SYLAS
I park and tip my head back on the headrest, staring at the roof of my Audi. I squeeze the steering wheel, and my knuckles pop from how hard I’m holding it.
I drop my hands as I do my head, but it all surges back: the repulsion on her face, the dread emanating from her body, the shift in her voice when she saw me. I could physically feel every morsel in her body run cold, the lively energy in the bakery sucked out the moment our eyes locked.
Me too. I’m sorry I didn’t walk away when I had the chance.
“Fuck!” I slam my palms on the steering wheel. Me too. I’m sorry I didn’t walk away when I had the chance. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I strike the wheel repeatedly, harshly.
What did I think was going to happen? I messed everything up.
I broke up with her. I left her when all she did was ask that I open up, but I caved.
The pressure became too much. I left her because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing with my life.
I could blame my father and the injury for getting to my head, but I’m the one who delivered those stupid words that I’ve regretted ever since I uttered them.
We should break up, I’d told her, and I’ll forever hate myself for voicing them. She just wanted in and I didn’t let her. Couldn’t let her, or she’d see I wasn’t as in control as I always appeared.
I was so embarrassed of my fears and insecurities, I let them consume me.
“Fuck!” I hammer my palms one last time and drop my head on the wheel. “What did you think was going to happen? Of course she hates you. I don’t blame her,” I grumble under my breath.
The contempt on her face drowns me. Her words dripping with spite choke me. And her jarring abhorrence of me suffocates whatever lingering hope I had to mend what I destroyed.
I caused this. I don’t deserve to be sad. I don’t—didn’t deserve her.
I’m not sure how long I stay like this, but I know it’s long enough that the leather stitching is indented on my forehead. Pushing away from it, I breathe out, but a second later, the air gets sucked back in and I physically choke on it.
“Marc? What the fuck?” I clear my throat.
He stands on the driver’s side, staring down at me with concern. “Hi, buddy…” He lifts a careful smile.
Grabbing my keys and wallet from my cupholder, I climb out, slamming the door behind me. “Why were you just standing there? That’s fucking creepy.”
“Giving you a minute. I was afraid you’d bitch slap me,” he replies.
I’m tempted to. “What are you doing here?”
He falls into step next to me. “Checking up on you.”
“There’s no need for that. I’m fine.”
We enter the building and then the elevator. “Right, it shows,” he drawls. “You definitely weren’t beating the shit out of the steering wheel. You are incredibly fine. It really shows because a sane person does exactly that when they’re happy.”
“Marcello,” I grind out, doing my best to contain my agitation. Still, it claws its way out at my next words. “Shut the fuck up.”
I told myself she was better off without me, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.
Not since Marc showed up yesterday and broke the news.
I’ve thought about what I wanted to say.
How I wanted to apologize, wanted her back, needed her back, missed her so desperately.
I mulled it over for a few hours and knew there was no possible way I could actually physically stay away.
Not when I know she’s living in the same city.
I told Marc I was going to do it and he was on board, saying if there was ever a chance I could fix things, he’d support me. I wish I hadn’t said anything. Now he’s here and all I want is to be left alone and wallow in my stupidity.
Thankfully as we ride the elevator up, he’s quiet. I don’t want to hear him talk and I don’t want to force a conversation I don’t want to have. What is there to say anyway? She wants nothing to do with me.
Once we’re in my condo, I don’t bother with niceties. I grab the only thing I know will numb me, even if only for a few minutes, and head out to the terrace. I stuff a cigarette into my mouth, light the flame to the end, and hear the soft sizzle as it burns the tip.
Marc appears next to me, accompanying me in my misery. But as I stand here engulfed in smoke, I feel disgusted with myself. Anna would hate this. She’d be disappointed that I picked up the habit again.
God, I can’t even allow the numbness to consume me because now I’m feeling guilty for doing it. Dammit.
Dropping my head, I let the cigarette hang from the corner of my mouth, my elbows perched on the guardrail.
The silence between us grows deafening. I want to let it stretch, but Marc is clearly over it.
“What happened?”
I contemplate not answering, consider letting the silence just be, but I decide against it and tell him everything. He grows still next to me, the smoke from our cigarettes coalescing until we’re trapped in a cloud of nicotine.
“‘We’?” He cocks a brow, perplexed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.” I drag weary fingers through my hair, then wipe my palm down my face and around to my neck, massaging my tense shoulder. “I had no idea what she meant, and she wouldn’t explain.”
Right, I don’t know what I meant by that either. Her voice haunts my thoughts, her hollow smile stuck on pause.
I’ve craved her smiles and I got one, but it was tight and lifted by the force of disdain. I could feel her derision puncture every inch of my skin.
“Did you guys get a pet or something?” He absently rubs his palm over his jaw, a deep furrow in his brow.
“No. We were too busy for that, and she wasn’t even in the country.”
She was in France for culinary school, but we had started talking about her return and getting a home, finally building a future together. Until I messed it all up.
He hums pensively, going quiet again. I think about it too, really dig deep in search of the meaning behind her words, replaying and trying to decipher them.
“‘We are better without you. We don’t need you. We don’t want you here.’” I repeat her words in my head and then out loud, over and over until…
I shoot up, my cigarette almost falling. My eyebrows pinch tight and my heart lodges in my throat. I struggle to breathe.
