14. Skye
— ? —
Skye
Josh is eating cereal when I hear the truck.
Cartoons play on low during a quiet Saturday morning, the apartment silent except for the crunch of off-brand Cheerios and occasional slurp of milk, capturing a routine that is small, contained, and safe.
Two weeks have passed since the retreat, since I let Jaime touch me and since I watched Shelby walk into the rain while a sharp rift cracked between us.
She came back the next day. Sat on my couch with her arms crossed and laid it out plain: he broke you once, and I held the pieces, and I can’t do it again.
She didn’t ask me to choose. She just made me look at the pattern.
The way I kept letting him close. The way I kept making excuses.
The way I was already halfway to forgiving him for things that shouldn’t be forgiven.
She was right. I knew she was right. That’s why it hurt.
So I went full employee-only. Every communication documented, copied, filed. I canceled Saturday’s visit. Jaime showed up anyway, stood on my doorstep with a stuffed dinosaur, and I told him through the door that I needed space.
He asked how much space.
I said I didn’t know. He left the dinosaur on the mat and walked away.
Three days later he tried again. Texted asking if we could talk, just talk. I didn’t respond. He called once, let it ring twice, then hung up. The next morning flowers arrived at my office. I sent them back unopened.
Yesterday he messaged asking if Josh was okay. Just that. Is Josh okay? I typed fine and hit send before I could soften it.
He hasn’t messaged since.
Leslie’s business card still sits in my sock drawer. I don’t know why I kept it. Evidence, maybe. A reminder, live ammunition I haven’t decided how to use.
“Mama, look!”
Josh abandons his cereal and presses his face to the window, his breath fogging the glass.
“There’s a truck! A big truck!”
I cross to the window, coffee in hand, expecting to see someone finally moving into the empty unit next door. 4B has been vacant for months. The landlord kept meaning to fix it up but never got around to it.
The moving truck is small and basic. Two guys in work shirts haul a bare mattress up the front steps of the building. Then a folding chair. Then boxes, stacked and taped.
One of the boxes has writing on the side.
BOOKS - DINOSAURS
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my mouth.
I recognize that handwriting from years of birthday cards and Post-it notes, knowing its curves as intimately as my own pulse while my brain refuses to admit what my body already understands.
“Maybe it’s a new friend!” Josh bounces on his toes. “Maybe they have a kid! Maybe the kid likes dinosaurs too!”
“Maybe.” My voice sounds far away. “Stay here, okay? Watch your show. I’ll be right back.”
I’m out the door. And there he is.
Jaime has a single box in his arms, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms are tan, muscled, and my stupid traitorous body remembers exactly what those arms felt like pinning me to a cabin floor while rain hammered the windows.
I spent two weeks not thinking about that night.
He sees me and stops. The box says KITCHEN in his handwriting.
“Tell me you’re visiting someone.”
“4B.” He doesn’t smile. He shifts the box and holds out a folder I didn’t notice tucked under his arm. “The lease application is in here. Turns out the landlord has to approve it.”
I don’t take the folder. “What are you doing?”
“Moving in.”
“You can’t move in. You live in a penthouse. You have a doorman. You have a private elevator.”
“Had.”
“Had?”
“I sold it. The closing was three days ago.”
“You sold your penthouse. In three days.”
“When you want something done fast, you pay extra.”
“Daddy!”
Josh barrels past me, slamming into Jaime’s legs with enough force to nearly topple the box. His face is pure, uncomplicated joy.
“You live here now?!” Josh’s voice echoes in the stairwell. “You live in our building?!”
Jaime looks at me.
He doesn’t answer. He stands there, holding a box marked KITCHEN and a folder full of paperwork, waiting for permission.
That restraint lands harder than any speech.
“Josh.” I force my voice steady. “Go back inside. Watch your cartoons. I need to talk to our... our neighbor.”
“But Mama-”
“Now, please.”
Josh pouts but obeys, dragging his feet the whole way. The door clicks shut behind him.
I turn back to Jaime, arms crossed, fury and something else fighting for control of my chest.
“Give me the folder.”
He hands it over.
I flip it open expecting arguments. Legal documents. Some elaborate scheme to corner me into something I didn’t agree to.
Instead, I find a deed transfer.
The building has been sold. The new owner is the Joshua David Warren Trust. Sole trustee: Skye Warren.
I read it twice. The words don’t change.
“What is this?”
“Keep going.”
The next page is a rent freeze notice. Every unit in the building. Locked at current rates for the next ten years.
Then a repair schedule. Completed items checked off. The broken gate, fixed three days ago. I noticed but didn’t ask why. The dead streetlight that used to make me nervous walking home after dark, replaced. The intercom that’s been broken since I moved in, working now.
I noticed all of it. I just assumed the landlord finally got around to maintenance after all these years.
