Page 99 of One Little Mistake

Sometimes, I hate my job. Because of it, I missed my sister’s graduation, my mother’s milestone birthday, and my best friend’s daughter’s christening. I’ve spent so many years stuck at sea. I’ve missed nearly every Christmas celebration, and now—just when I’ve finally figured out what I want, when I’ve found a woman who feels like home, someone I don’t want to let go—I have to leave again. Head back out to sea. Without even saying goodbye properly.

I was furious when she left with her ex. Chose him over me. I was ready to tell the world to go to hell. But then I realized something important: Erin needs to figure things out. She has to make a choice. Because you can’t build something real with a woman who’s torn between two men. And I was right. The sparkle in her eyes, the way she laughed, the way we lost ourselves in each other at night—during those moments, it was only us. No one else existed.

I’m packing my bag, calculating if I have just enough time to swing by her place and make it back. I don’t want to leave like this. It’s only been a day and I already miss her like crazy. I want to hold that beautiful body against mine one last time, take in everything about her—but when I weigh the risk, I know it’s not the smart call. My flight’s in the morning, and with my luck, anything could happen on the way there—flat tire, engine trouble—and I can’t afford to lose this assignment. It’s only three months, and then I’ll be back, right where I belong. With my girl.

When someone knocks on my door in the middle of the night, I don’t even have to guess who it is. Of course it’s her. Silly girl didn’t listen and somehow made her way here. To our home. Because I wasn’t joking when I asked her to move in. I’m donecoming home to an empty apartment. I’ve outgrown the failed marriage, had my fill of bachelor life, and now I’m ready for what’s next.

I throw the door open and feel my stomach sink. Cynthia.

What the hell is she doing here? Of all people, she’s the last one I expected to see tonight.

I don’t get a chance to ask before she lunges at me. Throws her arms around my neck and starts sobbing uncontrollably. I assume it’s another one of her performances—a desperate attempt to win me back—so I try to pull her off and show her the door. But then she drops a bomb so heavy, everything else disappears—even Erin.

“Mom’s dead, Max.”

I freeze, staring blankly at the wall in front of me, unable to process what I just heard. My ex-mother-in-law had been like a second mother to me. I’d known her since the first day I joined the Taylor family, and it doesn’t make sense—this smiling, kind woman, just… gone.

“What happened?” I ask, my throat tight with a lump I can barely swallow.

“Heart attack,” Cynthia says. “She was home alone. I came back and found her on the floor. The ambulance came, but it was too late. She died on the way to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” I manage, because I’ve never been good at saying the right thing, never knew how to find the words that could actually help. So I just sit there in silence, letting her cry, letting her get it out. At some point, I feel like someone’s watching me. I glance toward the open door, but there’s no one there.

“Come on,” I say eventually. “I’ll make you some tea. I’m flying out in the morning, so I won’t be able to be at the funeral. I’m sorry.”

I can’t kick her out—not now, not when she’s this wrecked. So I lock the door and lead her to the kitchen. She moves slowly, her legs barely holding her up. She’s trembling, hiccupping from all the crying. I feel a wave of pity for her, but I remind myself, when I was sick, she had no problem sneaking around with someone else. And eventually, she just left.

“Your girlfriend won’t mind me sitting here drinking tea with you?” she asks with a crooked smirk.

“She’s not home. Went to visit family,” I lie.

Cynthia gives me a look that says ‘Yeah, sure’, but I’m not going to explain or justify anything. I owe her nothing.

She leaves just before sunrise. I call her a cab and walk her to the car. At the last moment, she tries to kiss me—same old Cynthia, even in the middle of a tragedy—but I pull back sharply and walk away without a word. Then I call a cab for myself, drag two suitcases out of the apartment, and leave the keys with the doorman, telling him the woman with the child who lived here before will come pick them up. One last glance at the high-rise, and then I get in the car with a heavy heart and head for the airport.

On the way to the airport, I call Erin. I just want to hear her voice before the plane takes off, but she doesn’t pick up. I wait ten minutes, drumming my fingers on the door panel, and call again. Maybe her phone’s on silent?

I check my bag, get through security, and still nothing from Erin. I shoot her a message and head to the departure lounge. Try calling a few more times. The unease is growing—this gut-deep feeling that something’s wrong won’t let up. I don’t put my phone away, not even when I’m boarding the plane. Just before takeoff, ignoring the repeated announcements to power down devices, I hit dial one last time.

No answer.

What the hell could’ve happened overnight? I try to reason with myself—maybe she overslept. Maybe when I land, I’ll have a message from her waiting. I want to believe that. Desperately. But disappointment sets in. Four hours later, there’s still nothing. Then there’s the transfer, introductions, getting up to speed with the new crew. The ship’s already loaded, and before I can wrap my head around it all, we’re pulling away from the dock.

I reach for my phone, ready to try Erin one last time before we lose reception—and growl out loud when I realize the battery’s dead.

“What the hell kind of day is this?!”

We drop anchor near the Gulf of Aden, and I don’t immediately realize why. I’m still agitated about leaving like that—not saying goodbye, not hearing her voice, not knowing if she and the baby are okay.

“What’s going on? Why are we sitting here?” I ask the second engineer at lunch.

“Shipowner’s negotiating with a private security company. It costs a fortune to get escorted through the Gulf. Last time we sat here for two weeks waiting for seven more ships to form a convoy.”

“Private security?” I blink.

“Don’t tell me this is your first time on a ship?”

“I’ve only ever worked the Atlantic routes.”

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