Trust him! He loves you. He would never do that. He would never take Patrick from me. He would never—

But then our gazes locked and he stiffened. The lines around his mouth and between his eyebrows creased with unhappiness and resolve.

And I knew.

Of course you love him. You only love people who hurt you.

Unbidden tears filled my eyes, tears I couldn’t manage or control though I made no sound. They ran down my face, rolling—fat and sloppy—to my neck. Through the blur I witnessed Bryan’s gaze shutter. His chin came up.

Ronan glanced between us, his forehead wrinkling with confusion. “Would someone tell me what the feck is going on?”

“Why? Why are you doing this?” The question was a ragged croak, my throat was dry, my tongue felt useless.

Bryan swallowed, his eyes moving to the other people in the room as though to remind me we weren’t alone, but he said nothing.

A burst of hysterical laughter slipped past my lips and I shook my head, wiping my nose with the back of my hand as I stood and squared my shoulders. Maybe if I didn’t love him I would’ve been able to calm down, think clearly. But the word betrayal echoed between my ears with every beat of my heart, driving me mad.

Focusing on my rage as a mother, the insanity that is borne from the desperation for my child, finally gave me back my voice.

“You’re not taking him away from me.”

“I don’t want to take him from you,” Bryan countered immediately. His eyes again moved meaningfully to the crowd surrounding us, his tone and expression losing some of its aloofness.

“Then what do you want?” I asked desperately, wanting to trust his frigid assurance, but knowing I couldn’t. My madness told me I could never trust another word out of his mouth ever again.

“Just the test.”

“Fine,” I readily agreed, even though wretched pain sliced straight through my heart.

He didn’t trust me. Why else would he want the test? He thought I was lying, that I’d lied to him, that Patrick wasn’t his. He doesn’t love me.

I swallowed with difficulty and forced myself to ask, “And when the results come back, what then?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he answered evenly, his eyes never wavering from my face.

I stared at him, my mind racing and panic re-emerging. “You’re not taking him,” I blurted, repeating the words before I could stop myself. “You will never take him from me. He is my son, do you hear me?”

Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe it was really there, but I thought I saw a flicker of emotion pass behind his eyes. Something resembling regret. Or guilt. Or desire. Or respect.

I didn’t know. I couldn’t read him. I could barely see.

“Let’s . . . let’s talk about this somewhere else.” Bryan took a step toward me, reaching out.

I twisted away, moving quickly out of his reach. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”

He stopped, his hand dropping to his side as a frown claimed his handsome features. “Eilish . . .”

Tangentially, I heard the door to the locker room open and close. I listened to the quick fall of footsteps, and I sensed someone stand next to me. And I knew that someone was Sean. He didn’t touch me, just stood there, at my left and close by, backing me up, showing his support.

I felt stronger just having him there. Knowing I wouldn’t have to do this alone made me stronger. I would accept Sean’s help. Damn my pride, I would accept his money if it meant keeping my son. I would do anything.

Clearing my throat and hastily wiping the tracks left by my tears, I straightened my spine and shot daggers at Bryan Leech, the man I loved, the man who had betrayed me.

But I wouldn’t think about that now.

“If you want to talk to me,” I said slowly, quietly, carefully, because I could barely control the fury singing through my veins, “you can talk to my solicitor.”

***

Bryan: Talk to me.

Bryan: Pick up your phone.

Bryan: You are jumping to the worst possible conclusions and you need to give me a chance to explain what this is all about.

Bryan: Stop being so goddamn stubborn.

I blocked his number after the fourth text and left work early, then packed some of Patrick’s and my things so we could stay with Sean for the week.

Patrick took the DNA test on Wednesday, and I took the entire day off. The witness Bryan had selected was a woman named Sarah. I wondered who she was to Bryan, but I didn’t ask. I couldn’t look at her without wanting to scream, so I imagined speaking to her might endanger her life.

Afterward, I took Patrick for ice cream and tried to pretend everything was normal. He let me pretend, though I could tell he knew something was up when he offered me the last few bites of his ice cream. And then Patrick had asked about Bryan, breaking my heart into smaller pieces.

God, I’d been so stupid.

Word spread quickly around the office and the team. By the time I returned on Thursday, everyone knew. I couldn’t muster enough energy to care. Their stares and whispers didn’t bother me. Gossip is trivial compared to a broken heart.

I didn’t cry again.

Not when I lay in the dark Tuesday night, staring at the ceiling in the hotel Sean had let for us temporarily, wondering where I went wrong.

Not when I walked into work on Thursday and was informed by Coach Brian that they’d decided to move me to a research position for the time being. I would provide literature support to Connors for the next month, take over all charting, and the older physiotherapist would handle all therapy sessions.