“You bought my building.”
“I bought a building in the neighborhood. You happen to live here.”
“You put it in a trust for my son.”
“Our son. And yes.”
“Your name isn’t on any of this.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not about me.”
I stare at him. At the folder. At the evidence of something I don’t know how to categorize.
“You couldn’t control me at work, so you bought my building. You couldn’t make me answer your texts, so you showed up at my door. You’re everywhere, Jaime. Every direction I turn.”
He takes it.
“I’m not trying to cage you.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to be close enough to help when you need it.” He sets the box down. “That’s it. That’s the whole plan.”
“The whole plan is moving into a walk-up with one bathroom and radiator heat.”
“Yes.”
“You had a skyline view. You had a chef’s kitchen.”
“I had an empty penthouse and a son who lives thirty minutes away.” His voice stays level. “You said this is where you live. So this is where I live.”
I open my mouth to argue and then I see past him, through the open door of 4B.
The apartment is bare, a mattress on the floor. One mug on the counter. A folding chair facing the window.
And on the wall, taped at exactly Josh’s eye level, is the giraffe drawing from the zoo. Crayon and construction paper. The one Josh made on their first Saturday together.
It’s the only decoration in the entire room.
My argument dies in my throat.
“The penthouse had nine rooms,” Jaime says quietly. “This has everything I need.”
I don’t realize I’m moving until I’m already in the doorway. The apartment smells like fresh paint and emptiness. His mattress doesn’t even have a frame.
“You’re actually going to live here.”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t some stunt. You’re actually going to sleep on that mattress and pretend you know how to be a regular person.”
“I’m going to try. All I want is to be near you. To know that every night, both of you come home safe.”
I turn to face him, and he’s closer than I expected. My palm lands on his chest to stop him.
It stays there one beat too long.
His heart pounds under my hand. His eyes drop to where I’m touching him, then back to my face.
“Skye.”
A camera flash from across the street.
I jerk back, the spell broken. Through the window, I can see the long lens. Paparazzi. A billionaire moving into a walk-up is a story.
“They found you already.”
Jaime doesn’t even turn his head. “Let them shoot.”
“This will be everywhere by tonight.”
“Good.” His eyes stay on mine. “It’s the first true story they’ll ever run about me.”
I grab the folder and head to our own space. He follows.
We end up on the front stoop. Josh has abandoned cartoons for the window, waving frantically from three floors up.
“This changes nothing.” I grip the folder like a weapon. “Saturday visits resume on my schedule. No gifts through the wall. No surprise appearances.”
“Agreed.”
“And if I tell you to leave, you leave.”
“Agreed.”
The door bangs open behind us. Josh rockets onto the stoop.
“Mama, can Daddy come for spaghetti? Please? You make the best spaghetti!”
“Josh-”
“Tuesday! Spaghetti Tuesday! It’s a rule!”
“That’s not how rules work.”
“Please?” The full force of three-year-old charm. “I’ll eat all my vegetables. Even the green ones.”
I look at Jaime. He looks back, carefully not pushing.
“We’ll see.”
“That means yes!” Josh throws his arms around Jaime’s legs. “You have to bring the bread. The crunchy kind.”
For one dangerous minute, the three of us stand on the stoop, and it feels like a family. A car swings into the lot too fast, parking crooked.
Shelby.
She’s out before the engine dies, phone raised, face grim. But she’s not looking at Jaime. She’s looking at me.
“Shelby? What’s wrong?”
“I’m still mad at you.” She stops. “About the retreat. About him.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” She wedges herself between us. “Move over. We have a bigger problem.”
She holds up her phone.
The screen shows a live interview. Studio lighting. And Leslie, perfectly made up, dabbing at dry eyes with a tissue.
The chyron reads: EXCLUSIVE: THE RUNAWAY brIDE HID HIS CHILD
“She’s naming Josh.” Shelby’s voice is tight. “Right now. On live television. She’s calling him the Miller heir. She’s saying you hid him for leverage.”
The segment cuts to a photo.
Josh. On the daycare playground. Shot through the chain-link fence. His face clearly visible.
“She put my son’s face on television.” My voice comes out lethal.
“There’s more.” Shelby scrolls. “She’s got quotes. Sources close to the family. She’s saying you planned the whole wedding disaster.”
Jaime takes the phone. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his stillness makes the hair on my arms stand up.
He’s quiet, the dangerous kind of quiet.
“Josh.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “Can you go inside? I need to talk to Mama.”
“But-”
“I’ll bring the crunchy bread Tuesday. I promise.”
Josh goes.
Jaime hands the phone back to Shelby. Takes the giraffe drawing from the folder and walks it inside, placing it on my counter.
Then he comes back, and he looks at me, and whatever he sees in my face makes his decision.
“Skye.” He steps close. “I need you to trust me one more time on this.”