Fallon
Chapter thirteen
A slice of humble pie
The only sound threading through the night is my flip-flops, slapping softly against the sidewalk as I make my way up Lani’s walkway.
Her bright red doors stand open wide, releasing the scent of warm apple pie into the neighborhood, a beckoning invitation.
The windows raised, gentle laughter spills out into the dark.
The whole house hums with warmth, with welcome. I love it here.
Today’s storms provided a temporary escape from the intense summer heat. The gentle breeze caresses my exposed skin, bringing with it the comforting smell of magnolias. My bright red summer dress was a perfect choice for this evening.
More laughter erupts from the old colonial, louder this time.
So, I soak it all in. The women inside have become my family.
Retirement hasn’t slowed this group down.
If anything, it’s allowed them to take on more projects.
One in particular is our weekly card game.
I welcome this night each week, a way to blow off steam and cut loose without prying eyes.
These wonderful souls have stood beside me since my pregnancy, always offering support and guidance.
Guilt from keeping this secret leaves me exhausted. How many times have I almost told Lani that the little girl calling her Grammy is her biological granddaughter? Lani is intelligent and kind. She knows. I think she’s always known.
And still, she’s shown me a grace others never did.
She never demanded I confess that Cyrus fathered and promptly left us.
Instead, she allowed me to keep my pride—something I’m deeply grateful for.
From long nights playing cards to quiet spring mornings in our gardens, Lani exists in nearly every memory I cherish.
Years of friendship, and I have lied to her at every turn.
I desperately strive to be a good person.
I really do, but years of paralyzing fear that Lani will hate me, or worse, Cyrus would reject our daughter to her face, keep me guarded.
I don’t want my daughter to know the pain of being rejected by her father.
No, I’ve done what’s best for Billy. Her father left because he was too good for this one-horse town, for us, and I refused to become the reason he felt trapped here. I tried calling. Tried texting. He blocked me, then changed his number altogether.
If I’m being honest, there’s always been a small voice in the back of my mind whispering that Lani knows about Billy and keeps us close out of quiet guilt—or embarrassment too deep to acknowledge publicly. I know that isn’t fair to her. But insecurity is a bitch.
“Are you coming inside, or casually casing the place?” he grinds out. There he is. The person I desire most. The man who brought me to heel, leaving me obliterated in broken dreams. Wearing a pissed-off expression, his stare lingers for too long before he looks away. Typical, dickhead.
Nine years. I’ve spent nearly a decade swinging between longing for him and loathing him, and now he’s here. Really here. Demanding answers from me.
“I’m undecided.”
I give him a slow once-over, taking in the sight of him leaning against the porch column, arms crossed, dominating the space around him.
Cargo shorts ride low on powerful thighs, his fitted shirt stretched across a body carved hard with muscle and time.
Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. An unfairly handsome face that has women crawling back for seconds, knowing it will never last while quietly hoping it does.
Why are the attractive ones always catastrophic for your mental health? Because Cyrus McCoy looks exactly like the kind of mistake that will leave a woman, this woman in particular, utterly wrecked. Yet, crawling back for more.
Something shifts in his expression as my stare lingers too long. His baby-blue eyes darken, hotter—like he’s remembering things he shouldn’t be remembering either. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, leaning against the porch column.
“How does Jonah feel about you hanging around your ex-boyfriend’s home?”
Jonah. Again. Always circling back to a man who has never been anything more than a supportive friend. I tilt my head slightly. “Jonah is very secure in our strictly platonic, emotionally uneventful friendship.” His brows lift a fraction, like he’s deciding whether to believe me or challenge it.
“Platonic?”
“Very platonic.”
“And you?” he asks. “You secure in that arrangement?”
I give him a slow look. “Secure enough to survive an interrogation at a porch railing.” A faint exhale through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Interrogation,” he repeats.
“It’s the vibe you’re going for.”
That earns me a pause. His gaze holds mine a second longer than necessary, like he’s testing how honest I am. “Mom failed to mention you’d be here. Feels like a set-up,” he says finally, eyes roaming over me now with less restraint. Slower. Intentional.
“Usually, I don’t make a move on the first date,” he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching, “but I can always make an exception.”
Of all the things he could’ve said, he chose that. Bastard. My thoughts hadn’t exactly been innocent—but I wasn’t the one who walked away.
Of course, he thinks it’s acceptable to speak to me like this. To Cyrus, I’ll always be the girl from the wrong side of town. The one people whispered about. Trash dressed up pretty, is still trash.
Ignoring my traitorous body—refusing to acknowledge the butterflies rioting in my stomach or the heat licking across my cheeks because of him—I brush past Cyrus.
My attention catches on the three empty beer bottles lined neatly along the porch railing.
Oh. So that’s what this is. Liquid courage.
Something sharp twists through my chest at the realization.
A wound reopening beneath the surface. I’m almost surprised he doesn’t notice me bleeding out while he watches.
“I’m uninterested.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“Are you sure, Fal? Because from where I’m standing, you were eye-fucking me.”
I’m about as transparent as a wet sack of potatoes. Great. My traitorous panties may melt for him, but that is as far as my attraction for this man and his ego goes. I have come too far to be derailed by a spineless man.
“My look, my response to you, is one of disdain.”
“Disdain on your lips is my new favorite shade.”
I swallow, blinking back my confusion. What is his endgame here? Is he back in town, bored and looking for a warm body to pass the time with?
