Page 66 of Love Beyond Repair
I can’t undo what I did, can’t erase the years she spent doing this alone. But maybe I can prove something different now. That I’ll show up. That I won’t run again.
I don’t deserve her trust. Not after everything. But maybe I can earn it, piece by piece.
She steps into the apartment, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to. Her knuckles graze the doorframe as she walks past me, eyes scanning everything, the walls, furniture, shelves bursting with kids’ toys. It’s not spotless. I didn’t pretend.
She’s a parent too. She’ll understand that homes with kids look lived in. There are crayons under the coffee table, a sock draped over the back of a chair, cereal bowls drying by the sink. But it’s real. Ours. A family home.
Bex moves further inside, arms across her chest like a shield.
“It’s nice,” she says eventually. “He’ll be comfortable here.”
I nod, unsure what to do with the flicker of warmth in her voice. It’s not approval, exactly, but it’s not cold either. It’s more than I expected.
Her gaze drifts across the shelves. I follow her line of sight too late. She’s seen the photo. The one from the beach trip last summer, Savannah, Rose, and Ollie, all arms and smiles, with myself in the middle. I’d asked a passerby to take it for us to capture the family moment.
Bex doesn’t say anything. She just stares at it, long enough for me to feel it. Long enough to wish I’d put it away. Not that it should come as a surprise, but it’s a stark reminder of how diverged our lives became. How I went on and created a family without her.
But my kids are something I never hide. They’re the one thing in my life I’m most proud of. And Liam is one of them. This new normal will take some getting used to for us all.
Her eyes shift, just slightly, to the left. To the little blue dish wedged between paperbacks and a half-dead spider plant. She steps closer and picks it up. She stares at it as if trying to convince herself it’s real, twisting it between her fingers. My stomach clenches.
“I didn’t think you still had this,” she says quietly.
“I didn’t think I did either,” I admit. “But every time I packed up or moved, it came with me.”
She runs a thumb over the edge. It’s cracked slightly on one side, the paint worn thin. It shouldn’t still exist. But here it is.
“We bought this in Spain,”she murmurs.
“You haggled the price down,” I say. “Then made me carry it around for the rest of the day.”
That gets the smallest smile from her, but it doesn’t last. She sets it down carefully, not quite in the same place. Then she glances at the photo again.
“They look happy,” she says.
“They are,” I say, softer. “But it’s not the whole story. Things have been complicated.” She doesn’t reply, and I don’t expand.
“Give me a moment,” I tell her, nipping down to check on the boys in Ollie’s room. When I return, she’s still looking at the little blue dish. It meant so much back then; it’s probably why I still keep it around.
“They’ve built a fort in Ollie’s room,” I tell her. “Blankets, pillows, flashlights. They’re calling it Mission Dinosaur.”
I’m rewarded with another smile, this one softer, laced with something quieter. Sadness, maybe. Uncertainty that giving me and my family access to her son is the right choice.
She shifts her weight and lifts a hand briefly, massaging beneath her arm like something twinges. The movement seems almost automatic, but the doctor in me senses something uneasy. I’ve seen her do it before, at the cafe last week, then at the park after school. I don’t ask, it’s not my place.
She looks tired, I tell myself. That’s all it is. Fatigue. Stress. Nothing more. She’s a single working mother who’s been dealing with the father of her child’s reappearance. Anyone would be exhausted.
“Sounds fun,” she says, then checks the time. “I should go.” I walk her to the door. She hesitates with her hand on the frame as she steps through.
“Thanks,” she says, eyes flicking to mine. “For letting me see your home and your beautiful family. I’ll pick him up at eight.”
I want to say thank you, but she’s already gone. Striding off down the hallway, her eyes pinned straight ahead, and her ponytail bouncing behind her. Yet again, I’m cursing myself for not taking the chance to close the gap between us when I had one.
The door clicks shut behind her. I stand there for a moment, hand still resting on the edge, listening to nothing. The apartment’s not quiet. It’s full of soft thuds and muffled laughter coming from Ollie’s room, but it feels empty all the same. Like she took something with her when she left.
I turn back into the room, walking without much purpose. The little blue dish sits on the shelf exactly where she left it. I pick it up and carry it to the sofa, sitting down. The ceramic is cool in my hands. Faintly cracked. Faded, but not broken.
I think of Spain. The day she dragged me through that market in the blazing heat, haggling with a man who sold sun-bleached trinkets and played Rolling Stones from a boombox. Hell, we were young.
