okay!" I say, too loud. "We're going. Orry needs a nap. Or a diaper change. Or something. Bye!"
I spin on my heel.
Gunther's voice stops me.
"Wait."
I don't turn around.
Can't.
If I look at him, I'll see the question forming. And I don't have an answer. Not one I'm ready to give in the middle of a financial office with half a dozen people pretending not to eavesdrop.
"Cecie."
My name sounds different in his mouth. Careful. Like he's testing the weight of it.
I force myself to turn.
Gunther's still holding Orry's hand. His expression is—
Devastated.
No. That's not right.
Hopeful.
No. Not that either.
Terrified.
Yeah. That's it.
He's terrified.
Same as me.
"I—" Gunther swallows. "I think we should talk."
"About what?" My voice is steady. A miracle.
"I think you know."
Colum's looking between us now, brow furrowed. "Am I missing something?"
"No," I say.
"Yes," Gunther says at the same time.
Orry giggles again, delighted by the attention.
Then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, he leans forward and presses his forehead against Gunther's.
Gunther goes very, very still.
Gunther's eyes close.
His free hand comes up, hovering near Orry's back, like he wants to hold him but doesn't dare.
"Sis," he whispers.
The nickname slams into me.
Sis.
Not Cecie. Not the name I gave the brow customer or Colum or anyone in this plaza.
Sis.
The name I gave a stranger in a bar. The name I whispered into the dark while a man with henna tattoos and no glasses kissed his way down my spine.
My vision tunnels.
No.
It's not possible.
Ridge was—
He was Ridge. Leather jacket. Motorcycle. Gruff voice. Sunglasses at night.
Not—
Not this.
Not a financial analyst in a button-up shirt with a pocket protector and a calculator watch.
Not Gunther.
"I have to go." I barely recognize my own voice.
Gunther's eyes open. "Please. Just, five minutes. I can explain—"
"Explain what?" The words come out sharp. "How you lied? How you pretended to be someone else?"
"I didn't—" He stops. "I mean, I did, but—"
"But nothing." I step back, cradle Orry protectively. "You lied."
"So did you."
The accusation hangs in the air.
He's right.
I lied too. Gave him my nickname. Slipped out before dawn. Pretended the whole thing never happened.
But I didn't spend nine months working next door to him, watching him through glass walls, letting him meet my son without saying a goddamn word.
"That's different," I say.
"How?"
"Because—" I falter. "Because I didn't know."
"Neither did I!"
His voice rises. Not angry. Desperate.
The office is definitely paying attention now. Someone's phone is out. The junior analyst is furiously texting.
Great. Just great.
"I have to go," I repeat.
This time, I don't wait for a response.
I turn and walk fast, but not running, because I refuse to run, out of Fishborn Financial.
The glass door swings shut behind me.
I make it three steps into the plaza before my hands start shaking.
Orry babbles, oblivious. Pats my chest with his sticky muffin hand.
"It's okay," I tell him. "We're okay."
Liar.
I'm not okay.
I'm standing in the middle of the plaza, glitter still clinging to my apron, my son's biological father less than twenty feet away, and I have no idea what happens next.
Orry reaches up.
Pats my cheek.
Right where the dimple would be, if I had one.
And despite everything with the shock, the fear, the bone-deep panic clawing at my ribs, I laugh.
It comes out wet. Shaky.
But it's a laugh.
"Yeah, kid," I whisper. "Meet your daddy."
I don't go back to Sparkle Beauty.
Can't.
If I walk through that door, I'll have to think. Process. Make decisions.
Instead, I walk.
The plaza's small, just a renovated block of storefronts with a central courtyard, but I circle it twice. Orry dozes in the carrier, head lolling against my chest.
Gunther.
Gunther is Ridge.
Ridge is Gunther.
The man I spent one reckless, incredible night with, the man the orc I've spent nine months half-hating, half-mourning, has been right here the entire time.
And I didn't recognize him.
How did I not recognize him?
But even as I think it, I know.
The glasses. The posture. The voice.
Ridge was all swagger. Gravel. Rough edges.
Gunther is—
Gunther's gentle.
Soft-spoken. Careful. The kind of guy who probably color-codes his tax returns and has strong opinions about spreadsheet software.
They're nothing alike.
Except for the dimple.
And the eyes.
And apparently, the DNA.
Orry's his son.
The thought should feel bigger. Earth-shattering.
Instead, it just feels—
Obvious.
How did I not see it?
Orry's skin. His eyes. The way he smiles.
I chalked it up to generic orc traits. Told myself Ridge was probably some wandering contractor who'd moved on by now.
Never imagined he was— Next door. I stop walking and turn in the middle of the courtyard, staring at nothing.
A couple passes by. Glances at me. Keeps walking. I don't care. Orry stirs, makes a sleepy sound. I press my hand to his back. Feel his tiny heartbeat through the carrier.
What now?
Do I talk to Gunther? Demand answers? Pretend this never happened? No. Can't do that. He knows. The second Orry touched his face, Gunther knew.
And now— Now everything's different.
My phone illuminates in my pocket. I pull it out.
Colum: Hey. You okay?
I read the message.
Type: Fine.
Delete it.
Type: Need a minute.
Delete that too.
Finally: Talk later.
Send.
Another buzz. Immediate.
Colum: Gunther's freaking out. Just FYI.
I don't respond.
Just shove the phone back in my pocket and start walking again.
This time, I head for Sparkle Beauty.
The shop's exactly how I left it.
Glitter on the floor. Beard oil boxes stacked in the corner. Displays half-finished.
I lock the door behind me. Flip the sign to CLOSED.
Then I sink onto the floor, back against the counter, and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
Orry wakes up. Blinks at me with those impossibly green eyes.
"Hey, baby."
He grins. Dimple. Right cheek. Just like his father. His father. The words feel surreal.
For nine months, Orry's father has been a ghost. A what-if. A man I invented in my head to fill the gaps.
Now he's— Real. Solid. Wearing a pocket protector.
I start laughing. Can't help it. It's absurd. All of it.
The one-night stand. The fake names. The nine-month gap. The muffins. I brought muffins to my son's father and didn't even know it.
Orry watches me, solemn. Then he laughs too. Not because he understands. Just because I'm laughing and that's enough.
I pull him out of the carrier, settle him in my lap. He grabs my nose. Squeezes.
"Ow."
He giggles.
I kiss his forehead. Breathe in his baby-shampoo smell.
Okay.
Okay.
I can do this. I've done harder things. Survived worse. I can talk to Gunther.
Figure out— What? What do I even want from this? Child support? Co-parenting? An explanation? An apology?
For what? For not recognizing me? For being someone different than I thought?
For making me feel— Safe. That night. In the hotel room. Ridge made me feel safe. Wanted. Seen. And then I woke up and realized it was all a lie.
Except— Was it? Gunther's face, when Orry touched him, wasn't fake. That was real. Raw. Unguarded. Terrified.
Same as me.
I look down at Orry. He's chewing on my thumb now, drool soaking into my palm.
"Your dad's a financial analyst," I tell him. "With a pocket protector. And a calculator watch. And probably opinions about tax law."
Orry blows a raspberry.
"Yeah. That's what I thought too."