Page 39 of One Little Mistake

Erin

I didn’t even notice when I fell asleep, but I wake up late in the afternoon to the sound of Tim crying loudly. I jolt awake, my eyes darting across the wall, disoriented for a second until memories come rushing back, crashing into me and yanking me into reality.

I grab my phone. Almost noon. And over twenty missed calls from Max.

My fingers clench tightly around the phone, my heart starts racing.

Now that I’ve cooled off—now that the fog of anger and resentment has lifted, now that the sharp sting of disappointment isn’t whispering worst-case scenarios in my ear—I realize how foolish I’ve been.

I didn’t talk to him, didn’t give him a chance to explain.

I just ran, like a coward with her tail between her legs.

With a clearer head, I suddenly remember how Max’s ex-wife once showed up in the middle of the night.

I remember the scattered hints he dropped about her.

And I realize—if I had only been a fling to him, he wouldn’t have asked me to stay at his place, wouldn’t have told me to wait for him to come back from sea, wouldn’t have talked about a future together… right?

Ughhh, what have I done?

I was supposed to see him off, to say goodbye at the port. Instead, I panicked, jumped to conclusions—ones I can’t even be sure were right. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself again?

I hold Tim in my arms, trying to calm him down, and before I can chicken out, I hit the call button.

I try to reach Max, but the line says “unavailable”.

I pace around the apartment, lost in a whirlwind of doubt and indecision.

I close my eyes and force myself to imagine a life without him.

That we’ve broken up. That he left me for someone else.

And just that thought… it breaks me. I realize I can’t do it. I can’t lose him.

Maybe I should just pretend nothing happened? Go downstairs, ask the concierge for the key, move my stuff back into apartment 217, and leave the rest up to fate? Just erase what I saw last night. Blame it on my imagination playing tricks on me.

I pause and think for a few minutes. Then I realize—I don’t have to pretend. I can find out for sure.

If Max really cheated on me, there’s bound to be some trace of it in his apartment.

I throw on some clothes, grab Tim, and rush to the elevator. I get the key from the concierge and head straight to that familiar door. I unlock it cautiously, as if expecting to find his ex-wife still inside.

But the place is empty.

I step slowly across the cold floor, then start checking the apartment, almost obsessively.

I go over every corner, especially the bedroom and bathroom.

But there’s nothing—nothing to suggest that Max spent the night with another woman.

The only signs that anyone was here at all are two unwashed mugs in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, on the dresser in the living room, I spot a few of Tim’s rattles that I forgot to take. And in the closet, neatly folded, are my scarf, a tank top, and a few hair ties.

I cover my mouth with my hand. God, how foolish I’ve been.

Foolish, mistrustful, impulsive. I ruined our chance to say goodbye properly, doubted a man who never once gave me a reason to.

But can I really be blamed for struggling to trust again, after everything that’s happened to me?

My caution turned into self-sabotage. But it’s okay.

We’ll have time. So much time. I’m done with doubt and second-guessing.

I want to be with Max. Beside him. Living under one roof, falling asleep and waking up in the same bed, watching him eat my cooking and feeling proud that such an incredible man is mine.

Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to text him.

To tell him how deeply I’ve fallen in love with him, even if it feels crazy after such a short time.

We barely know each other. We haven’t even had the time to talk about our pasts, our favorite things, the little details that make a person.

But we’ll get there. All that matters now is hearing his voice, knowing he’s okay, and finding something—anything—to explain why I disappeared this morning and didn’t answer his calls.

That’s when I realize I left my phone in the rental apartment. I rush to the sixth floor and groan in frustration when I realize I locked myself out in the rush.

It takes forever to call the landlord, explain the situation, and wait for him to bring the spare keys.

By the time I finally get my phone, there are seven more missed calls from Max and several messages.

Panic grips me. I snatch the phone with one hand while making formula with the other for my hungry son—second time today I’ve fed him off-schedule because I can’t pull myself together—and I call Max immediately, but it goes straight to voicemail.

My heart sinks. I hate myself a little in that moment.

With shaking fingers, I type out a short message. It’s not the truth—it’s a lie, an excuse—but I don’t know how else to fix this.

