Page 10 of One Little Mistake

Max

I get home close to midnight, but even though I’m dead tired, I can’t sleep. Not even the dull drone of late-night TV helps. I down cup after cup of coffee as I pace the room, glancing at Erin’s phone lying on the table.

I hate snooping through someone’s private stuff.

It’s not my thing—digging around in someone’s dirty laundry.

So I hesitate for a while, unsure if I’m doing the right thing.

I unlock the phone, open the gallery, then instantly lock it again, not ready to go through her pictures. Then I repeat it all over again.

Curiosity wins. So does the need to figure out who this “Max” is. What if he’s someone I know? If I can track him down, maybe I can finally get some peace and enjoy my damn break, instead of stressing about some stranger and her baby.

I pull up a chair, sit down, and give in. The photo gallery is mostly flower arrangements, bouquets, shots of Erin posing in the mirror. Each time in a different outfit, always smiling like she has the whole world at her feet. Her eyes sparkle. And every single picture was taken in my apartment.

That pisses me off a little.

Everywhere I look, there’s something of hers—her toothbrush in the cup, her body wash in the shower, her dishes, her underwear in my dresser. During the months I was gone, she made herself right at home. Took over everything. Made this place hers.

Don’t even get me started on the nursery. I’ve been avoiding that room like the plague, not even looking at the door without my stomach twisting.

I smirk when I come across pictures of her with my sister. I’m guessing they were celebrating Erin’s birthday. There’s Vivienne, a few women I don’t recognize, balloons, cake. Erin looks genuinely happy, completely unaware of what’s coming next.

I frown. Pulling my eyes off the screen for a second, I sip my coffee, and tap my fingers on the table like a damn metronome. I should just let this go—walk away, forget it ever happened—but the image of that redhead lying in a hospital bed, so pale and fragile, keeps flashing in my mind.

So does the bundle they tried to hand me in the maternity ward.

By now I can practically trace her pregnancy through these photos. The way her body slowly changed, her face got rounder, her belly grew. She went from fit and petite to waddling around like a watermelon. But there’s still no Max. That’s when I start to get irritated.

I keep swiping through the gallery—faster now—until finally, I find pictures of her with some guy. And no matter how hard I stare at his face, no matter how much I try to recall where I’ve seen him before… I come up empty. I’ve never seen this dude in my life.

But I know he’s the one.

I can tell by the way she looks at him—soft eyes, full of love. I can tell by the setting, the kind of intimate photos they took together. I scroll through them quickly, not lingering too long on the ones where she looks… stunning.

I sigh and run a hand down my face. What the hell is this?

I don’t know this guy. And I have no idea how he knows me. Or why he sent Erin to my door of all places.

By the time I finally crawl into bed, the sky’s already lightening. I check her messenger one last time, hoping someone’s texted her.

Nothing.

Okay. Time to let this go. Just imagine she had the baby before I came home. Imagine I know nothing about her condition or the tiny baby boy lying in some hospital crib right now.

Maybe then I’ll finally get some damn sleep.

***

When I wake up, I head out right away. I have no idea what to do with myself, but I sure as hell can’t stay cooped up between four walls any longer.

I figure I should probably stop by my parents’ place—I haven’t seen them since I got back—and the second I open their front door, I regret the decision.

The smell hits me first—my mom’s signature pie. Then come the voices. Two female voices I could recognize out of a million. One’s soft and raspy—that’s my mom. The other’s slow and sugary sweet—my ex-wife.

“Son, good to see you,” Dad says as he steps out of the living room, probably hearing the front door shut. No turning back now.

He looks exactly the same as he did half a year ago, and I’m relieved. Lately, he’s had some health issues; seeing him unchanged is a comfort.

Still, it’s weird seeing him with gray hair and a slight hunch. I always remembered him as fit, broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. That’s how he still exists in my memory.

“Hey, Dad. Sorry I didn’t drop by earlier—had some stuff to take care of.” I nod toward the bags in my hands. “Brought you and Mom a few gifts.”

But really, my entire being is focused on the conversation happening in the kitchen. And the footsteps heading straight my way.

“Max! Finally!” my mom beams, pulling me into a hug. “I had a feeling you’d stop by today. Cynthia and I made your favorite—casserole.”

She peers into my eyes, searching for approval. I force a smile and fight the urge to flinch at the mention of my ex-wife’s name.

I never told my family the truth about why we split.

They’ve known Cynthia since she was a kid—we grew up next door—and they love her like their own daughter.

When they found out we were together, they were over the moon.

After the wedding, they wouldn’t shut up about how perfect we were for each other.

And when everything fell apart, they begged us to reconcile, completely blind to what she’d done.

After the betrayal, I gave them the short version—we just didn’t work out. Told them not to bring it up again. I didn’t need their pity, or to see those looks.

The problem is, I’m stubborn. And Mom? She thinks I’m the one who screwed things up. Still treats Cynthia like her beloved daughter-in-law. She’s even hinted more than once that Cynthia wouldn’t mind giving it another shot. Took everything I had not to snap and spill the truth.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, my smile finally settling into something real. “I’m starving.”

I can already picture the look on my ex-wife’s face when she sees me walk in—and how fast she’ll decide this is her golden opportunity to win me back. But there’s no “us” anymore. Not after she spent six months living with some guy while I was going through multiple surgeries.

