Page 5 of One Little Mistake

Erin

The day Max got back from his rotation at sea turned out to be a huge disappointment.

Just imagine—making plans together, dreaming about vacations, movie premieres, counting down the days until he was finally back… and then, on the day, all I got was a short message:

“I’m back. Heading home with a friend. Don’t miss me too much.”

I slid down the wall and sank to the floor, unable to hold back the bitter tears.

I had really thought he’d come straight to me.

I had picked out my best dress, done my hair and makeup. I’d closed my little flower shop early, just after lunch and spent the whole day glued to my phone, nervous, excited. And he… didn’t even offer to grab a quick coffee.

My heart ached from the unfairness of it, but I had tried to hold it together and not let my mind spiral.

We ended up meeting three days later.

Totally unexpected.

I had been trimming thorns off a bunch of roses, arranging them into a heart shape, cursing all men and my own hopeless romanticism—when my phone rang.

It was Max, saying he’d pick me up in half an hour.

And, of course, just my luck—I was having the worst day.

No makeup, wearing a stretched-out sweater and worn jeans, because I had woken up feeling like crap and had just thrown on whatever was closest.

I had to act fast.

Thankfully, my flower shop was inside a shopping mall.

I ran into a boutique, grabbed a beige blouse and black skinny jeans, then sprinted to the shoe store next door and picked out a pair of stilettos in under five minutes. After that, I’d raced to the cosmetics kiosk on the other side of the mall.

Max had shown up the moment I added the final touch—some tinted lip balm—and exhaled in relief, pleased with how I’d pulled it off.

The few minutes I waited at the entrance had felt like forever. At one point, I had seriously considered running away.

My hands were shaking. I had already chewed up my lips. I kept scanning every face that passed by… and I hadn’t even realized when he appeared right in front of me.

“Hey.”

His voice had sounded just like it did over the phone—but his appearance… God, he was ten times more attractive in real life. Especially his eyes. How was it even legal for a man to look that good?

I had opened my mouth to say something, anything—but all I had managed was a shaky exhale.

“I’ve got the right girl, yeah? You’re Ginger?”

He had raised an eyebrow, studying me, waiting for confirmation.

“Ginger”—that was the nickname he’d given me because of my bright, fiery hair. And for the first time ever, it hadn’t bothered me. The way he said it… it had sounded different. Special. Ours.

“Yes, it’s me,” I had breathed out, finally letting it sink in: this really was my Max.

It had felt strange—talking to him in person instead of over the phone.

I kept feeling like I was somehow cheating on the guy who still lived in my messenger.

I had caught myself listening closely to his voice, trying to recognize the tone I knew so well. Casually, I had slipped in a few questions—ones only the real Max could’ve answered—just to make sure this wasn’t some elaborate joke.

It was probably paranoia, but my brain hadn’t been able to reconcile the image. Yes, he had looked somewhat like the guy from the photos—but in real life, he was completely different.

A little shorter than I’d imagined; Broader shoulders, smaller nose, wider cheekbones, different haircut.

Charismatic. Quick on his feet. Clean-shaven.

The only thing that had been exactly the same was that wide, easy smile.

I had worried that the magic would vanish the second we were alone, that things would feel awkward between us—like they usually did during first dates.

But it hadn’t happened. On the contrary, it felt like we’d known each other forever.

And as silly as it sounded, if he had invited me over to his place that night—I would’ve said yes. On our very first date. But he hadn’t.

Instead, on the way home, he had bought me a bouquet of flowers and kissed me softly—warm and fragrant, the kind of kiss that lingered. His cologne had driven me crazy, made me want to bury my face in his chest and never leave.

I had hesitated. Had thanked him more times than necessary, stalling, dragging out the goodbye, unable to bring myself to open the car door and step out.

After four months of nonstop talking, that man had felt like home to me.

I had known nearly everything about him—his favorite food and drinks, his fears, his past relationships, the music and books he loved... even a few intimate details he probably hadn’t meant to share.

I had never believed in love at first sight.

But now, looking at him—I just knew.

He was mine.

And I wasn’t letting go.

“What time do you get off work tomorrow?” he asked, snapping me out of my strange trance.

“Six,” I replied, and deep inside, a flicker of hope lit up—this couldn’t be the end. We were definitely going to see each other again.

“Then I’ll get us movie tickets.”

