20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Celeste
The grocery store is too bright, the kind of bright that hums.
Fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting everything in a flat white glow that makes the world feel sterile and unforgiving.
The air smells like floor cleaner and ripe bananas, something sweet and chemical layered together.
A cart wheel squeaks somewhere behind us.
A freezer door slams shut in the next aisle over.
Rowen is sitting in the front of the cart, hoodie half-zipped, one sneaker tapping absently against the metal bar. The steady rhythm clangs softly in the quiet aisle.
His Dexcom receiver peeks out of the front pocket.
I glance down.
129 steady
Green.
I swallow the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. No matter how long we have lived with Type One, the fears of his numbers randomly going out of control will never escape me.
“Can we get the dinosaur nuggets?” he asks without looking up. His curls falling into his face. He needs a haircut, but with insulin costs rising and our insurance not covering the difference, it’s cutting into our budget.
“You ask that every time we’re here.” I raise an eyebrow at him, but when he looks back at me with those emerald green eyes, it’s so hard to say no to him.
“And sometimes you say yes.”
He says it so logically that I almost laugh.
“Maybe,” I tell him, turning into the frozen aisle.
Cold air spills out in waves as we pass the glass doors, raising goosebumps along my forearms. The hum of the freezers is louder here, mechanical and constant.
And that’s when my body goes completely still.
He’s standing at the end of the aisle.
Not holding a basket.
Not reaching for anything.
Just waiting.
Brett.
Dark wool coat. Perfectly pressed. A watch that probably costs more than my monthly rent, catching the overhead light when he shifts his wrist. He looks like he belongs in a different world than this one; polished and controlled in a place that smells like cardboard and frost.
He smiles slowly when our eyes meet.
Not surprised.
Like he’s been expecting this.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say before I can stop myself.
My voice comes out lower than I intended.
He pushes off the freezer case with lazy ease. “It’s a grocery store, Celeste.” He says it in a way that should make me feel stupid, but he and I both know this is not by accident.
“You live across the river.”
“And?” His tone is mild. Curious. Like I’m the one overreacting. “This one has a good selection of wine.” This grocery store carries only two different brands of wine, I know, because when Ro was first diagnosed, I came here and bought both.
Rowen’s foot stops tapping.
He looks at Brett.
Then at me.
Then back at Brett.
“Hi,” Rowen says carefully, more forced than anything.
Just hi.
Not Dad, daddy, or anything else to indicate a relationship.
The smallest flicker passes across Brett’s face before he smooths it away.
“Hey, buddy,” he replies warmly, stepping closer, and my hand instantly reaches for Ro’s. Brett rests one hand lightly on the cart handle, lowering himself slightly so he’s closer to eye level. “Are you getting taller?”
Rowen shrugs. His shoulders lift in that quiet way he does when he’s unsure. Before looking down at the ground. Just walk away my subconscious yells, but I physically can’t get myself to.
“How’ve you been feeling?” Brett asks, but I can tell he doesn’t give a flying hoot about our… no, my son. Rowen may be biologically his, but he’s mine.
“Good.”
“Numbers behaving?”
I can’t help when my eyes roll at the question. He doesn’t even know what behaving means when it comes to Ro’s numbers.
Rowen nods.
Brett nods back like that’s sufficient.
He doesn’t ask what they are.
Doesn’t ask if we’ve had any overnight lows.
Doesn’t ask about ratios.
Doesn’t ask anything that would require knowledge.
He just checks the surface box. Doing what he thinks he needs to. But why the fuck now?You know why my subconscious chimes in again, and I want to kill the bitch.
My fingers tighten around the cart handle.
The metal is cold against my palms.
“We’re in the middle of something,” I say evenly, dismissing Brett the best way I can without making a scene.
He smiles again. Slight tilt of his head. “You’ve always been impatient.”
There’s no bite to it.
That’s what makes it worse.
It’s soft. Controlled. Familiar.
