Page 17 of One Little Mistake

I turn on the AC, the TV, the electric kettle—anything that makes noise—and only then do I start to feel some semblance of comfort. I open the fridge and spot some pots. These ones with red poppies definitely aren’t mine. Natalie picked out my kitchenware, and she would’ve called this pattern tacky as hell.

Right away, I think of Erin and grimace, because I’d just managed to stop obsessing over the whole situation—and now my brain is flooded again with a hundred questions and theories.

I make myself a strong coffee and try to ignore the urge to call the hospital and check if the girl’s regained consciousness. Then I pass by the home office and can’t help myself—I peek in. The blue chaos is still there. The crib’s in the same place. The giant plush bear pisses me off. I want to tear it all down and return the room to its original state, but I don’t have the heart to throw anything out just yet. I slam the door shut and call Lucas.

“Hey, I’ve got a couple questions,” I say slowly, still debating how to bring them up. “Listen, how did you even meet Erin?”

“What, are you jealous or something? Come on, Max, you know me—I’d never.”

“No, it’s just… Erin mentioned you helped with the nursery. I wanted to thank you,” I lie, not ready to tell him the truth yet. He’d never let me live it down.

“Ah, got it,” he drops his voice to a whisper. “I knew those chicks screwed something up. Told them there’s no way in hell you’d let your precious paperbacks get tossed. Anyway, you owe me now—I saved them. They’re safe up in my attic.”

“Thanks. Honestly, that’s the best news I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours. But seriously—how did you end up involved in all this?”

“Your sister asked me to help. I didn’t believe it at first—until I saw your redhead. And damn, can she cook. You’re a lucky man. Hope it works out this time.”

Classic Simmons—knows just how to ruin the mood in under five seconds. “This time” means my previous marriage. Six years ago. Things were great—until the money ran dry. Then I got hit with serious health issues, had to quit working at sea and stay on land for nearly two years. Income dropped. Medical bills piled up. Cynthia started throwing tantrums. Sulking. She even had to get a job for the first time in her life. Then one day, just like that, she packed her things, filed for divorce, and ran off with her boss. I only found out thanks to mutual friends.

I don’t know how I didn’t lose my mind back then. I was obsessed with her. I loved her. I did everything for her. And she walked away during the worst moment of my life—without a second thought.

“Yeah. I hope it works out too,” I say after a pause and hang up. I grab my jacket and head out to get some fresh air.

The city feels foreign. I don’t even remember the way to the grocery store right away. While I was gone, a real estate office turned into a travel agency, and the old house on the corner got torn down—construction already underway.

I look around, feeling weirdly lost in all the noise and motion.

People in the store are driving me nuts with how slow they move. While I’m unloading groceries onto the belt at the register, I hear a baby crying nearby, and instantly Erin andher son pop into my head. I shouldn’t care. But maybe because she somehow slipped into my apartment and pretended to be my fiancée for nearly half a year… or maybe because I basically helped deliver her baby—I just can’t shake them off.

To get rid of the dark thoughts and keep myself busy, I buy a gym membership and start spending a few hours there every day. I ignore my mom’s constant questions about when I’ll come visit her and dad—because my ex-wife lives on the same floor. And apparently, she still gets along great with my parents, which means she could knock on their door any minute to borrow sugar or salt.

A few days go by in a blur of “bed-fridge-bed-gym-shower-bed,” and it’s during one of those workouts that I get a call from an unknown number.

“Yeah?” I answer, breathing heavily, slowing the treadmill down.

“Mr. Taylor, this is the head of the maternity department.”

“Good afternoon.” I slam the “STOP” button in shock and nearly fly off the treadmill.

“You should come in. It’s been a week, and you haven’t visited your wife or son even once. We can schedule the discharge for tomorrow, if that works for you.”

“Discharge? Tomorrow?” My heart kicks up. Thank God—she’s alive.

“Yes. Come closer to noon.”

Erin’s things are still in my apartment. I’ve got a million questions for her, and I’d rather catch her at the hospital than risk her vanishing. This whole thing’s still way too sketchy—I need some clarity.

“Alright. I’ll be there,” I say. The woman hangs up, and only now do I realize how much tension I’ve been carrying all these days.

I pull up to the hospital at exactly eleven. I stand near the entrance, waiting for Erin and the baby.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then fifteen. I’m sure I’d notice a red-haired girl coming out of the only door in this wing—but after twenty minutes, I start doubting whether I’m even waiting in the right place.

I head to the reception. To my surprise, it’s the same nurse on duty.

“Excuse me, I need to see the head doctor. She called me.”

The nurse eyes me carefully.

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