Chapter 33
thirty-three
. . .
Jake
“You’re not eating.”
My mom sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. I’ve been sitting at her kitchen table for twenty minutes, staring out the window at the frozen backyard. The oak tree I used to climb as a kid is bare, branches black against the February sky.
I flew out here eight days ago. Called Wyatt after Natalie left, told him what happened. That I’d proposed. That she’d walked out. That I needed to get away before I did something stupid like show up at her door and start begging.
“Go see your mom,” Wyatt had said. “Take a few days. Clear your head.”
So I booked a flight for the next morning. Didn’t tell Natalie I was leaving. What would I even say? She asked for space. I’m giving her space.
Even if it’s killing me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t been hungry since you got here.” She sits down across from me, her own coffee untouched. “Jake.”
I force myself to look at her. At sixty-three, Linda Reyes is still sharp, still sees through every defense I’ve ever tried to build. She’s wearing her favorite jeans and one of my dad’s old flannel shirts that she’s had for thirty years and refuses to throw away.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Mom.”
“I want you to tell me what happened. The real version, not whatever you said on the phone when you told me you were coming to visit.”
I pick up my fork, push the eggs around. They’re perfect, the way she’s always made them—fluffy, with just a little cheese. My childhood breakfast. But they taste like nothing. “I told Natalie I loved her.”
Mom is quiet. Waiting.
“Valentine’s Day. I cooked dinner, finished the nursery. I had this whole plan.” The words feel heavy in my mouth. “I proposed to her. Had a ring. I asked her to move in with me. Told her I wanted us to be a real family.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she needed space.” I set the fork down. “It’s been a week. Haven’t heard from her since.”
“Have you tried calling?”
“She asked for space. I’m giving her space.”
“Jake—”
“What am I supposed to do?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Chase after her? Beg? I put myself out there. I told her everything. And she walked out.”
Mom is quiet for a long moment, her hands wrapped around her mug. Outside, a cardinal lands on the bird feeder, a shock of red against the gray morning.
“You know what I remember most about your father?” she says finally.
The shift catches me off guard. “What?”
“How patient he was. When we first started dating, I was terrified. I’d been hurt before, badly, and I kept waiting for him to prove he was just like the others.” She looks at me. “He didn’t push. He just showed up. Every day. Until I finally believed him.”
“Natalie’s not going to believe me, Mom. She’s convinced everyone leaves. And now I pushed too hard and she ran.”
“Did you push too hard? Or did you just finally tell her the truth?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
“She’s having my daughter in less than a month,” I say quietly. “And I’m in love with her. Not just because of the baby. Because of her.” My throat tightens.
“But I can’t make her love me back. I can’t make her trust me.
And I’m terrified that I’m going to spend the rest of my life co-parenting with a woman I’m in love with, watching her eventually find someone else.
Some guy who she’ll let in because enough time has passed and she’s not scared anymore.
And my daughter will have a stepfather who gets to be there for all of it while I’m just the every-other-weekend dad who—”
I have to stop. The words are choking me.
My chest feels tight, like there’s a weight pressing down on my ribs. I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The kitchen walls feel like they’re closing in.
I pace to the window, back to the table, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. Everything inside me is chaos. Thoughts crashing into each other, none of them making sense, all of them leading back to the same place.
Natalie walking out. The door closing. The silence.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest, trying to ease the pressure there. It doesn’t help.
Mom reaches across the table, but I’m already moving, needing space, needing air. “You’re not going to be the every-other-weekend dad. You’re already not that. You’re building a nursery, showing up for appointments, learning how to love your baby’s mother.”
“But what if it’s not enough? What if I do everything right and she still won’t let me in?”
“Then you love your daughter and you keep showing up for Natalie anyway. Not because you expect something back, but because that’s what love is. It’s showing up even when it’s hard.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. Watch her live her life without me in it. Not the way I want it to be.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”
The words come out rough, scraped raw. I can’t breathe. I need to get out of this house.
Mom stands, concern clear on her face. “Then fall apart. You’re allowed to fall apart. Just don’t give up on her yet.”
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm. “I need to go for a run.”
“Jake, it’s twenty-eight degrees out there.”
“I need to clear my head.”
I need open sky. Fresh air. Something other than these four walls and the spiral of my own thoughts.
“At least eat something first—”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
I’m already moving toward the stairs, toward my old bedroom where my running gear is. I can feel her watching me, can sense all the things she wants to say but doesn’t.
The cold hits my lungs like knives.
I head toward the beach path, the route I’ve run since high school. Surfside in February is dead—summer homes shuttered, the beach empty except for a few brave souls walking dogs. The wind off the Long Island Sound is bitter, slicing through my running jacket.
My feet find the rhythm. Left, right, left, right. Breathe in, breathe out.
I think about the nursery at my house. The crib I assembled, the mobile I hung, the bookshelf I filled. All of it waiting for a baby who’ll visit but never really live there. Not the way I imagined.
I think about Natalie’s face when she saw it. The tears in her eyes. The way she said “You did this for our little girl” like she couldn’t believe someone would.
I think about waking up without her these past few days. The bed too big, the house too quiet, the mornings too empty.
I think about the next eighteen years. Coordinating schedules, splitting holidays, being polite and careful with each other.
About dropping my daughter off and watching Natalie close the door.
About birthday parties where we’re both there, but not together.
About some future version of this where she brings a date to our daughter’s soccer game and I have to shake his hand and pretend I’m fine.
About my daughter calling someone else Dad.
The thought makes my chest tight, makes it hard to breathe, and I’m running faster now, trying to outrun the images in my head.
The path curves inland, away from the water. There’s a section here that cuts through some trees, mostly pines, the ground uneven where roots have pushed up through the pavement over the years.
I’m not paying attention. Not to where I’m putting my feet, not to the patches of ice from last night’s freeze, not to anything except the spiral of thoughts I can’t escape.
What if this is it? What if I did everything right and it still wasn’t enough? What if she never—
My foot hits something.
The world tilts sideways.
I’m falling and there’s nothing to grab, nothing to stop it. My body hits the frozen ground hard—shoulder first, then my wrist as I try to brace myself against the blow.
The crack is audible.
Then my head.
The impact sends white light exploding through my vision. Pain, sharp and immediate, radiating from the back of my skull.
A low groan escapes me before I even realize it’s coming. My chest heaves, breaths choppy and uneven, shallow. Nausea coils tight in my gut, threatening to turn me inside out.
The sky above me is gray. The trees are spinning, or I’m spinning, I can’t tell which.
I try to move and the world lurches violently. Everything tilts. My fingers twitch, flexing weakly like they’re testing whether they still work. My hand moves toward my pocket but finds nothing. Did I bring my phone? Can’t remember.
This is bad.
Everything feels wrong.
The edges of my vision darken, closing in like a tunnel. My eyelids flutter, each blink slow and heavy, taking effort I don’t have. Cold seeps through my clothes, the icy ground penetrating fabric and skin. When did I get so cold? Why am I so damp?
My teeth grit against the pain pulsing through my skull. Each breath is a struggle. My whole body trembles, shock and fear tangled in every nerve.
Someone’s shouting. Far away. Getting closer. Louder now.
“—okay? Sir? Can you hear me?”
I try to respond but my throat won’t cooperate. My chest tightens. The trembling gets worse.
Then nothing.