I stir the baked beans a final time before turning off the burner. Garret steps behind me, and I try to smile while considering a dozen things to ask him. I have countless safe surface topics for discussion in my dating arsenal, but as his hand goes to my waist, my thoughts stop.

My heart stops.

My lungs stop.

And yet, the world seems to spin faster. I step away from Garret’s side, bringing the pan over to where I’ve already set a bowl out to pour the contents of the pan into. I’m not sure if I’m moving away from him so quickly because I don’t want him touching me or because I’m afraid of Coen’s reaction—or both.

Undeterred, Garret follows me, and though he doesn’t touch me again, he stands too close.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

“I’m good, thanks. I’m just going to get a plate for Hayden, and then we can start eating.”

“He isn’t going to join us?” Garret asks.

I look over his shoulder at Coen who’s watching us as he talks to Rachel about something. I’ve never liked jealous guys. It’s never been a trait I’ve wanted when considering my perfect match, and though I like the way Coen’s focus moves when Garret’s hands do, the fact that he remains so calm and easy going becomes just another reason on the mile-long list of reasons I like him.

I turn my gaze to Garret and don’t bother trying to force a smile or even appear patient. “Like I said, he’s tired tonight.”

“Garret, you want to help us?” Rachel calls. “Can you grab the lighter for these candles? It’s in the top right hand drawer next to the dishwasher.”

“Candles?” The word is a thought that somehow skips all my filters, and I phrase it as a question with more attitude than it had in my head.

Rachel looks up, her hands frozen midair with two large orange votive candles. “We don’t have to.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. I just … I’m just tired too. Candles are great.”

“I just thought it could help make things a bit more festive, and help with the smell of all these onions.” Rachel laughs nervously. I’ve embarrassed her, and in doing so, hurt her feelings.

“Sure.” I reach for the lighter and hand it to Garret, my thoughts of the candles forgotten as I ramble about what a great idea they are.

I fill a plate for Hayden, and unlike last time when my mind was focused only on Hayden’s safety, I consider what will transpire while I’m upstairs. Will Garret say something to heighten the unease? Will Rachel make a move on Coen?

This past week has been exhausting. I’ve been trying to maintain this façade at work that nothing is wrong because I’ve already received dozens of comments over the past years when Hayden has gotten sick or something like baseball or a school play has had me leaving early. Regardless of all the additional hours, long nights, and weekends that deepen my guilt for not giving Hayden my undivided attention, those extra hours are forgotten the moment I leave an hour early, even if I put in two additional hours in the morning. I know that not going in all week has everyone assuming I’m doing absolutely nothing, and Hayden has been upset because I keep missing all the punch lines in the movies, and have to be reminded it’s my turn while we play board games. This barbecue was supposed to be an end of one of the biggest causes of stress in my life, which is telling my best friend the truth. Admitting to her that I like Coen as more than a friend and trying not to break her heart in the process.

“Hey, Mom.” Hayden presses pause and smiles.

Guilt and fear release my heart with that one look from the person who means the most to me in this world.

“Hungry?” I ask.

His smile fades. He’s broaching that age where his trust isn’t so easily repaired, and now that it’s been so severely damaged, he seems skeptical of even me. All week it’s been adding to my rage with Patrick.

I set the plate on the nightstand closest to him and sit beside my son. “Hayden, I swear, you’re safe. I will never, ever, ever give you anything made with peanuts or that has been exposed to peanuts or anything else that could hurt you. I promise.”

His eyes well up and he looks to the ceiling, because he’s also at the age where he no longer thinks it’s acceptable to cry—even in front of his mom. “I don’t want to go to Dad’s this weekend.”

I hate admitting how relieved I am to hear that. I don’t want him to go either. “How come?”

“Dad’s never there.”

My gut twists.

“Lindsay is always busy.”

My stomach rolls.

“And I don’t want to die.”

My heart aches.

