Page 108 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
She turns her face, just enough to catch his eyes, and reaches up to squeeze his hand. Her fingers curl around his like they’ve done it a hundred times—because they have.
“I won’t,” she says, quiet but firm. “But this part—I think it needs to come fromme. Forme.”
Jake exhales through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw as he drops into the chair beside her. “You sure?”
Maya hesitates.
“No,” she admits with a lopsided smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But I’m sure I want it done.”
She looks down at her belly as she speaks, one hand unconsciously smoothing over the stretched fabric of her sweatshirt. The soft overhead light glows gold against her skin, catching in the wisps of damp hair at her temple.
There’s a curve to her spine now, a weight to her posture, but her voice—steady, honest—holds more certainty than I’ve heard in a long time.
Silence settles over us again, but it’s not heavy with tension or fear. It’s quieter. Calmer. Respectful.
We don’t like it. Any of it. The idea of her standing face-to-face with a man who once made her question her worth, who belittled her softness, who twisted her strength.
But we trust her, because that’s what love looks like, too.
Not just the laughter and the cravings and the late-night baby name debates when none of us can sleep.
It’s this—letting her fight the battlesshechooses, even when it terrifies us to step back.
Liam leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. His lips linger longer than necessary, like he’s trying to will every ounce of calm he has into her.
Jake shifts closer on the bench seat and rubs slow, steady circles on her back. His hand spreads wide between her shoulder blades .
And I reach across the table, brushing my hand against hers until she curls her fingers around mine.
Chapter forty-three
MAYA
The text comes in just after breakfast, while I’m rinsing dishes in the sink, the scent of coffee still lingering in the air and the soft hum of a lullaby playing from the monitor in the living room.
A droplet of warm water slips down my wrist as I reach for the phone buzzing against the windowsill.
Nick:We should talk.
I freeze. My hand hovers over the dish towel, breath caught mid-inhale. My heart thuds once, twice, then starts pounding a little too fast, like it’s already imagining every possible version of the conversation he wants to have.
I stare at the message, thumb resting on the screen.
Part of me wants to swipe it away. Pretend I didn’t see it. Pretend that part of my life is over, boxed up and buried beneath everything I’ve built since.
But the other part—the steadier part, the one that’s grown stronger because of the three men who remind me every day that I’m allowed to take up space—knows I need to face this.
I respond with a simple:Okay. Where?
We settle on the park near my old place. Neutral ground.
It’s an overcast afternoon, the sky a dull gray, and the wind carries the scent of fall—dry leaves tumbling across the pavement and that crispness in the air that makes you want to pull your jacket tighter.
I wrap my scarf a little higher around my neck as I walk, the familiarity of the path under my feet making my stomach churn.
He’s already there.
Nick stands near the bench under the big sycamore tree, the one I used to sit under during long phone calls and daydreams I thought were safe. His arms are crossed over his chest, fingers tapping restlessly against his elbow.
