18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Celeste
Tate left for Michigan at six this morning for his away game; he’ll be back Monday afternoon.
Rowen had been half asleep in my arms when we dropped Tate off at the team entrance, his curls smashed against my collarbone. Tate insisted I use his car while he’s gone.
“Win for me,” Rowen had mumbled.
Tate kissed his forehead.
“I always do.”
Now it’s late afternoon, and Boston feels colder without him here.
The sky is that flat winter gray that makes everything look muted; brick buildings dulled, sidewalks damp from melting snow, the Charles River reflecting nothing but clouds.
Inside my apartment, the radiator clicks and hisses like it’s arguing with itself. The smell of tomato soup still lingers from lunch. Rowen is sprawled on the living room rug in mismatched socks, narrating an intense Lego rescue mission under his breath.
“Stay steady, Captain Blue,” he whispers.
I’m rinsing dishes when my phone vibrates against the counter.
Unknown number.
I let it go to voicemail.
It buzzes again immediately.
My stomach tightens before I even answer.
“Hello?”
A pause.
Then… “Relax,” Brett says smoothly. “It’s just me.”
The sound of his voice feels like stepping barefoot on glass, and the way he says “it’s just me” like it’s supposed to bring comfort… asshole.
“How are you calling me right now?” After the fight we had in The Retro Rooster’s parking lot a few months back, and he said he would only give me money for our son if I slept with him, I blocked his number, writing him out for good.
A soft chuckle. “You’ve had the same number since high school, Cel.”
Of course I have, and I’m sure he’s using a different phone to call me right now.
“I’m outside,” he adds.
The dish slips from my hand and clatters in the sink.
“What?”
“Just thought we could talk. Tate’s in Michigan, right?”
My heart stutters so hard it hurts.
“How do you know that?”
“The team posted the travel roster. Public information.” He says it with that easy confidence he’s always had, the kind that isn’t earned, just inherited.
Brett was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, raised in a house where money fixed problems and lawyers cleaned up mistakes.
Consequences were for other people. He never had to fight for stability or worry about what something might cost. That kind of upbringing does something to a man.
It teaches him that if he wants something badly enough, it’s already his, he just hasn’t claimed it yet.
My chest feels too tight.
I glance into the living room. Rowen is still building, tongue poking out in concentration.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say quietly.
“Then don’t,” he replies easily. “But I’d like to see my son.”
The word scrapes across my nerves.
I hate that he knows exactly what to say.
“I’ll come down,” I hear myself say.
The air outside bites at my cheeks immediately.
It smells like exhaust and cold metal and distant ocean wind rolling in from the harbor. Cars rush past at the end of the street, tires hissing over wet pavement. Somewhere down the block, someone’s dog barks sharply.
Brett is leaning against his black truck like he owns the curb.
Dark wool coat. Hands tucked casually into his pockets. Sunglasses, even though the sun is barely out.
Relaxed.
That’s what makes it worse.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.
The words come out steady, but my pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Brett pushes off the truck slowly, like he has all the time in the world. The door shuts with a soft metallic click behind him. His boots scrape lightly against the pavement as he straightens to his full height.
“I wanted to see you.”
Like that explains everything.
Like that’s enough.
“You called,” I remind him. My arms cross over my chest automatically, more shield than attitude.
“And you answered.” His tone is mild. Almost amused. I hate that he’s right.
The late afternoon air slices through the thin knit of my sweater. Somewhere behind us, a bus groans to a stop, doors wheezing open, people laughing as they step onto the sidewalk.
Normal sounds. Normal life.
But the space between us feels separate from all of it.
His gaze drifts past me toward the apartment building entrance, slow and deliberate.
“Is he inside?”
The question isn’t curious. He’s trying to test me.
“Yes.”
The word sticks in my throat.
“Good.”
He nods once, like he’s checking something off a mental list. Like my answer confirms whatever calculation he’s already made.
My stomach twists.
Why does that feel like a victory to him?
Silence stretches between us.
Too long.
The kind of silence where you start to hear everything, the distant rush of traffic, the hum of an idling engine, the soft rattle of the truck cooling behind him.
The cold creeps deeper into my skin, but I don’t move.
If I step back first, it feels like conceding ground.
I study him in the gray winter light.
He looks exactly the same.
Polished. Put together. Unbothered.
Like he didn’t just appear outside my home uninvited.
Like this isn’t a boundary crossed.
My brain keeps whispering: He chose today. He knew Tate was gone. This wasn’t random.
And that realization settles heavier than the cold.
“I saw you guys at the market,” he says finally.
I don’t respond.
“You looked… happy.”
The word feels like bait.
“He seems comfortable,” Brett continues. “That hockey kid.”
“He has a name, and you know it.” I hear myself become defensive, but I will not allow Brett, of all people, to treat Tate like he’s scum, even if he’s not here to witness it.
“Sure. Tate.” He shrugs. “Carrying Rowen around. Asking about blood sugar.”