I nearly scoff aloud. Fat chance of that happening. This is my girls’ night, and I refuse to let him derail it. If he wants to stay, he’ll respect my boundaries. Because no matter how devastatingly attractive Cyrus McCoy is, I’ve spent the last nine years raising our daughter alone.
He straightens as I near. My bare arm brushes the soft fabric of his shirt, and a small gasp slips out before I can stop it.
That simple contact feels anything but innocent.
Kindling a flame we’ve both been pretending isn’t still there.
I force myself to keep moving, even as my thoughts betray me—tempting, dangerous thoughts I absolutely cannot act on.
Never again.
“Fallon.”
My name falling from his lips sounds like a broken prayer filled with yearning and hate. I have zero desire to be involved with him. Absolutely nada. Four faces, all with different stages of graying hair, peek around a curtain of the nearest window. I lower my voice so it won’t carry.
“If you want to share space with me, you will learn the definitions of platonic and respect.” Turning, I wave to my friends, who are awful at hiding. “Deal me in, ladies, you’ll be losing those retirement funds tonight.”
“Ha! I’m about to get my next perm for free!” Lou shouts.
Betty’s face appears in the window, grinning. She reminds me of Mrs. Claus—white curly hair, rosy cheeks, and always smiling. “About time you showed up, Missy! Shouldn’t someone as young as you be faster? She’s as slow as we ought to be,” Betty says, her voice an octave too high.
“Hogwash—you’re the slow one here, Betty. I jog daily, so these hips don’t crack, they sway,” Dotty says triumphantly, swatting Betty’s bottom.
Lani rolls her eyes skyward, but there’s a small grin on her lips. “Come on, Fallon dear, before I call the retirement home and tell them they’ve got a few strays running around.”
The women turn on Lani, but I can’t hear the rest—she’s already closed the window.
I stop quickly in the foyer, kicking off my sandals. The heavy poker chip bag is my only accessory. We’re playing rummy, but I brought goodies tonight and thought it would be cute to carry them in the velvety green bag.
Cyrus’s large hand closes around my arm, warm but firm. I arch a brow, waiting. His expression has changed—no humor now, just something sharper underneath it. He looks angry. Controlled, but barely.
“You shouldn’t exploit them,” he accuses too low for the others to hear.
I frown, confused, needing clarification, I ask, “What are you insinuating?”
He glances over my shoulder, making sure we aren’t overheard. His eyes hold a warning in them as he leans closer to me. His cologne is invading my space, equal parts delicious and repugnant.
“Don’t you have even a minuscule amount of shame exploiting elderly ladies?
Did you acquire the salon this way? By stealing it?
” The taste of bitterness is an old friend.
But Cyrus’s accusations cause a painful physical reaction.
Cold laces up the tips of my fingers as they twitch to slap him across his smug face, of all the things.
This is the verdict he’s reached about me? A whoring thief?
My nail stabs his pectoral as I lean in close enough for only him to hear my heated whisper, punctuating every syllable with a poke to his massive body.
“Do not ever insult the intelligence and capability of those women in there. Those are my friends, and you will not speak of them like that. You are the outsider here. Not me. Unlike me, you manipulate those around you and abandon them when they’re no longer of use to your self-serving agenda.
You have no idea who I am. So, fuck all the way off.
” Leaving him standing there is better than he deserves.
A swift kick in the nuts would have been more satisfying.
Storming into the room, four pairs of eyes track me as I coolly slide into my usual seat, tucked in the corner of the table. I slink into it, forcing my body to go loose and meet Lani’s worried eyes. I give her a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
These women are exceptionally significant in my life. I really hope Cyrus doesn’t destroy this for me to. I smooth my skirt, fingers lingering a fraction too long at the fabric, as if it needs fixing more than I do. I refuse to cry—or give him the satisfaction of seeing me unravel—in Lani’s home.
How does he go from such a heated moment to so cold? Betty presses a margarita into my hand. “I think you could use this.” Her palm pats my back, light and familiar, while my fingers close around the glass. Cold seeps into my skin, steadying me in a way I don’t admit out loud.
I breathe in slowly, letting the sound of the room fill the space where my reaction should be. A lifetime of practice has taught me how to stay readable but not open. How to smile without offering anything real. So I do.
“Lou, you mentioned something about winning a perm tonight, but I’ve learned not to gamble away my salon services.”
“It was a lovely perm, though. Jeff from the nearby parish had the same thought.” She smiles, bobbing her eyebrows. I can’t stop my laugh. She’s right—it really was a great perm.
“Have you no shame?” Betty implores.
Lou waves a hand in the air. “Betty, I’m not dead yet, and neither is he! The plumbing and pipes work fine, dear.” The table erupts in laughter over Lou’s latest conquests among the male retirees.
As Cyrus lowers himself into the chair beside me, Lani deals the cards, the tension between the two of us so thick it’s suffocating. Dotty’s eyes ping-pong between us. Lani leans over the table.
“Did you bring the goods?” The ladies all lean forward, eager expressions, none more so than Cyrus himself.
I shove the hurt down, refusing to let him take this night from me.
I tip the bag, and bright green mint candies spill into the center of the table.
Lani immediately starts dividing them between us.
Cyrus leans back in his chair, confusion flickering across his face.
I smirk at him—small, sharp, and entirely intentional. A quiet serves you right—before claiming my share of the pot.