Page 15

Chapter fifteen

Patrick

The packet catches the lamp light when I turn it over in my hands—thin, silver, and smooth, the foil stretched tight across each little pill. There’s a gap where one’s already been pushed through, leaving a small empty blister. The rest sit there in neat little rows, each one marked with a day of the week.

I press my thumb against one of the bubbles.

Monday .

The pill shifts beneath the foil. So small. So simple.

This is for the best. This is for the best. This is for the best.

I keep telling myself that. Over and over, like a mantra.

I’ve been patient. I’ve played nice. For Levana’s sake,

So has that asshole, Elliot.

When she’s in the room, it’s like we’re all best friends and none of the tension exists.

Fake smiles. Polite nods. Even the occasional joke, like we’re playing some pathetic version of house. Like either of us could actually stand the other.

But the second she leaves, even just to grab something from the kitchen, it shifts.

He stops pretending. So do I.

“Must be exhausting,” he mutters, not even looking at me. “Keeping up the nice guy routine when you’re just a narcissistic, possessive asshole underneath.”

I don’t even flinch. Just glance his way and offer a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Better than being a disgusting little leech who’s just waiting to bed her the second my back’s turned.”

“I’m her best fucking friend, you idiot. And someone’s gotta be here for her when your bullshit finally burns out.”

“Keep pretending you’re just her friend,” I say, leaning in a little. “I see how you look at her, how you try to turn her against me. You just want her to break so you can play hero. You’re disgusting.”

It’s all daggers. Every word’s loaded, every glance a warning.

I can’t fucking stand him.

He’s wormed his way in, like some parasite. Sitting on her couch for weeks on end like he belongs there, half his shit crammed into the corner of her living room as if he’s settled in for good.

And she’s letting him.

She’s fussing over him, checking if he’s eaten, asking if he’s warm enough, laughing at his shitty jokes like they’re still kids. Babying him like he’s some stray she took in off the street. Like he wasn’t doing just fine before this.

All her attention’s on him now, and she barely has a moment to herself, let alone with me .

Thank fuck she decided not to let him sleep in her bed though. We talked. She understood how uncomfortable it made me. Said she’d feel the same way if there was a woman in my bed. Which, yeah—is super fucking hypocritical of me to agree with, considering. But it is what it is.

I’m doing this for us. Not so my so-called friend can whisper bullshit in my ear and try to talk me out of being with her.

It’s ruining everything, and I’m running out of patience.

Every stolen kiss, every late-night conversation, every quiet moment spent peeling her open, piece by piece. All the time I’ve put into getting her to trust me, to need me the way I need her… It was working.

I was careful. Steady.

I did everything right.

But now?

Now it’s like I’ve hit a wall.

She’s slipping through my fingers, and I can’t get a grip.

How the fuck am I supposed to fix anything if she’s disappearing into Elliot?

I need him gone.

But that’s not going to happen. Not anytime soon. I just know it.

So I need to step in.

Because if something shifts—if something bigger happens, something that locks her focus back on us, on what we’re building—then Elliot becomes background noise. A distraction she won’t have time for.

I wanted it to happen naturally. I did.

Something we chose together. Talked about. Planned.

But we don’t have time for that now.

I need to move things forward.

Because once she’s pregnant, there’ll be no one else in her orbit.

No Elliot. No interference. Just us.

And that’s what she needs.

She needs a family. A home.

Something solid to anchor her.

And I can’t wait for the day she comes to me, tears brimming in her eyes as she holds out that positive test. Laughing and crying at the same time because she’s so damn happy. Because she loves me so much.

Because she loves our family.

Because she’s a mommy again.

And I helped her get there.

I fixed it. Fixed her .

It wasn’t hard to find a dummy pack of pills online. Cheap, too. Barely cost a thing. Just a few clicks and they were on their way. Identical to the ones she keeps next to her coffee machine. Same silver foil. Same clean, neat rows.

I swapped them out two weeks after the prick moved in.

I just hope it’ll work fast, that her body will fall in line, do what it’s meant to do.

The bed dips beside me, and Mara slides in close, her head resting against my shoulder. “You sure this is gonna work?”

I wrap an arm around her, fingers curling lightly against her waist. “I’m sure.”

“A whoopsie baby is what’ll do it?” Her tone’s dry, but I know there’s something underneath it. Not sarcasm. Not really. Doubt, maybe. Or concern she doesn’t want to show.

“Alexander was a whoopsie baby,” I say quietly.

Mara goes still. Too still.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“That’s unfair, Patrick,” she says, voice low and tight. “And it’s not the same. We were already married. We were already a family. I loved you. You’re not married to Levana. You haven’t even told her the truth. And this baby?” She pauses. “You want it for a completely different reason.”

“You’re right,” I sigh. “You are. But she’s helping us. And I love her. And this’ll bring us even closer. It’s all going to work. Okay?”

She doesn’t answer. Just tucks herself closer, and presses her head into the crook of my neck.

I slide my hand through her hair, smoothing it back, breathing her in.

Things will have to stop between me and Mara, at least for a little while. I know it’ll be difficult, especially for her.

But it’ll be so, so worth it in the long run.

My eyes slip shut, and for a second, I let myself imagine it.

The three of us in the bedroom.

Levana pulling the sheets off the bed while Mara folds the clean ones, both of them laughing at some inside joke they share.

Me bringing in the laundry basket, tossing towels at them just to hear them groan and roll their eyes.

Mara sorting the socks, Levana shaking out pillowcases.

Music low in the background, the windows open, the air soft. The kind of morning that feels like a Sunday, even when it isn’t.

Levana leaning into me when I wrap my arms around her from behind.

Mara slipping past us with a basket of folded clothes, brushing her hand along my back as she goes.

And then all the kids would come bursting in, wild, giggling and perfect. Tiny feet pounding against the floor, shrieking as they clamber over us.

Mommy, Mommy! Daddy! Daddy!

Mara’s and mine. Levana’s and mine. My whole family.

One big, beautiful mess of tangled limbs, warm skin and noise.

God— the noise. Noise that fills the house so completely it drowns out the grief that’s been clawing at the walls for too fucking long.

We’d sit around the table together, all messy plates and sticky fingers, the girls bickering over who gets the pink cup this time. Levana would be laughing at them between telling them to calm down, brushing crumbs off Mara’s sleeve like she’s always belonged here, like this is just normal for her now.

She fixes things. That’s what she does. She makes everything feel brighter, warmer. Like sunlight slipping into the cracks no one else even notices.

She’s already piecing me back together, stitching something whole in the place I thought was too broken to salvage.

And she’s so close. So so close to finishing the rest.

My family. My whole family.

Complete, content and mine.

All because of her.