My pulse spikes.
“I saw that part,” he adds. “Didn’t know we were outsourcing medical care now.” The sarcasm is thick in his tone.
Heat flashes through me. “We are not doing anything, seeing as you haven’t been a part of Rowen’s life for the last five years. And Tate cares; he is stepping up where you have fallen short, and truthfully, this is none of your business.”
Brett’s mouth curves faintly. “That’s what worries me.”
My jaw tightens. “Why?”
“Because kids get attached.” He pauses. “And so do the moms.”
The words slip under my skin like ice.
“You don’t get to comment on my life.”
“I absolutely do,” he replies calmly. “It involves my son.”
My son.
The phrase makes my stomach churn.
He steps a little closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, expensive, sharp, familiar in a way that makes me nauseous.
“My parents asked why I’m not more involved, saying now that we’re almost done with school, it’s time I step up. You know they would like to see their grandson as well,” he says.
A car door slams somewhere behind us. The city noise feels distant suddenly.
“They think it looks bad,” he continues. “Me not having overnights. Not having any kind of visitation,”
“You chose that,” I say.
“That’s irrelevant.”
My breath fogs between us.
“If I decided I wanted parenting time,” he says lightly, “I’d get it.” His cocky, smug grin is back.
“You wouldn’t.”
He tilts his head.
“You think a judge cares about feelings? Or about a father who suddenly wants to step up? A father who has all of the resources to provide a safe and stable home.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“You’re still in school,” he adds. “Interning. Dating a man who has quite the party boy reputation, might I add.”
The way he says it makes it sound reckless.
“Semantics matter, Cel.”
The word semantics echoes in my skull.
“He sleeps over,” Brett continues. “And I just don’t know if someone like Tate Jackson is the best influence for my son.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It becomes my business if I make it my business.”
My hands start to shake.
He notices.
“You really want to gamble?” he asks softly. “My family has attorneys on retainer. We have money for custody evaluations. Experts. Time.”
The word time feels like a threat.
“You can barely afford daycare or his medical costs,” he adds, almost gently.
That one lands.
He knows it will.
“If I wanted to file for visitation tomorrow,” he continues, “I could drag this out for months. Maybe longer.”
My throat goes dry.
“I’m not saying I will,” he says quickly. “I’m just saying… You should think about who you let play house with my son.”
Play house.
Like it’s pretend.
Like Tate is temporary.
A gust of wind cuts between us, and I shiver.
“If I wanted to,” Brett says quietly, stepping back toward his truck, “I could make this very complicated for you. So I want to see my son when I want to. And I would think really long and hard about your situation with Tate… because I have a feeling once I’m back in Rowen’s life, Tate won’t be needed anymore. ”
And then he opens his door, slides inside, and drives away.
No yelling.
No raised voice.
Just implication.
Inside, the apartment feels too warm.
The radiator hisses again. The smell of soup makes my stomach twist.
Rowen looks up at me from the floor.
“You okay, Momma?”
His eyes are wide and trusting and so unbearably innocent.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
I reach for his Dexcom receiver automatically.
126-Steady arrow.
My phone buzzes in my hand almost immediately.
Dexcom alert.
Tate.
He gets it, too.
The thought should comfort me.
Instead, it twists something in my chest.
If Brett filed something…
Would they question that?
Would they say it’s inappropriate for a boyfriend to have medical access?
My brain spirals faster than I can stop it.
It’s later in the evening, when Tate FaceTimes from Michigan.
The hotel room behind him is beige and bland, with abstract art on the walls, stiff white bedding, and the hum of an ice machine somewhere in the hallway.
He’s in a green team hoodie, hair still damp from the shower.
Rowen grabs the phone first.
“Tate! We had grilled cheese!”
“Without me?” Tate gasps. “Rude.”
I sit beside Rowen, forcing my mouth into something that resembles a smile.
“How’s Michigan?” I ask.
“Cold,” he says. “Smells like snow and campus food.”
His eyes shift to me.
Linger.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t believe me.
But he doesn’t push.
Rowen starts rambling about Lego Captain Blue again.
“And I didn’t go low today,” Rowen announces proudly.
Tate grins. “I saw that 120’s all day.”
Rowen beams. “You did?”
“Yeah, buddy. I get the alerts now. Day and night.”
My chest tightens.
“Even when you’re far away?” Rowen asks.
“Especially when I’m far away.”
He says it lightly.
But his eyes flick to mine again.
Searching.
He knows something is off.
He just doesn’t know what.
After we hang up, I sit on the couch long after Rowen falls asleep.
The city outside hums, distant sirens, a train rattling somewhere underground, wind against the windows.
I open my laptop. Massachusetts visitation rights. Can a father file for parenting time after no involvement?
Article after article fills the screen.
Judges favor involvement. Biological parents have rights. Legal battles are expensive.
My vision blurs.
If he wanted to.
He could.
And for the first time since I let myself believe I was safe….
I’m not sure safety belongs to me.