Page 34

Kairi

I pulled up to the house after leaving my father’s, trying to breathe through the mess in my head. My daddy had hurt the hell out of my feelings, and I’d left his house more confused than when I’d walked in. But one thing was clear: I needed to stop fighting—at least for now. Or fight for real and tell Atlas I’d see him in court. But the truth was, I didn’t want to do that. I wanted us to be amicable for Dion’s sake.

When I stepped inside, I was hit by the smell of pancakes. I saw Atlas in the kitchen with Dion. I stood there for a moment, watching them—Dion in his seat giggling at nothing, Atlas flipping pancakes—and it felt surreal. This was what he wanted. This picture-perfect family. Was there something so wrong with that, after all he’d been through? Was I a monster for not wanting to give it to him?

Atlas glanced up when he noticed me. “So you decided to come back?”

I swallowed, forcing myself to take the next step. “Yeah. And I’ve decided—you win. I’m going to do what you want. I’m going to keep the peace.”

He smiled, a slow, knowing smirk that irked me. “You’ll see, Kairi. It’ll all work out.”

I was skeptical. More than skeptical—but what other choice did I have? “Do you need help with breakfast?” I asked, trying to sound casual as I walked into the kitchen, setting my keys on the island. I washed my hands and kissed Dion on the cheek.

Atlas didn’t respond. He just watched me with that steady gaze like he was waiting for something else. I didn’t know what else he expected. Maybe he wanted an explanation for where I’d been. He wouldn’t get one.

Ignoring him, I walked over to the eggs he’d set out and cracked them into a bowl, whisking them with more force than necessary. This felt all too fucking domesticated. Was this the life I wanted? I hadn’t even written since I’d been back.

We spent the morning finishing breakfast, and somehow, it wasn’t terrible—but I hated how easily Atlas slipped into this role, like he’d been waiting for this moment, for me to fall in line.

Later, he decided we would take Dion to the strawberry festival. I had always planned on taking Dion, so I got dressed without protest. After throwing on an oversized T-shirt, tights, and Nikes, I was pulling my hair into a ponytail when I heard the bedroom door open. I didn’t think much of it—until I saw him in the mirror. Atlas was completely naked. He had used the guest bathroom to shower. My pupils blew wide open. Him, with his skin damp, muscles taut—was a work of art. The air suddenly felt too thick. He pulled his towel from his shoulder and dragged it over his hair slowly, like he was starring in a damn commercial.

For a second, I couldn’t look away.

He caught me looking, and a smirk curved his lips, snapping me out of it.

I briefly closed my eyes. He was trying to kill me. “I need to get Dion dressed.”

I turned quickly, nearly stumbling out of the room.

His quiet laugh followed me.

I went to Dion’s room to dress him in the outfit his daddy had laid out—a black polo and khaki shorts. “Your daddy thinks he’s funny. The butthole.” Dion smiled, his toothy grin making me smile back despite myself.

I sighed and kissed the top of his head before setting him down. “Come on, let’s go show Daddy how cute you look,” I said lightly, even though my heart was heavy—and my panties were damp.

We waited in the living room. When Atlas came downstairs wearing the exact same outfit as Dion, my heart damn near melted. This man was not playing fair. I pretended not to notice and followed him out after he scooped Dion up. I let him strap Dion into his Land Rover, wondering how Ashlen thought they were broke when the cars they drove were less than two years old and expensive as fuck.

Dion fell asleep as soon as the car started. We drove in silence. My eyes wandered the dashboard and landed on a book that looked familiar.

I reached over and picked it up, flipping it in my hands. It was one of mine. A limited printing, a collection of short stories I wrote years ago after he knocked at my door. It had only been given out to a few hundred people for a private event. I didn’t even have a copy anymore.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

He glanced at me, still focused on the road. “I paid some book guy seven hundred to find it for me. I have all your books.”

I blinked, staring down at it. He’d paid more for it than I’d been paid to write it.

“You paid $700 for this?” I muttered.

“Yes. I had to have it because it was about me,” he said it like it was fact. Like he knew.

“What?”

He didn’t look at me. “All I Could Do Was Cry. About a woman watching a man she loved marry someone else. That wasn’t about me?”

I swallowed, trying to play it cool. “I didn’t go to your wedding.”

“Maybe not,” Atlas said, finally glancing over. “But did you cry on that day?”

“The Etta James song was my inspiration. You’re going to have to stop thinking everything I write—or wrote—is about you.”

The truth? Of course I had cried. I poured every tear I couldn’t shed into those words.

He left me alone after that.

I stared out the window until we reached the fairgrounds.

Three hours later, I was ready to go. I was used to walking and dealing with crowds from living in New York, but Florida was different. It was hot, humid, and filled with a different kind of crazy than NY crazy.

I should’ve said something before a woman I vaguely recognized approached. She looked at Atlas, then me, then Dion—who was in Atlas’s arms holding a giant teddy bear. She visibly dismissed me and asked, “Atlas? Oh my God, it’s been so long! Where’s Ashlen?”

Her eyes drifted to Dion.

My stomach tightened. I knew this would happen. We knew the same people. They knew Ashlen. People would ask, people would whisper. And here we were, pretending to be a family.

Atlas looked her dead in the face. “Mind your business,” he said. The bass in his voice left no room for anything. “If you want to know where Ashlen is, call her.”

The woman flushed and mumbled something before walking off. I stared at the ground, my face hot.

“That’s going to keep happening,” I muttered. “People are going to ask questions. A few weeks ago, you were a married man mourning your children, and now...” I gestured between us. “Now you have a whole new little family.”

Atlas wiped Dion’s face. “Let them talk. I don’t care. They weren’t my friends. Not really hers either. When the trips and parties stopped, so did they. When the twins happened, she called them. You were the only one who came.”

I said nothing.

We moved on. Despite everything, I was happy that Dion was happy.

When we got home, it was late. Dion was exhausted. We bathed him, brushed his teeth, got him into pajamas, and tucked him in. He was out in minutes.

Atlas fell asleep as soon as he hit the mattress, but I couldn’t.

I slipped out of bed, grabbed my phone, and stepped into the hallway.

I dialed Davis’s number. Straight to voicemail.

“I know you’re still in town,” I whispered. “I need to speak to you. Please, Davis.”