Page 147 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

“How's Alessio?” he asks, finally breaking the quiet tension.

My jaw tightens. "Back in Italy, leaving me to deal with this alone."

He exhales. “I’ve known that boy since he came to the States. I’ve seen him stumble, screw up, fall hard. But I’ve also seen him fight his way back every single time. For the first time in his life, he’s not just fighting for himself.”

I look away, my throat thick.

My father touches my hand. Fleetingly. “He loves you, Sophie. And he’ll find his way back to you.”

When he finally stands to leave, something in me shifts. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him.

But maybe I can start to try.

When the apartment is quiet again, I sit on the floor beside the couch, my laptop open in my lap. I don’t even realize whatI’m doing at first, just scrolling, almost mindlessly, through old blog posts and charity site archives. Searching for… something. Anything that isn’t scandal or betrayal or judgment.

And then I find him. Alessio.

He’s in photos from community centers. Shelters. School drives. Candid shots, not polished PR releases, just raw, real moments.

He’s crouched beside a child missing his front teeth both with smiles almost reaching their ears. In another, he’s serving food at a fundraiser, sleeves rolled, hair tousled, smiling like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

My breath catches in my throat, a sharp hitch that feels like both a gasp and a sob, tightening my chest.

I click on a grainy video from the cancer research gala. Alessio dancing, if you can call it that, with two little girls in remission wearing matching sparkly dresses.

He’s all awkward limbs and fake spins, and the girls are giggling like it’s the best night of their lives.

I press a hand to my chest, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

Eva is trying to make it seem as if it was all staged. Calculated.

But I was there.

I saw the way he remembered names. The way he gave his number to a single mother in case her son needed a job one day. The way he held the door open for an elderly woman like she was royalty and brought her tea when no one else noticed she was cold.

Thatwas the real him. The man I’ve loved since our first night together. My high school crush who made me blush every time Denver brought him around.

And I miss him. Not just the man in my bed. Not just the lover with the sharp tongue and the wicked hands. I missthisman. The one who tried. The one who cared.

I swipe to the ultrasound photo on my phone, tracing the tiny shape with my thumb.

“I wish you knew him like I do,” I whisper to the baby.

The fight inside me starts to quiet, not because the pain is gone, but because the love is louder.

I give in. I open my messages and type out a note to Alessio.

It doesn’t go through. I try again. Still nothing. A cold chill creeps up my spine.

Something’s off.

35

ALESSIO

The skyline of Chicago glints through the hallway windows of Clive & Associates like the blade of a knife.

I’ve been here before, this building, this firm. But today, it’s different.

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