Cyrus
Chapter twelve
Half Truths
Despite doing everything I can to distract myself, my thoughts stubbornly persist, even with rock music thumping through my ears. Fallon’s daughter is almost ten years old. The shock kept me from asking the questions that now circle my mind without pause.
She had a baby with Jonah…why name her after my father?
Did they name her after my dad? What are the odds of that?
Jonah and Fal were both pretty close with my dad.
When is Billy’s birthday? Could I be the father?
My mower speeds up without me meaning to, grass clippings spraying out in uneven bursts as I push harder, barreling through my frustrations.
Why did Mom keep Fallon’s child’s name—my father’s name, who is roughly the age when we were together—a secret from me? Sweat soaks my shirt, sticking to my back. The song’s bass beats in my ears: boom, boom, boom.
Billy has my father’s name… My father’s fucking name. That’s not something you do when you have a baby with another man. If working in law enforcement has taught me anything. There is no such thing as coincidence.
There was something there. I caught it in her eyes, fleeting but unmistakable. It wasn’t imagined. I made a conscious decision not to go prying into Fallon’s life. It’s bound to cause unavoidable disappointment. With ‘avoidable’ as the key, Jules’ revelation leaves me reeling.
I guess her mother was wrong about that abortion she was supposed to have. That still leaves me with a question. Am I Billy’s father?
I centered my life around Fallon for years, only to have her snap a part of me off. Keeping it with her over the years.
I hoped Liam’s mom, Sarah, would heal it, but she ended up being far more destructive than I envisioned.
I was a tool to get back at her dad as a rebellious streak.
The lessons the two women in my life taught me are held close to my chest. They’re reminders of the consequences of impulsive decisions fueled by lust, love, and infatuation. No, thank you.
I have returned home, and Fallon Lawson is living here; thriving, and that is all well and good. Keeping in my lane and steering clear of Fallon’s enticing smile and captivating look, distance is necessary.
With Liam in my life, I can’t afford to let myself fall for her again. That door has to stay sealed shut—bolted and reinforced—no matter how easily she seems to test its hinges.
She was professional with me, patient with my son, going out of her way to keep him entertained when she didn’t have to. Kindness that didn’t feel performative. Kindness that felt dangerous.
She had been kind to me once, too. And I’ve never forgotten it.
While they stayed busy, my attention drifted across every inch of her salon—the upgrades, the bold colors, the wall of small, neat little boxes with blue polka-dots, the obvious care poured into each detail—but it always circled back to her.
The space reflected her: polished, clean, and quietly striking.
Every choice felt intentional. Every corner carried her fingerprint.
And she did, too.
Her style was still unmistakably Fallon-grunge at its core, transformed into something grown and refined.
Dark gray and black slacks hugged long legs that had no business looking that elegant while she worked.
A few loose strands of hair framed her face, the rest twisted up with wild curls tumbling from the clip.
She was exquisitely, devastatingly beautiful.
The salon was bright—the contrast between the both was brilliant.
Which somehow made her take up more space in it.
She was—she is—God, she was breathtaking.
Not in a fragile way. In a grounded, guarded, fought for every ounce of success she has now, way.
Success looked good on her.
Motherhood looked even better.
I choke up on the mower, trying to shove Fallon out of my head.
I should be worried about landscaping lines and clean edges, not a woman who’s already tangled up my thoughts.
The smell of fresh-cut grass drifts up, sharp and green, pulling me into the rhythm of the blades.
It’s a rare anchor, a quiet stretch where my brain isn’t racing to put pieces together that don’t belong to me. She doesn’t belong to me.
Rain sprinkles dot my bare arms, cool and fleeting.
The humidity presses down, clinging to my skin like it knows exactly how to push me off balance.
I welcome the few seconds before the storm hits, letting the tension in my body loosen.
Fallon lingers at the edges of my thoughts, untamed and impossible to ignore.
Displayed near the register and front desk of the salon were local charity reports, pictures of sponsored sports teams, school event announcements, and fundraiser details.
It’s odd. Although she’s very involved in the community, I’ve never encountered her at any of the local gatherings Liam and I have attended.
Is she still treated the same as she was when we were kids?
Surely not. Not after all this time? Small towns aren’t known for forgiveness, but I don’t believe shunning someone for their childhood address or relatives remains a common practice. Right?
The music coming from my earbuds cuts off. Pausing my mowing. I jerk my head toward the porch. The problem is currently standing on my steps, hands on her hips. Looking every bit the matriarch, she is.
“Hey, Momma. How’s Betty feeling?”
“Bless her heart for being terribly ill, I still expect a full recovery. It’s a miracle your eardrums haven’t been affected by how loudly you play your music. I called your name a few times, probably startled the neighbors.” She waves my device around before continuing, “How was Liam’s haircut?”
Noticing her fidgeting with my phone, I arch a brow in question. The woman is a notorious cleaner and fidget queen when nervous or overthinking. She’s up to something.
“Fallon’s fix surpasses all his previous cuts,” I tell her honestly, no point in denying that the woman has skills with clippers. She perks up at my omission.
“So, you saw Fallon? Did she let you go with Liam, or did she make you wait outside?” Her comment and expression are very tongue-in-cheek. I know she’s teasing, sort of. Mom is still pissed that I left Fal behind, a female camaraderie and all that.
“Smartass.”
“Language, son.”
I stoop to restart the mower, determined to finish before the rain. “Meddling Mom.”
“I have no clue what you’re referring to. I simply want to know how my family’s day went. Did you meet Billy?” The hitch in her tone causes me to pause, the throttle string hanging in midair. I barely heard her question.
“She wasn’t there. Fallon seems different these days.”
“I believe, son, that you are completely unfamiliar with Fallon. It’s been what? Nine, perhaps ten years? Time has a way of changing people, places, lives, everything except the past.”
Mom’s defense of Fallon, no matter how much it is rooted in love, angers me. I’m her son, and that woman broke my heart. Can I get a little sympathy?
“The devil, however, remains constant,” I say over my shoulder.
“My, do I detect a judgmental tone? I trust your upbringing instilled proper behavior when speaking to a lady. Be mindful of your tone. Remember your role as a single parent leaves no room for throwing stones.” I guess how much she cares for her has gone deliberately unnoticed.
The woman has a tough act, but that’s all it is; inside my mom is a marshmallow.
I venture, curiosity overcoming me, “While we are discussing parents… Who is Billy’s father? Is Fallon married?” Her uncharacteristically dramatic eye roll is completely unlike Mom. What the fuck have I missed? Mom, bless her, doesn’t keep me waiting long for her response.
“Fallon doesn’t date. That precious girl deserves a man better than any in this town. And if you have questions, you need to go ask them of her.”
Not acknowledging how that comment digs at my ego, I say, “Momma, do you still have a soft spot for Fallon Lawson?”
“Boy, hush. That woman is my baby girl. I adore her, and her sweet little Billy.” Her eyes go soft before she continues. “If only there were a man around here right for them.”
I scrub a hand over my face, my mom’s words digging under my skin as she gushes over them. The implication stings—that I somehow don’t measure up. I bristle.
“Grown man here, Mom. Pretty decent, too. What’s going on with you?”
“A man who has to announce that he’s a grown man is probably not a grown man. We’re all playing rummy this Saturday. You will be there.”
“Who are we?” Suspicion laces my tone. She sets the small device down on the porch railing.
“A few friends. Please walk; avoid driving. I’m happy to babysit Liam so you can have a couple of beers.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
With that, I watch my mother’s back as she goes to retrieve Liam. That woman is interfering where she ought not to. It won’t work on me. Not. Even a little. Bit.