Page 25 of One Little Mistake

He looks exactly the same as he did half a year ago, and I’m relieved. Lately, he’s had some health issues; seeing him unchanged is a comfort.

Still, it’s weird seeing him with gray hair and a slight hunch. I always remembered him as fit, broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. That’s how he still exists in my memory.

“Hey, Dad. Sorry I didn’t drop by earlier—had some stuff to take care of.” I nod toward the bags in my hands. “Brought you and Mom a few gifts.”

But really, my entire being is focused on the conversation happening in the kitchen. And the footsteps heading straight my way.

“Max! Finally!” my mom beams, pulling me into a hug. “I had a feeling you’d stop by today. Cynthia and I made your favorite—casserole.”

She peers into my eyes, searching for approval. I force a smile and fight the urge to flinch at the mention of my ex-wife’s name.

I never told my family the truth about why we split. They’ve known Cynthia since she was a kid—we grew up next door—and they love her like their own daughter. When they found out we were together, they were over the moon. After the wedding, they wouldn’t shut up about how perfect we were for each other. And when everything fell apart, they begged us to reconcile, completely blind to what she’d done.

After the betrayal, I gave them the short version—we just didn’t work out. Told them not to bring it up again. I didn’t need their pity, or to see those looks.

The problem is, I’m stubborn. And Mom? She thinks I’m the one who screwed things up. Still treats Cynthia like her beloved daughter-in-law. She’s even hinted more than once that Cynthia wouldn’t mind giving it another shot. Took everything I had not to snap and spill the truth.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, my smile finally settling into something real. “I’m starving.”

I can already picture the look on my ex-wife’s face when she sees me walk in—and how fast she’ll decide this is her golden opportunity to win me back. But there’s no “us” anymore. Not after she spent six months living with some guy while I was going through multiple surgeries.

And all because of that damn ski resort in Switzerland, where Cynthia insisted we go. Great vacation—ended with a broken hip, and then my body rejected the metal rod. The bone just wouldn’t heal. It felt like that hell would never end. Hospitals, IV drips, surgeries, a cane, a limp. For the first few months, I couldbarely get out of bed. I started to lose hope—especially once we ran out of money. I was in no shape to work, not like that.

“Come in already, why are you standing in the doorway?” my mom fusses, taking my jacket and asking how the trip went and when I’m heading back out to sea. “You’ll never settle down at this rate with that job of yours. Enough already. Find something on land. What woman’s gonna put up with you being gone nine months out of the year?”

“Mom, you know I don’t know how to do anything else.” I kiss her cheek and smile.

She always hoped I’d follow in her and Dad’s footsteps, but I would’ve made a terrible sociology professor. I walk into the kitchen and freeze for a second. Cynthia’s there, standing with her back to me at the stove. Her body is tense like a drawn bowstring—she definitely heard me come in and knows I’m here.

She hasn’t changed one bit. Still slim, with long light brown hair. Those delicate fingers with the perfect manicure, that trendy athleisure set that belongs more in a gym flirting with guys than in a kitchen. She turns around and forces a smile.

“Max? Wow, talk about unexpected. When did you get back?”

I want so badly to feel absolutely nothing when she speaks—to finally be free of her hold over me—but I can’t.

The second I see Cynthia, it’s like I’m yanked backward in time, back to the days when I was hopelessly in love with her. That phantom feeling is still lodged somewhere deep inside my chest, crawling to the surface when I least expect it.

She wipes her hands on the apron and acts like everything’s fine. Like there isn’t a massive canyon between us—and like she didn’t dig it herself. She only hesitates a beat before taking a few steps toward me, leaning in for a kiss.

I turn my head away. Her lips barely brush my cheek, but it’s more than enough to make me want to scrub the spot raw.

I can’t stop myself. I raise my hand and wipe my cheek slowly, deliberately, without breaking eye contact. Like her kiss was something dirty I needed to get rid of—as if it had come from some toad, not the woman I once wanted. Cynthia presses her lips together, her face tightening. She’s trying to hide her irritation, but she’s always been terrible at that. She’s an open book. It’s never hard to tell whether she likes someone or not.

“Helga, I think I’ll head back to my apartment,” she says coldly. “No need to interrupt your nice little family dinner.”

My mom doesn’t pick up on the venom in her words. Cynthia keeps her eyes locked on mine, then slowly scans me from head to toe—just like I did to her a moment ago.

“That beard still doesn’t suit you,” she mutters, yanking off her apron with a sharp tug.

“Cynthia, where are you going?” my mom says, shooting me a disapproving glance. “We made so much food. Stay and have lunch with us. You and Max haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“I’ll walk Cynthia out,” I cut in before the begging starts—before my mom’s coaxing and Cynthia’s fake reluctance corner me into sitting through a meal where I’ll have to tense every time our bodies accidentally brush against each other.

“Max,” my mom says quietly, shaking her head at me like I’m being cruel and ungrateful.

I nudge Cynthia toward the door. The second we’re out of my parents’ view, I grab her elbow to pick up the pace—because she’s clearly in no rush to leave.

“Can you please stop hovering around my family already?” I snap.

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