Page 35 of One Little Mistake

“That boyfriend of yours is quite the looker!” Grandma says with a chuckle. “He should really shave that beard, though—it makes him look like a bandit.”

“Wait—what? Who are you talking about?”

“Who else? Your fiancé. He came by the house.”

“Max came to see you?” I ask in confusion, my mind racing. From the way she describes him, it sounds like the man from the hospital. But what was he doing at my house? How did he even know where to go? Why would he call himself my fiancé?

“Well, of course he did. Who else would I be talking about?”

The rest of our conversation doesn’t flow—it’s hard to focus when my thoughts are spinning in a completely different direction. After we hang up, I lie there for a long time, clutching my phone and staring at his contact name.

Max Taylor.

Should I text him or not?

I roll onto my side and chew on my lip, feeling like a nervous little girl. And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I give in and type:

“Did you go to my grandma’s house? Why?”

I hold my breath while waiting for a reply. What if he is some sort of creep? Someone collecting information on me and my family to gain our trust?

But... why would he?

His response comes instantly.

“You were in the ICU. There was no one to pick up the baby. I was exploring options. I didn’t tell her anything about your condition, don’t worry.”

His words surprise me.

They actually sound... thoughtful. Caring, even.

Suddenly, I feel a bit guilty that he had to worry about me. And then, like a slap, I remember what I did to his home. I still haven’t fully processed the fact that it wasn’t my Max’s apartment. But the shame is already creeping in, prickling under my skin. I feel so stupid. My face heats up at the thought of how completely I took over his space. Not just rearranging his things—living there for months.

“I’m sorry. About the nursery. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Please don’t throw out the furniture—I’ll come get it.”

I shove the phone under my pillow, afraid of what he might say back.

It buzzes with a message almost immediately, but it takes me a full thirty minutes to work up the nerve to check it. I finally cave, unlock the screen in the dark, and squint against the glow.

“Forget it.”

I smile.

He’s a weird guy.

Anyone else in his position would’ve flipped out—probably demanded I pay for the damage or threatened legal action.

But not him. He acts like none of it even matters.

Though, to be fair, that first night when he found me in his apartment... he looked pissed.

And I get it.

I really do.

***

On the third day after I woke up, they move me from the ICU to a regular room, but they still won’t let me see my son. I’m going crazy with impatience.

---