Page 56 of The Final Faceoff
A person who once left a pot of boiling water unattended for so long, the entire thing evaporated and nearly melted the pan. A person who has, on multiple occasions, lost her keys while holding them. My chest constricts, and before I can stop it, my face crumples.
Tears spill over. I try to shove them back into whatever emotional junk drawer I’ve been stuffing everything into, but they don’t stop. Then, before I can spiral too far, a shadow falls over me.
I blink up.
Leif.
Holding two cups of something steaming, like he somehow knew this was coming. He doesn’t say anything at first, just hands one to me.
“Hot cider,” he says, voice familiar, warm in a way that makes my throat tighten even more.
I sniffle, staring at the cup like it might hold the answers to my life. “You . . . brought me hot cider?” and I cry louder.
Leif shrugs. “I knew you’d be sad. Figured you could use something warm.”
Something in me cracks, deeper than before. I take a slow breath, pressing my lips together because if I speak, I will absolutely start ugly crying again.
Leif lowers himself onto the bench beside me. His knee bumps mine, a casual touch, grounding in a way I don’t know how to process. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I take a sip of my drink, still swallowing emotions along with the cider, my thoughts tangled in a mess of what-ifs and regrets.
Leif glances at me. “Want to tell me what happened, or do you want to keep staring at that statue like it personally wronged you?”
I let out a weak, pathetic laugh. “I think I hit a new low tonight.”
He smirks. “It’s impressive. You managed to get yourself kicked off a potential dad’s contact list in record time.”
I groan, tilting my head back. “I asked him about Greece, Leif. In public.”
“That . . . was a choice.”
“A bad choice.”
He takes a sip of his own drink. “Definitely not your worst, though.”
I narrow my eyes. “Name one worse.”
His mouth twitches. “That time you convinced a bartender to give you absinthe because you swore you could ‘probably handle it.’”
I groan. “We don’t talk about that night.”
“Oh, we do,” he says, smirking.
I sniff, wiping my nose, half-laughing. But then the laughter dies as another wave of reality crashes down. “Leif?”
His expression shifts. “Yeah?”
“This poor baby doesn’t have a plan B or a parachute. They’re stuck with me—” I pause, staring at my cup, “—me. A human disaster with zero qualifications for parenthood.”
Leif exhales, setting his cup on the bench beside him. “Wow. Okay. We’re having a full-blown pity party.”
I glare at him. “I think I’m allowed.”
“No, you’re not,” he says flatly. "Because you’re not a disaster, and that kid is lucky to have you as a mom."
I scoff, but he keeps going.
"Whatever that general made you believe is bullshit. Your mom’s car accident wasn’t your fault. Yeah, you forgot something, and she had to drive back—but it wasn’t on you. He dealt with losing her by blaming a kid. That’s not grief. That’s cruelty.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “And if I were you, I’d stop letting him have a say in your life. You deserve better than that. You deserve love, happiness, a family.”
I stare at him, throat closing, emotions tangling into something too big to name.
