Page 87 of One Little Mistake

“The apartment’s cleaned, by the way, so don’t stress,” he says, walking over to peek into the stroller. “Wanna go grab dinner somewhere?”

“No, I’m tired. Let’s just order in.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be so boring. We need to get out, clear our heads. The weather’s amazing.”

“If you want to go, go. I need to feed our son and take care of a few things.”

“You mind if I head out alone then?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Cool. Want me to bring you something?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He strips off his loungewear as he walks, revealing toned abs and a tattoo on his back. Still as handsome as ever—but I feel nothing. It’s like he’s a stranger now. Which, I guess, isn’t all that surprising. He’s been gone so long, I stopped feeling like he was part of my life. I’d built him up in my head—this perfect, charming, generous man any woman would be lucky to have. But now, all I see are his flaws.

He tossed his clothes on the floor and headed for the shower. No questions about how I survived these months, how the birth went. No concern, no guilt. Just self-absorbed silence. He’s anarcissist—plain and simple. And I was going to build a life with this man?

God, why didn’t You show me this sooner?

No, I don’t regret having him in my life—if it weren’t for him, there’d be no Tim. But my own blind faith in him? That I regret deeply.

And suddenly, I think of Max. The one from apartment 217. Quiet. Steady. Thoughtful. We didn’t talk much, but even in silence, being near him felt… safe. Comforting. He radiated strength and calm. The kind of man you trust. The kind who doesn’t disappear the second you turn your back.

Not like this one. Not like Maxwell.

I feel out of place in someone else’s apartment. After quickly feeding and putting Tim down to sleep, I slip into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and study my reflection in the mirror. Gaunt. A sickly glint in my eyes. Pale.

My gaze falls on the laundry basket—and I freeze. Perched on top is a hair clip. Not mine. Silver with a glinting gemstone that sparkles under the bathroom light.

I walk toward it slowly, staring at it for a few moments before picking it up. I turn it over in my fingers, frowning, and then, as if possessed, begin scanning the entire apartment for signs of another woman.

I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find—or prove. But a few dark hairs on the bathtub, a tube of lip gloss near the entryway, and a scarf hanging on the coat rack stir something hot and bitter in my chest.

So he was looking for me, huh? Worried sick, was he? Yeah, I can see how broken up he must’ve been—just enough to start bringing random women over in between his grieving sessions.

I’m fuming. Hurt rising like a tidal wave. I think about our dates, the time we spent together, the mornings tangled in bedsheets, the way we devoured each other—and my heartaches. Because now I know there was never any love. Maybe not even from the start.

Just an illusion. Something I wanted to believe.

So many years, and I’m still the naive girl who lets herself be blinded. I decide I’m going to talk to Max as soon as he gets back. I hate this fog of uncertainty, and I want it over. Now. We either lay everything on the table and figure out how to be something—even if just co-parents—or we go our separate ways for good.

Honestly, maybe it would’ve been better if we’d never seen each other again. If his sudden disappearance had just stayed an unanswered question.

There’s a reason fate split us apart once already.

I can’t sit still. I pace the room nervously, glancing at the clock. It’s already dark outside. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but Max still hasn’t come back. Eventually, exhaustion gets the better of me. I tell myself I’ll just lie down for a few minutes—but I don’t even notice when I drift off.

I wake up to a loud knock, confused at first about where I am. The unfamiliar bed, the strange walls—it all makes me tense up. Footsteps echo through the apartment, and I instinctively grab my phone, ready to call the cops if I have to. But then yesterday comes rushing back to me, and I relax.

I realize now is definitely not the time for a confrontation. So I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

I listen. Max is moving around the apartment, humming to himself, completely unconcerned about waking the sleeping baby. He’s drunk. I know that tone, that sway in his steps. God, I hate this version of him. There’s no reasoning, no calming him down—no getting him to hand over the bottle and just go home. At least it’s 3 a.m. and not the middle of the day.

The bed creaks under his weight as he stumbles into the bedroom. I tense when he climbs in next to me, sliding under the covers. I scoot to the very edge of the mattress, not wanting himanywhere near me. This doesn’t feel like closeness. This feels like I’m lying next to a stranger.

What even was this between us? A moment of weakness? Desperation?

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