Sending Bryan a quick, flat smile, I rushed past him.

I rushed out of the training room, down the hall, and up the stairs.

I ran to the women’s locker room and into a bathroom stall, locking the door behind me with shaking fingers as the wave of emotions finally caught up to me.

I sat on the closed toilet lid, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands.

But I didn’t cry.

So many feelings—a potent mixture of self-loathing, desire, regret, sorrow, and shame. I wanted to cry. I tried. But I didn’t. No tears would come.

I was a mess. I never used to be, but I was now. And I didn’t know how to untangle myself.

I wasn’t certain I could.

***

“Eilish, this is your mother.”

Unable to help my grimace, I shook my head tiredly as Patrick and I walked into the hardware store. I shouldn’t have answered the phone. Obviously, I knew it was her, and yet she insisted on announcing herself every single time. I didn’t think my mother would ever get used to mobile phones.

“Hello, mother. We’re—”

“I can’t chat long, I have a nail appointment and lunch with Keira at the club. But it’s important that you know I’ve informed the Donovans you’ll be attending their tea on the seventh. This means you’ll have to make arrangements for that child.”

My smile and heart fell and my blood began to boil. I glanced at Patrick, at his innocent, happy-go-lucky expression, and embraced the resultant fierce wave of protectiveness. How my mother referred to my son as that child had always incensed me. It was why I hardly ever answered her calls or attended the family brunches on Sundays. It was why I avoided her and my siblings.

I was the youngest of five children and officially the black sheep. I’d always been outspoken, but now I was a fallen woman. I was a college dropout. I was whispered about. I was a scandal.

My mother hated scandals. They were terribly inconvenient.

Never mind the fact that I did eventually finish college and, unlike the rest of my brothers and sisters, paid my own way (mostly). Never mind the fact that my mother had cut me out of her life—both financially and personally—when I refused to give Patrick up for adoption.

Never mind that.

“Mother—”

“Trevor will be there. Keira said he asked if you’d be attending.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please let that go. I am not interested in Trevor.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“And next week, what? Will you be back together again?”

“No, Mother. We dated over the summers when we were teenagers, when we were kids.”

She sighed. “Honestly, Eilish, I don’t understand you. Trevor Donovan comes from a respectable family and is respectable. After what you’ve done, you should be thankful he considers you at all.”

I exhaled silently and reminded myself there was no changing my mother. Best-case scenario, she saw me as damaged goods. Worst case, she saw me as one of those whores down by the docks in Les Misérables, just with better teeth.

Taking my silence in stride, she chirped, “I’ll send the car for you at one.”

“That won’t be necessary. As I told you in my message, I won’t be going.”

She huffed. Loudly. Directly into the receiver. “Eilish. Don’t be petulant.”

“I have to go.” I squeezed Patrick’s hand and gave him a small smile, which he returned before his eyes moved over the long rows of tools and machinery.

The hardware store was his favorite place. For Christmas last year, I bought him a kid-sized apron and tool belt to match the store’s employees. He’d been so excited, one might have thought I’d bought him a life-sized Batmobile, and he refused to take them off at bedtime for over a week.

“Is this because of that child? Do you need a sitter? Because I’m sure Circe will lend you her nanny and—”

“I have to go. Goodbye, Mother.” I ended the call, my temper rising as it always did when my mother spoke of people as though they could be lent and borrowed.

Tucking the phone away, I widened my smile at my son’s expression. “We need wood cut for the shelves. Do you want to do that first or do you want to look at the lawn mowers?”

Patrick pointed a beaming grin at me and nodded. “Can we ride one?”

“No. But the man said last time that you can sit on it and pretend.”

“Okay.” He nodded enthusiastically and tugged me toward the ride-on lawn mowers; he had the layout of the store memorized.

I followed where he led, glancing with particular interest down the aisle that held closet-storage solutions. I tried not to think about Bryan’s closet. I tried, but I couldn’t stop myself. He likely had a large one, maybe even a walk-in. With lots of space for shoe organizers and scarf hangers.

Fantasizing about his fictional sock drawer, I was unceremoniously yanked out of the daydream by the very real sound of Bryan Leech’s voice.

“I brought one from a different drawer so I could find a match. I think it’s three quarters.” Bryan’s words carried to me as a shock of adrenaline brought me to a standstill. My grip on Patrick’s hand tightened and I pulled him close, picking him up.

“Mummy, what’s wrong?”

“Shhh.” I pressed his head into my neck, fear and instinct dictating I hide his face. “Don’t move; don’t make a sound.”

In my bones I knew if Bryan saw Patrick, he would know. He would know instantly that Patrick was his.