She sighs softly. “I didn’t listen to more than a few, Georgia, and he hasn’t said much. But I know my son. The only person he’s ever hated is himself.”
“I don’t want that for him,” I cry. “He’s so amazing. A wonderful man. The best father. Aurora loves him so much.” My voice breaks. “I love him so much.”
“Then go to him. Go to your family.”
My family.
I’m still processing the weight of that, the way it finally feels like something I can actually have, when she gasps, eyes on her watch. “Oh, shoot. Book club.”
I blink. “You joined a book club? When the hell do you have time for that?”
“You know my knitting club?” she asks, grinning devilishly.
I nod slowly and she leans in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s really a smutty book club. You should join. We even have a dick chart.”
My jaw drops.
“Biggest book boyfriend wins the Hole-A-Fame every month,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Think about it.”
And with that, Beatrice Archer walks out, leaving me raw, reeling, and… desperately wanting to join book club.
The house still smells like tequila, incense, and Abby.
But it doesn’t smell like honey or wildflowers. No cedar, sweat, or leather. No lavender and baby powder.
It doesn’t smell like home.
I sit curled up on the couch, knees hugged to my chest, and the blanket Abby bought and left me draped over my shoulders, but I’m still freezing.
William’s phone is clutched in my trembling hands, the weight of it heavier than anything so small has a right to be. The passcode loops through my brain like a dare I’m not sure I have the courage to take.
My heart is racing, my mouth dry.
My anxiety creeps in with sharp claws, whispering every doubt I’ve been trying to suppress.What if he hates me? What if I hearsomething I can’t un-hear? What if these voicemails make it worse?
What if I was wrong to leave, and worse—what if it’s too late to come back?
I close my eyes and suck in a shaky breath. I know one thing: whatever’s on this phone is going to break me, heal me, and ruin me, all at once.
But I need that.
And I need to hear his voice.
My fingers hover, then finally move with determination. I wake the screen, type in the four digits from the sticky note, and the phone unlocks with a soft click.
I go to the voicemail app.
A long list appears instantly. Dozens of entries. All from the same name.
All from him.
The first call came in just a few days after the mediation hearing.
It’s been five months.
And the last… the last was only a few days ago.
My breath snags in my throat. My vision blurs.