“Are you…are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he staggers out, voice low. He spins to look at me, eyes narrowed as they rake over my face. “Sy…you don’t think…”
I bring my clammy hands to my nape. “I-I don’t know,” I stammer, frantically trying to wrap my mind around the possibility. “There’s no way…I—fuck, I don’t know.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“No, just what I told you. She was vague and so fucking angry.” I drop to my haunches on the terrace as Marc fishes out his phone. “What are you doing?”
“Going to look her up on Instagram? Surely she’ll—”
“She blocked us, remember?” It wasn’t just me but all our friends and my sister.
Thea’s still annoyed at me about it. Anna had really grown on her, like she had with everyone else.
I did make a fake account. I was desperate to reach out to her, but it was too late because she’d already made her profiles private.
“Right…wait—” His face lights up. “She probably didn’t think to block us on her business account, and I’m sure it’s public.”
I stand, my eyes lasered on his fingers as they move on the screen. My lungs constrict and I’m unable to move. All I do is wait as he continues to drag his index finger, tapping away.
He glances at me and shakes his head. “Nothing here…” My stomach sinks. “It’s all pictures of the stuff they bake and sell, and very few of her and the other girl…oh, wait, I’m going to try one more thing.”
I hold my breath, then inhale the last of my smoke. Her words replay, and despite how many times I tell myself that we’re probably reading into it, I can’t help but feel—no, know that our assumption is right.
I just know it is.
“What are you doing?” I ask, feeling on edge.
“Looking at Clementine’s Instagram account,” he answers, gaze locked on his bright screen. His cigarette is tucked in the corner of his mouth, ashes fluttering on the floor. But a second later, the cigarette joins them as his jaw drops.
“What? What did you find?” I stand next to him, taking the phone from his grasp.
His throat works a thick swallow, face pinched with discomfort. “A picture of Clementine, Anna, and this little one.” He carefully points at the tiny human between the two girls, the tip of his finger barely touching the screen.
His anxiety is palpable. I hear each beat of his heart knock against his rib cage. Or maybe it’s mine. No, it definitely is.
I look at the toddler. She’s sporting a toothy grin, pink frosting coating her pink-stained lips. She’s wearing a tiny tiara with the words Birthday Girl on it.
“She doesn’t look like either one of them,” Marc chimes in after a moment because I can’t bring myself to say anything.
“No…no…she doesn’t.” I feel out of body, completely dazed and confused.
I zoom in on her, note the green of her eyes, her brown curly hair, the dimples on her round cheeks.
She looks nothing like Anna. And certainly nothing like Clementine.
I slide to the next picture, the little girl in a sparkly pink dress with two small heart-shaped cakes.
The next picture is one of Clementine, one of the cakes, the little girl.
The other is Anna, the other cake, and the little girl.
I read the caption.
My favorite girl turns two today!! *unicorn emoji* *pink heart emoji* *cake emoji* Happy Birthday, Rosie!!! I definitely made the better cake, but we’ll let your mom believe hers was the best.
It’s dated December 13.
“That picture was posted just last year,” Marc states.
“If she turned two this past December…then she was born…” His voice wavers as he does the math in his head, and then his grave eyes connect with mine.
“Two and a half years ago. And two and a half years ago, you got injured and broke up with Anna. What month was that again?”
I struggle to breathe out the word, the memories like a bolt of lightning flashing in my head.
“May.”
“I don’t know much about babies, but aren’t women usually pregnant for…nine months?”
I nod, processing the million thoughts running rampant through my head. “Yeah…nine months.”
One night after a win, we were drunk and happy…
He takes the phone from me, but I don’t pay attention to what he’s doing. I’m still trying to piece everything together, make sense of what isn’t all that complicated to understand.
“Look up.” Marc holds the phone next to my face. I side-eye it and understand why. He took a close-up screenshot of the little girl. “Smile.”
My lips curl upward. It’s forced, hard to make it look genuine, but whatever I’m showing is enough because he gawks at me in disbelief.
“Jesus, you two look”—his gaze jumps between the screen and my face, brows arched—“so alike. Sylas, I think…” He cocks his head from side to side, studying the picture and my face. Hesitation flashes across his eyes, but a second later it’s replaced with awareness. “She’s yours.”
“But Anna didn’t tell me anything,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.
“We talked about this.” My throat constricts, the weight of what I just found out making it hard to breathe.
All the thoughts wildly running through my head abruptly stop, making me feel sick.
“We said we’d do it together…Anna, she’s not like that. She would’ve told me.”
“She obviously didn’t,” he replies, irritated. “Unless she’s not yours.”
“You know she’s not like that,” I snap, my eyes becoming slits. “Don’t ever make that fucking accusation.”
I know he didn’t mean it, considering he’s drawing the similarities between the toddler and me.
“Well then what the fuck?” He raises his shoulders in question. “Why didn’t she tell you? That little girl is almost three years old. She had all this time to tell you.”
I shrug and drop onto a chair, unable to answer.
Why didn’t she tell me? How can she be mad at me when I didn’t know? Why did she act like I did? Why…fuck…I…that little girl is mine. I know she is. I feel it so deep in my bones.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”