He glances down the aisle casually before returning his attention to me.
“I saw the article,” he says.
My stomach tightens. When we visited Jermey and Liam at the Knights arena, they asked if they could post the pictures online. I should have thought about Brett and how he seems to be watching our every move.I’m so fucking stupid.
“The one about the charity skate thing.” He goes on when I make no effort to add to the conversation.
I say nothing again. I’m hoping that if I keep quiet and calm, he’ll get bored and walk away.
“You clean up well in interviews.” His eyes shift down my body, and chills fill me.
The compliment feels like a blade wrapped in silk. Because it's not a true compliment. He’s doing whatever he can to get me to react.
Rowen shifts in the cart again. His fingers brush against the Dexcom receiver in his pocket. A subconscious check.
Brett notices.
His gaze lingers on the device for half a second too long.
“So,” he continues lightly, “the hockey player seems invested.”
“Tate. And he is,” I say. Even though I know I need to just stay quiet and walk away. Anything I say to Brett right now will be used as ammo against me.
Brett’s eyes flick up to mine.
“How invested?”
My pulse ticks up.
“That’s not your concern.” I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck go up.
“It becomes my concern if someone’s inserting themselves into my son’s daily routine.”
His son. Brett is trying to claim ownership over Rowen, and it’s breaking my heart in two. How delusional is this man?
I hold his gaze. “He’s not inserting himself. He’s showing up.”
Brett’s jaw tightens just slightly before relaxing again. He felt the jab, and gosh, how I wish it were an actual knife to his chest.
“I looked him up,” he says casually. “Projected top five in the draft.”
“A lot of road games,” he continues, glancing down at Rowen again. “Lots of instability.”
Rowen looks between us.
The air feels thinner.
“We’re fine, and this is not your business. and I don't want to talk about this in front of my son,” I say.
Brett studies me.
Really studies me.
Like he’s assessing structural weaknesses.
“You always say that.”
The words land heavier than they should.
He leans in just slightly again, not touching, but close enough that I can smell his cologne. Clean. Expensive. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach turn; it’s the same one he wore in high school.“You talk like you’re not an athlete, Brett.” Why do I keep talking?.
“I’m not criticizing,” he murmurs quietly, voice low enough that Rowen can’t hear.
“But, I’m thinking long-term. Think about what’s best for Rowen.
You and I both know I’m not going to play ball after college.
I’m preparing to take over the family company.
The company that could offer a lot of stability to my son. ”
My throat tightens, and I fucking hate the word ‘stability’. If he says it one more time, I might actually lose it.
“And I can offer consistency.” He gestures lightly toward Rowen. “Routine. Judges like routine.”
The word hits hard.
Judge.
It echoes.
Rowen’s fingers curl tighter around the fabric of his hoodie. I need to get him out of here. This is not fair for him to listen to.
“You don’t get to talk about routine, but we're done here. Please just let us leave,” I whisper.
“I get to talk about whatever impacts my child.”
My child. He says it calmly. Deliberately.
He straightens to his full height.
“I have better insurance coverage,” he says conversationally. “More flexible hours, if necessary. Access to stronger legal representation.”
Legal.
There it is.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Just factual.
“If I ever felt like his environment wasn’t stable,” he continues, smoothing invisible lint off his sleeve, “I would have options.”
Options.
My heart pounds in my ears.
“I wouldn’t rush into anything,” he adds, as if reassuring me. “But I do pay attention.”
He meets my eyes again.
Direct.
Controlled.
“And introducing high-profile, temporary relationships into his day-to-day life can be interpreted in ways you might not anticipate.”
Temporary.
The word cuts deep.
“He’s not temporary,” I say.
“You hope.”
My breath catches.
He glances at Rowen again and softens instantly.
“You been practicing hockey?” he asks.
Rowen nods once.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Discipline’s important.”
He pats the side of the cart lightly.
Then he looks back at me.
