Chapter 32
CAYDEN
It’s a strange feeling, seeing my parents.
The spring sun warms the natural stone of the terrace, Helena has served strawberry cake, and my mother sits on the very edge of her wicker chair.
She’s wearing a dove-gray suit; her bleached hair is pulled into a tight bun.
Her gaze flees across the lawn and immediately returns to the tablecloth.
My father sits directly across from her.
If I look that fit at his age, I won’t complain.
His gray hair is cut short, and he has a vibrant tan that probably comes from working in the garden.
He lets his gaze wander over the estate and stirs his coffee.
No one knows how to start this conversation without stepping on old landmines.
Hailey fills the heavy silence by laughing at a remark from Jade. My sister brought her twin sons, but Noah and Liam lasted exactly ten minutes in the stiff atmosphere at the table before they escaped into the garden with Parker. Now the three boys are chasing a soccer ball across the grass.
“The property is impressive,” my father breaks the silence. He leans his forearms on the table. “When you bought this house, I thought it was a poor investment. But you’ve certainly increased the value.”
“I paid good architects,” I reply.
“The business pages are reporting on your stadium project,” he probes. “How’s that going?”
“Let’s not talk business today,” I block the question. “Today is just cake.”
My father raises an eyebrow, but he seems to agree.
My mother clears her throat. She turns to Jade. “You’re accompanying Cayden for this report, Jade?”
“Yes,” Jade answers. “I’m trying to understand the man behind the headlines.”
Hailey grins. “You’ve got your work cut out for you. My brother hates talking about feelings.”
“He’s making progress,” Jade smiles.
A laugh escapes my throat. The tension at the table noticeably eases; everyone is slowly warming up to each other.
Jade and Hailey talk a lot about their time at college; my parents talk about what Hailey and I were like as kids.
One funny story leads to the next; one anecdote is better than the last.
Hours pass. The sun sinks lower, bathing the garden in warm light.
Occasionally, I watch the boys play. Parker dribbles the ball skillfully past Noah, shifts his weight to his left leg, and fires with his right.
The ball flies past Liam’s outstretched arms into a makeshift goal.
Parker pumps his fists in the air and laughs from the bottom of his lungs.
I watch him. He doesn't just have athletic talent; he has an unyielding will.
My father wipes his mouth and looks at me. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out his phone. He swipes across the display a few times, then holds the device horizontally across the table toward Jade.
“This,” he says, his tone sounding completely casual—almost proud. “I found this last week while cleaning up. Cayden at his first school tournament. He was eight.”
My mother laughs softly. “He’s been photographing everything for years,” she explains to Jade with a shake of her head that holds more affection than reproach.
“The old polaroids, the paper prints, the whole box in the cellar. Photo by photo. So he always has them with him, he says. I helped him, and it took three Sunday afternoons.”
Jade leans forward. She takes the phone from his hand.
I don’t look at her; I look at the boys on the lawn. Parker has intercepted the ball and is charging toward the makeshift goal, torso leaning forward, left arm out for balance.
Then I hear the sound.
It’s barely anything. A short, uncontrolled intake of breath, as if someone had gently pressed against her chest. I turn my head. Jade is holding the phone with both hands, eyes glued to the display.
I watch the color slowly drain from her cheeks. How her fingers tighten around the device. How her gaze rises from the display and wanders over to the lawn, where my son is currently running across the grass with his arms outstretched. Then she looks back down at the photo.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Jade?” my mother asks. “Everything okay?”
Jade slowly sets the phone on the table. She slides it back to my father as if pulling away from a hot stove. Her hands remain on the edge of the table.
“I’m very glad,” my father tries to lighten the strange mood, “that you invited us today, Cayden. We’ve lost touch. It was a secret to me that you were a family man.”
The sentence hangs in the air, and Jade freezes beside me.
The motion with which she was about to lift her coffee cup stops abruptly. The porcelain clatters onto the saucer, and a drop stains the tablecloth. My mother knits her brow, confused. Hailey sets her glass down.
“Jade?” my sister asks cautiously. “Is everything okay?”
Jade shakes her head, eyes wide as she looks directly at my father. Her hands claw into the edge of the table as if she might slide off her chair otherwise.
“Speaking of secrets and family,” she chokes out, her voice trembling on the very first syllable.
My father frowns in confusion. “Jade?”
Jade ignores him. Instead, she turns her head to Hailey. Deep pain flickers across her face.
“Hailey, I broke our pact,” she whispers. The words stumble over her lips. “I lied to you back then. I lied to all of you.”
Hailey stares at her blankly. “What are you talking about?”
Jade closes her eyes for a second. Then she takes a deep breath. It’s the breath of someone about to jump off a cliff.
“Parker isn’t the son of some backpacker from Toronto,” she says. Every word falls like a stone onto the table. She opens her eyes. Her gaze wanders from Hailey to my mother, then to my father. She ignores me completely. She’s waiting for the impact. Bracing for the screams. The accusations.
“Cayden,” she adds. Her voice breaks. “Cayden is his father.”
The silence on the terrace is deafening. No one at the table moves. No one breathes. No one blinks.
My mother stares at Jade with her mouth open.
Her face has lost all color. Her makeup suddenly looks like an artificial mask.
My father sits frozen in his chair. His hands rest on the tabletop.
The veins stand out on the back of his hands.
Hailey’s eyes are wide. Her gaze darts frantically between Jade and me.
She’s waiting for Jade to burst out laughing and say it was all a joke.
But Jade’s dead-serious face offers no salvation.
Jade kneads her hands, waiting for the explosion. Waiting for the moment my father jumps up and calls her a liar. Waiting for my sister’s hate. Waiting for me to lose it.
I place my hands on the armrests, then push my chair back. All heads snap in my direction.
I stand up and loom at the head of the table. I don’t look at my parents. I don’t look at Hailey. My gaze fixes exclusively on the woman who just bared her life to my family. The woman who is the mother of my son.
“I know,” I say.