I had to get out of there.

I had to leave before Bryan discovered me. Discovered us.

My throat suddenly dry, I turned my head in every direction, trying to find him.

Then he spoke again, closer this time. “That’s it. That’s the screw I’m looking for. Might as well pick up a few extra.”

I darted in the opposite direction, which thankfully happened to be toward the exit, and ran as fast as I was able out of the building. Patrick’s little hands gripping handfuls of my cardigan brought me back to myself. He was still and silent. Once I rounded the corner, I leaned away to inspect his face and found his eyes wide and frightened.

My heart clenched, twisting painfully at the sight.

“Are we safe, Mummy?” he whispered.

I nodded, releasing a shaky breath before drawing him close and hugging him tightly. “We’re safe.”

For now . . .

I held my breath, willing my racing pulse to slow, even as the sound of it filled my ears. But my cousin’s words from the day before came to me, a chant matching the cadence of my heart. Patrick deserves to know his father, and Bryan deserves to know his son.

What was I going to do? Hide Patrick from everyone? Never bring any pictures to work? Make up excuses about why I never brought him around? Pretend he didn’t exist?

It was already too late for that. Some of the lads on the team already knew. Bryan knew. Soon everyone would know.

I’d lived the last five years in a constant state of anxiety and fear: first, fear of having a baby, then fear of failure, and now fear of having my child taken away.

Always fear. Always guilt.

Sean was right. I knew he was right. Separate from my own messy feelings, from my worries and longings, was my little boy. And my boy deserves to know his father. And Bryan deserves to know his son.

I winced and then nodded, because it was true. The Bryan I knew now would be an excellent father. I couldn’t keep making excuses.

Even if the thought of telling Bryan—of admitting the truth—made my blood run cold with dread, I had to do it. I couldn’t hide Patrick. He deserved better than a mother ruled by fear.

Bryan hadn’t remembered me. He didn’t remember our night together. He didn’t remember making Patrick. He hadn’t even remembered my name. I had been nothing to him. And maybe he would hate me for keeping Patrick from him. But it wasn’t about me.

It was about Patrick.

I needed to tell Bryan the truth.

For Patrick.

Chapter Ten

THEBryanLeech: Sometimes life punches you right in the face. And sometimes you end up liking it.

WillthebrickhouseMoore to THEBryanLeech: So that’s what you’re into. Interesting.

*Bryan*

“I got a new plant, and it’s been alive for a month.”

“Oh really? What kind?” Sarah asked. She sounded interested.

“A spider plant. The lady at the florist said it was the easiest to keep alive,” I told my sponsor as I finished toweling dry my hair—over the phone, of course. She might not be interested in seeing a bunch of men walk around in the nip, but a woman hanging out in the team’s locker rooms wouldn’t go unnoticed.

She chuckled at this. “I think that might be cheating, but okay.”

“Hey, it’s better than nothing,” I defended.

“So, why the change of heart?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you were done with the whole luurve side of life.”

“I am . . . sort of.”

“Then why have you taken a new plant under your wing?”

“I like the challenge.”

“Mm-hmm. I think you might be making unintentional plans in that head of yours. What was her name again? Eilish?”

“I’m not making any unintentional plans about . . .” I trailed off, glancing around the room just in case Sean was somewhere listening. “Her.”

“I think you are. I think you want to open doors for her, buy her flowers, take her out for romantic candlelit dinners, and prove that you can be responsible with a person by being responsible with a green leafy friend,” she teased, a smile in her voice.

I grunted, but didn’t deny her accusation because I did want to take Eilish out. I’d been preparing to do just that when she told me she had a son. But in the end, I didn’t ask her. It wasn’t the fact that she had a son that concerned me, not at all. In fact, my imagination rather ran away with plans after she’d said it, liking the idea of a two-for-one deal.

Maybe he likes rugby.

Of course he likes rugby.

I should get him a jersey.

But then the other part of her statement sunk in: You remind me of my son’s father.

Jesus Christ. How was I supposed to get out of that box?

“I’ve always hated dating,” I said instead. “In fact, if I could bypass all that might I bestow upon you a kiss business, I would. Why can’t we all just skip to the comfortable part of relationships? Go straight to the bit where you can walk around in your undies, let farts go and blame them on the dog, and leave the door open when you’re taking a piss?”

“First of all, there is no part of a relationship that should involve that last bit, and second of all, dating is the best part. All those butterflies and excitement, the sexual tension. Wanting to skip to the comfortable bit is laziness. It means you don’t have to put in any effort to woo someone. Also, if memory serves, you’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than six months.”