“I’m so sorry. I had my phone on silent and couldn’t find it in the house.”

I stare at it for a second, then add, “I love you, Max. So much. And I’m waiting. We’re waiting for you. Come home to us soon.”

Tears spill down my cheeks.

I can’t sit still, can’t breathe right. So I spend the rest of the evening packing clothes back into drawers and suitcases, preparing to move in—so that when Taylor comes back, we’ll be here. Just like he wanted. After all, what are three months, when I’ve waited my whole life for him?

***

Max never told me the name of his ship, so I can’t track its location online—and when he hasn’t been online for an entire week, I start to worry.

I miss him so much. Desperately. It still hurts that fate decided everything for us and didn’t give us even a few more days together.

And I keep blaming myself for that night—for how impulsive, cowardly, and downright stupid I was.

May greeted Tim and me with sunshine, green lawns, and the sweet scent of blooming trees around the house.

This morning, my mom called and said she’s finally flying in to see her grandson.

I’m thrilled—we’ve only spoken over the phone for so long—but even that joy can’t override the sharp, persistent anxiety lodged deep in my chest.

I can’t put my phone down. I’m afraid to miss a call from Max—even when I’m in the shower. I’ve started putting the apartment back together, moved Tim’s crib back into the nursery. He’s grown so much, already holding his head up and babbling like a little chatterbox.

And all this time, I’ve avoided even thinking about my ex.

Or no—not out of fear. I simply don’t want to see him again.

I wish he’d forget we exist and disappear from our lives forever.

He seems to have no rush to stay in touch with his son anyway.

He texted once, asking if we needed money. I said no, of course.

The evening is quiet. A soft drizzle taps on the windows, lulling me into drowsiness, but I don’t go to bed yet. I’m standing in the living room, ironing tiny baby blankets, half-watching the evening news when something on the screen makes my heart skip. My gaze flicks up, away, then snaps back.

Wait… was that…?

Panic kicks in. I grab the remote and turn up the volume.

“…negotiations are ongoing to bring the captured sailors home. A special hotline has been set up for the families, where you can get the latest updates…”

I freeze the screen and dash to the hallway, frantically digging through my bag for a pen and paper. My temples pound, hands shake, heat rushes through my body like fire. Panic rises like a wave. I feel dizzy.

No. No. That wasn’t Max. It can’t be. Just someone who looks like him. It was a blurry ID-style photo, maybe from a personnel file—people get misidentified in photos like that all the time. Right?

I don’t even remember how my fingers dial the number. I don’t realize the ringing has stopped until a soft female voice comes through the line.

“Hello? Are you there? I can’t hear you.”

“Uh—yes, I’m here,” I stammer, trying to find the words. “I… I saw the news on TV, and I think… I think my husband was on that ship. But I only caught the end of the report…”

“Can you please give me your husband’s full name and the name of the vessel?”

“Max Taylor. I don’t know the name of the ship,” I say, barely above a whisper.

“Max Taylor, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry… but he’s listed among the crew members who were taken captive…”

“Wait—are you sure it’s him? Could it be another Max Taylor? Can we check the date of birth or something?”

“I understand. Let me verify that for you. One moment, please.”

As the hold music plays in my ear, I pray. I pray with everything I have that it’s not my Max. What are the chances, really? That pirates—fucking pirates—in this day and age, attacked his ship of all ships? Hope burns for exactly twenty seconds before the dispatcher returns and shatters my world.

I don’t hear the rest. My phone slips from my fingers. I collapse to the floor and cry silently, my body shaking. Just let him be alive. Please, don’t let anything happen to him.

The following days play out like a loop: wake up, call for updates on the captive sailors, feed Tim, put together a few bouquets just to keep myself from spiraling, feed Tim again, play with him, take a walk with the stroller, stare at the phone with a lump in my throat, call the hotline again.

Nothing.

Day one.

Day two.

Day three.

Still nothing.

The silence eats me alive. It all feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

The thought that I may never see Max again makes me want to claw at the walls.

The only thing that keeps me from losing it completely is our son.

Because of him, I keep going. I stay functional. I live. And I wait for a miracle.