And all because of that damn ski resort in Switzerland, where Cynthia insisted we go.

Great vacation—ended with a broken hip, and then my body rejected the metal rod.

The bone just wouldn’t heal. It felt like that hell would never end.

Hospitals, IV drips, surgeries, a cane, a limp.

For the first few months, I could barely get out of bed.

I started to lose hope—especially once we ran out of money.

I was in no shape to work, not like that.

“Come in already, why are you standing in the doorway?” my mom fusses, taking my jacket and asking how the trip went and when I’m heading back out to sea.

“You’ll never settle down at this rate with that job of yours.

Enough already. Find something on land. What woman’s gonna put up with you being gone nine months out of the year? ”

“Mom, you know I don’t know how to do anything else.” I kiss her cheek and smile.

She always hoped I’d follow in her and Dad’s footsteps, but I would’ve made a terrible sociology professor.

I walk into the kitchen and freeze for a second.

Cynthia’s there, standing with her back to me at the stove.

Her body is tense like a drawn bowstring—she definitely heard me come in and knows I’m here.

She hasn’t changed one bit. Still slim, with long light brown hair. Those delicate fingers with the perfect manicure, that trendy athleisure set that belongs more in a gym flirting with guys than in a kitchen. She turns around and forces a smile.

“Max? Wow, talk about unexpected. When did you get back?”

I want so badly to feel absolutely nothing when she speaks—to finally be free of her hold over me—but I can’t.

The second I see Cynthia, it’s like I’m yanked backward in time, back to the days when I was hopelessly in love with her. That phantom feeling is still lodged somewhere deep inside my chest, crawling to the surface when I least expect it.

She wipes her hands on the apron and acts like everything’s fine. Like there isn’t a massive canyon between us—and like she didn’t dig it herself. She only hesitates a beat before taking a few steps toward me, leaning in for a kiss.

I turn my head away. Her lips barely brush my cheek, but it’s more than enough to make me want to scrub the spot raw.

I can’t stop myself. I raise my hand and wipe my cheek slowly, deliberately, without breaking eye contact.

Like her kiss was something dirty I needed to get rid of—as if it had come from some toad, not the woman I once wanted.

Cynthia presses her lips together, her face tightening.

She’s trying to hide her irritation, but she’s always been terrible at that.

She’s an open book. It’s never hard to tell whether she likes someone or not.

“Helga, I think I’ll head back to my apartment,” she says coldly. “No need to interrupt your nice little family dinner.”

My mom doesn’t pick up on the venom in her words. Cynthia keeps her eyes locked on mine, then slowly scans me from head to toe—just like I did to her a moment ago.

“That beard still doesn’t suit you,” she mutters, yanking off her apron with a sharp tug.

“Cynthia, where are you going?” my mom says, shooting me a disapproving glance. “We made so much food. Stay and have lunch with us. You and Max haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“I’ll walk Cynthia out,” I cut in before the begging starts—before my mom’s coaxing and Cynthia’s fake reluctance corner me into sitting through a meal where I’ll have to tense every time our bodies accidentally brush against each other.

“Max,” my mom says quietly, shaking her head at me like I’m being cruel and ungrateful.

I nudge Cynthia toward the door. The second we’re out of my parents’ view, I grab her elbow to pick up the pace—because she’s clearly in no rush to leave.

“Can you please stop hovering around my family already?” I snap.

“We live across the hall, Max. I have a good relationship with your parents. What am I supposed to do? Hide in my apartment and come up with stupid excuses not to see them?” she hisses, like a cornered cat.

“Maybe you should just move.”

“Not everyone has the kind of money you do, Max,” she says, her voice dripping with bitterness like I’m hoarding fortunes while everyone else is scraping by on instant oatmeal.

“Then find yourself someone who does,” I say with a smirk, mocking her.

I flinch when she places her palm flat against my chest.

“Listen,” she says more softly now, the anger draining from her face, leaving only sadness.

“I’m really sorry for everything that happened.

I was stupid. Naive. You were my first and only real love, and I guess…

”—She looks away, biting her lip, — “I made a terrible mistake, Max. I wish I could go back and fix it. I miss you.”

Her hand moves up, brushing my neck, my jaw, and she presses against me.

I swallow hard, cursing myself for how my body still reacts to her scent, her touch.

Cynthia feels like a favorite childhood toy—one you’ve long outgrown but can’t bring yourself to throw away because of all the memories attached to it.

I can’t tear my eyes away from her face. She’s become a stunning woman; even more beautiful than the twenty-year-old girl I once lost my head over.

It’s crazy to think she’s still single.

“Don’t,” I rasp, grabbing her slender wrist and pulling her hand away.

We stand there, breathing heavily, facing each other.

Tears well up in her eyes, and I know I need to get her out of here before she pulls one of her little tricks and knocks me off balance again.

“I hope this is the last time we see each other,” I say, voice low and final. “I wish you happiness.”

I open the door and motion for her to leave.

Cynthia exhales sharply, wrinkles her perfectly shaped nose, and sweeps past me, leaving behind that familiar trail of Chanel perfume that clings to the air, dragging up long-buried memories of a life that once felt happy.