“I’m in,” I said, unable to hide my happy smile. I stared into his eyes for a few seconds without blinking, and then reluctantly stepped out of the car.

And after that, everything happened so fast, I didn’t even realize how half of his stuff ended up in my rented apartment—and mine in his.

How he had introduced me to his parents when they came to visit, and to his best friends, who we ended up traveling with.

He wasn’t stingy—never let me pay for anything.

He loved parties and nightclubs just as much as he loved staying in and watching a show together.

It had all felt so real, so serious—there was no room for doubt. Why else would he do all that?

But something shifted the moment Max found out the exact date of his departure. It was like someone flipped a switch. He grew distant, closed-off, always busy. Suddenly, he barely had time to see me. He picked up his things from my place and dove headfirst into preparing for his new contract.

“Are we okay?” I had asked him once, holding my breath, because the uncertainty was eating me alive.

“Of course we are, Erin.”

“It’s just... you’ve been acting strange lately.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He had pulled me into his arms and kissed me gently. “I just want to buy a place before I leave. I found a few listings but can’t decide.”

“I see,” I said, a little disappointed, still waiting for him to ask if I wanted to help him pick.

And then time flew. I didn’t even realize how I ended up alone again—in the apartment, in the city.

We didn’t even say goodbye in person on the day he left.

No kiss. No hug. No wave.

He hadn’t even told me when his flight was and hadn’t asked me to take him to the airport.

He had just texted: “Already on the plane. I’ll call you when I land.”

Three hours later, the phone rang. That familiar voice again.

And just like that—loneliness. Again.

I had gotten used to Max. To his presence in my life. To our constant calls and messages. So when he suddenly disappeared, it felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me. I couldn’t find peace anywhere.

This time, he had signed with a new company. His ship now sailed across the ocean, with long transfers between ports and almost no signal. It felt like my life had emptied out—and fallen apart.

One night, someone shattered the front window of my flower shop.

The woman I rented my apartment from asked me to move out urgently because her daughter was filing for divorce.

I got into a car accident because I hadn’t been paying attention and totaled my car.

And to top it all off—two red lines on a pregnancy test.

It had all hit me out of nowhere, within the span of a single week, knocking me off balance and making me feel helpless for the first time in my life.

In that moment, all I had wanted was a man’s support; To lean on a strong shoulder and hand over my problems to someone else for just a second. To hear someone say, “It’s going to be okay.”

But Max didn’t even check in to read the message telling him he was going to be a father. I clutched my phone even in my sleep, trembling all over as I waited for his reply.

I had been terrified of his reaction—and finally let out a breath of relief when he suggested I move in with him.

And so, here I was. Surrounded by sterile cleanliness, high ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows. I had collapsed on the bed, still in my clothes, too exhausted to even move.

I ordered food delivery, called the auto repair shop for the fifth time that day—bugging them about my baby, because getting around the city without her had become a nightmare.

Then I sat there, trying to process the fact that I was pregnant.

What would happen to my flower shop? How would I manage on my own with a baby once Max left for work again?

Those questions haunted me throughout my entire pregnancy. I’d had to keep working, solve every problem on my own, attend all my doctor’s appointments by myself—and because of my heart condition, I’d even been hospitalized for a while.

Max had written so rarely that I sometimes cried the whole night through. Then I would wake up early and throw myself back into work.

I tried to fill every second of free time just to keep my mind from spiraling over Max.

“Can I start turning the office into a nursery?”

“Yes. Want me to send money?”

“I’ve got it.”

For some reason, my pride hadn’t let me accept his money. Maybe it was the hurt. Because I had just told him we were having a son—and he had barely reacted.

Day by day, the resentment kept growing.

I’d texted him updates about how I was feeling. Sent him photos of nursery furniture. And in return? Short replies. A handful of phone calls. And even those—I had initiated. Because I had desperately needed to hear his voice. Just to believe that everything was going to be okay.

Vivienne—my neighbor and now a friend—had told me it was normal for men not to know how to express their feelings.

But I had known Max. I knew what he was like.

I’d only started to calm down when I found that app that let you track ships. And I had seen for myself that they really were out in the open ocean for weeks at a time, far from land, far from any cell signal.

That was how the months of my pregnancy had passed.

In agonizing waiting.

In sadness.

In loneliness.

And in constant uncertainty about what the next day might bring.