“I’m not your enemy, Celeste.”
He absolutely fucking is.
“I just think you should be careful about who you build a life around.”
The implication hangs thick between us.
He steps back.
Restoring space.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says lightly.
And then he walks away.
No rush.
No raised voice.
Just quiet confidence.
Like he didn’t just shift the ground beneath my feet.
The drive home feels muted. Tate told me to keep his car for the week, saying he would catch rides with teammates, and then we could drive back to my place after my internship with Elara on Friday.
I’m thankful, especially right now, because sitting on a loud bus after the interaction I just had with Brett would send me over the edge.
The sky is heavy and gray, pressing low over the city. The heater hums softly. Tires roll over pavement in a steady rhythm.
Rowen is quiet in the backseat.
After a few minutes, he says softly, “He doesn’t know my numbers.”
My chest tightens.
“What do you mean?” Glancing at him in the rear-view mirror, his head is hung low, and everything in me hurts for him.
I shouldn’t have let Brett that close to him, but I didn’t know what to do.
As unfair as it is, Brett does have legal rights to Rowen.
I just need to play nice until I can figure out a plan.
“He didn’t ask.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
“No,” I say quietly, because I don't know what to say to my son in this moment. I won't lie to him, but I don't want to hurt him either.
“He doesn’t know what green means.”
I swallow hard.
“No, baby he doesn't. But I do and I'm the one who is taking care of you and that's what matters, is that I do.”
A beat passes.
“Tate knows.”
The words land deeper than anything Brett said.
Yes. He does.
He checks without being asked.
He notices patterns.
He texts for updates even though he has access to Rowen’s numbers on his phone.
He stays up when arrows trend down.
That’s integration.
That’s attachment.
That’s exactly what Brett will frame as instability.
My phone buzzes at a red light.
Tate: Practice ran long. Preston is dropping me off now. You two good?
The screen blurs slightly.
Are we good?
I type back
Yeah. Just grabbing groceries, be up in a second.
I don’t mention Brett.
Because if Tate knows, he’ll confront him.
If he confronts him, Brett escalates.
And Brett doesn’t escalate emotionally.
He escalates strategically.
I pull into the parking lot and sit there longer than I should.
The engine hums.
My hands shake.“Hey, Ro. I need you to do Momma a big favor. Let’s not tell Tate you saw Dad today, okay?”
“Would it hurt his feelings? I know Tate is your boy friend and he’s my… well, I’m not sure, but he’s mine too.”
God, Tate would be so hurt if he knew I was keeping all this from him, but I just need to handle it on my own. “Yeah, it might hurt his feelings, so just keep it between us right now, okay?”
Ro gives me a tight nod, and we can add this to the list of things that make me a shitty mom. I’m asking my son to lie to a person he cares so much about. Someone I lov– like a lot.
Inside Tate is leaning against our front door, and it takes everything in me not to cry to him. To ask him to help me figure this out. Tate has mentioned his parents are lawyers out in California, but I can’t drag him into this.
He wraps his arms around me before stealing the grocery bags from me. “You smell like the freezer aisle,” he murmurs with a soft laugh, “But in the best way”.
I almost break.
His phone buzzes.
He checks it automatically.
137 steady.
He smiles faintly.
“He’s good.”
He says it like relief.
Like responsibility.
Like love.
And something inside me fractures.
Because Brett will call that temporary.
A judge might call that overstepping.
Tate turns me gently.
“You’re somewhere else,” he says.
I shake my head.
Lie.
If I let him see the fear, he’ll fight.
And if he fights, Brett will follow through.
And Brett has resources.
Connections.
Money.
Power.
I can’t afford to gamble with Rowen’s stability.
Not even for love.
Later, when Tate leaves, he kisses my forehead.
“I’m here,” he whispers.
I nod.
But I’m already calculating risk instead of feelings.
And for the first time since I let myself believe in something steady…
I start wondering how to break my own heart before someone else does it for me.