Fallon
Chapter eighteen
I support a Man’s right to shut up
The front door swings open beneath the roar of the storm. And there he is.
Cyrus McCoy stands on my porch, soaked to the bone, rainwater dripping from the brim of his backward cap. Darkened curls stick out beneath it in damp waves, his fitted gray T-shirt plastered to every hard line of his body. Blue jeans cling low on his hips, work boots muddy from the downpour.
Every inch of him looks like trouble. Like every mistake I still dream about. I tighten my grip around my coffee mug and lean my hip against the doorframe, blocking the entrance before he can even think about stepping inside.
He wasn’t invited.
He didn’t call.
And judging by the wild look in his eyes, he didn’t come here for small talk.
“Fallon.” My name leaves him rough, almost breathless beneath the pounding rain. “We need to talk.” My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
“No,” I say flatly. “You need to leave.”
His jaw flexes. “Not this time.” Something in his voice makes my stomach drop. Not anger. Determination. Desperation. Before I can answer, small sock-covered feet patter across the hardwood behind me.
“Mommy?” Billy’s sleepy voice carries easily through the doorway. “Is your friend having pancakes too?” The world stops. Completely. Slowly, Cyrus’s gaze lifts from me. And lands on her. I watch the exact moment it happens.
Recognition.
His entire body stills as Billy steps into view, clutching her stuffed rabbit against pink pajama bottoms. Her messy dirty-blonde hair tumbles around her shoulders, and those big blue eyes—his eyes—blink up at him with open curiosity.
Same chin.
Same nose.
Same expression he wears when he’s trying to process too much at once.
The resemblance is devastating. Cyrus looks like someone drove the air from his lungs.
His mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out.
Rain pounds against the porch roof around us, thunder rumbling somewhere deep in the mountains, but all I can hear is the violent pounding of my own heart.
Billy tilts her head. “Mommy?” I move instantly, stepping in front of her without thinking.
Protective.
Instinctive.
Mine.
Something flashes across Cyrus’s face at the movement. Hurt. Guilt. Awe. So much raw emotion it nearly knocks the breath from me, too.
His eyes shine as they lift back to mine.
“You never corrected me, that she was mine,” he says quietly.
The accusation slices clean through me. “I told you,” I fire back, fury finally cracking through the shock. “You just didn’t stay long enough to hear it.”
“Mom.”
“No, Billy. Mr. McCoy doesn’t want pancakes. Be there in a minute, baby. Cyrus, I need you to leave. Now isn’t a good time,” I demand.
Hurt flashes across his face. Hurt that he has no right to feel. “Fal—” he starts.
“I said not right now,” I grit out between clenched teeth.
“I think now is the perfect time,” he cuts in immediately. Firm. Unyielding. He steps closer. Not threatening physically. Emotionally devastating.
Rainwater drips from the ends of his curls, tracks down the sharp line of his five o’clock shadow. His shirt clings to him like a second skin, but it’s the look in his eyes that rattles me—desperation edged with something dangerously close to despair.
“My life revolved around your schedule once,” I snap. “That time is over. You made your choice, Cyrus. Now leave me and mine alone.”
His expression hardens. “Damn it, Fallon, this is bigger than us now. You know why I’m here.” His voice cracks slightly. “I have every right—”
“Rights?” I seethe. The word detonates inside me. Of all the arrogant, self-righteous things he could’ve said. I laugh once, sharp and humorless.
“Three thousand, two hundred and eighty-five.” I lift my coffee and take a slow sip, absurdly proud I can still do the math that quickly through the rage consuming me. Confusion flashes across his face.
“What?”
“That’s how many days you didn’t ask about her,” I say quietly.
His face drains. I step forward before he can speak.
“That’s how many mornings she woke up without you.
How many nights she went to bed without you.
Birthdays. Fevers. Scraped knees. First days of school.
” My voice trembles. “And now you’re standing on my porch talking about rights? ”
“I can pay child support?” he asks, frustrated, completely missing it.
Red explodes behind my eyes. Pain cracks across my palm as I slap him. The sound echoes between us beneath the storm. Shock freezes me almost as much as him. Tears burn instantly. Nine years of grief, humiliation, loneliness, and anger finally erupting in a single reckless moment.
Rain lashes across the porch sideways now, soaking the hem of my robe. “We’re not for sale, Cyrus.” My laugh turns jagged. “I loved you when you had nothing to offer me. The tables are now turned, I have nothing to offer you. Except my contempt.”
His dark eyes lock onto mine, stunned and aching. Only then do I notice the bruise shadowing his cheekbone beneath the rain. Good. Someone should’ve hit him sooner.
“It’s about every single day you didn’t love her,” I whisper brokenly. “Because I did. I loved her enough for both of us.” The fury drains from his face, leaving only devastation behind.
“Fallon,” he says softly, wrecked by the sound of my name, “I’m trying to make this right.”
Ten years too late. Teeth grit to keep my thoughts in check. “Well, by all means, soothe your conscience,” I begin.
“Mommy?” Billy’s voice cracks. My anger dissolves instantly as I crouch to meet her gaze. “Darling, go to the kitchen,” I whisper gently.
Her next words pierce straight through me. “Momma, maybe he’d like me if he tried my pancakes.” My eyes squeeze shut. Every fear I’ve carried for nine years crashes into me at once.
He’s going to break her heart, too. Her hopeful expression wrecks me. “He can’t stay,” I say quietly.
“Good luck removing me,” Cyrus replies. Before I can stop him, he slips past me into the house—soaked, warm, overwhelming. Rain and cedar and something painfully familiar. My stomach knots. “Pancakes are my favorite,” he says softly.
Horror crawls through me as Billy’s face lights up with something dangerously close to hope.
Because I know exactly how easy it is to fall for Cyrus McCoy.
And I know even better how easy it is for him to leave when things get hard. I will not let my daughter survive that kind of disappointment.
“If you insist on being here today,” I say tightly, “keep your judgmental shit to yourself. My daughter doesn’t deserve it.”
Something in his expression softens, warmth flickering in those blue eyes.
I’ve learned better than to trust them.
My gaze drifts toward the storm raging beyond the windows. Small-town gossip will feast on this for weeks—Cyrus McCoy on my porch before sunrise, me standing here in pajamas, and now him inside my house.
Perfect.