With my eyes burning with unshed tears, I wrap my arms around Hayden and feel the dampness on his cheeks against my neck.

I want to promise him that I can protect him. That I will protect him. Hayden’s safety and happiness have always been the epicenter of my anxiety, and when I can’t make these promises because he isn’t in my care, it creates a crushing feeling on my entire body.

“I’ll call your dad and cancel, and we’ll figure things out, okay?”

Hayden grips my neck tighter, not ready for me to let go, and I hold him just as tightly.

When I make my way back downstairs, the three are standing in the kitchen with Rachel being the perfect Southern host she always is, keeping conversation light, easy, and continuous with the assistance of margaritas and lots of laughter—mostly on her part.

“We thought you decided to eat upstairs,” Garret says. “Is everything okay?”

I want to scream that it’s not. That nothing is okay right now, from feeling obligated to work additional hours for my job with no appreciation or credit. To the threat of Patrick potentially damaging Coen’s career and needing to tell him that our son doesn’t feel safe in his care. To telling my best friend that I have been sleeping with the guy she likes. And the most not-okay part of this week is that my son literally died this week, and all I want to do is cry and hold him and shove the rest of the world outside my front door and lock it.

But I take a deep breath, push my shoulders back, and smile. “It smells so good down here. We should eat!”

My kitchen table that is too often used as an additional workspace for me has been transformed into a picture from a magazine with a tablecloth, centerpiece, and candles surrounded by bowls overfilled with food. It’s nothing like what I had imagined when I suggested we do the barbecue at my house where I would pick up some tater tots and spicy curly fries, a jug of potato salad and a watermelon, and watch Hayden play outside in the sprinkler with Shakespeare while Coen grills.

I realize, as the thought percolates through my mind again that I was never including Rachel in that idea. I hadn’t considered what she would be doing or feeling, because if I had, I wouldn’t be so shocked to see what’s transpired tonight.

Coen stands behind me, his chest grazing my back. I want to lean against him so badly. Tell him about Hayden’s concerns and discuss how I’m going to approach things with Patrick, but Rachel walks to one of the six empty chairs at the table and looks to Coen. “Why don’t you sit here, Coen?”

There are two additional settings across from where Rachel and Coen are now seated, and when Garret takes the one across from Coen, I feel as though I’m a million miles from him.

Dishes are passed around along with polite conversation that I work to steer.

I don’t taste my food, or pay enough attention to what we’re talking about though I’m contributing. Garret keeps placing his hand on my thigh, and on my hand, and on my back, and by the time I’m done eating, my patience is shot.

“Can we talk for a minute?” I look to Garret.

“We haven’t had dessert yet,” Rachel interjects.

I look to her, upset because I’ve finally built up the gumption to take him outside and apologize for the confusion and try to break things off amicably, and she knows me well enough to know that’s my intention. I know she saw me scooting my chair over each time I pretended to need to move so I could get a little more of something.

“Why don’t we give them a moment? We can clear these dishes up,” Coen says.

“I made a sheet cake,” Rachel insists.

Cocking my head to the side, I glare at her, but she refuses to acknowledge me. Poor Garret, however, does, and I know by the way he keeps his hands at his sides as he walks toward me that he knows what’s coming just like my best friend does.

We stand in my foyer facing each other. Garret’s smile is polite and shy. “I understand you aren’t ready yet. Rachel explained to me about your ex and how messy that situation was, and I get it. I don’t want you to rush into anything you aren’t ready for.”

Offense compounds with frustration and I shake my head. “He has nothing to do with this, with us,” I explain. “I met someone and I should have reached out to you and let you know, but things have just been really busy, and it was kind of unexpected. You seem like a really nice guy, and I’m so sorry to have given you the wrong impression. I truly hope you find the right person and until then keep enjoying those little guys you have back at home.”

He smiles graciously though defeat pulls the edges of his lips into a frown. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

“I really hope you find your happiness, Garret.”

As the door closes behind him, my nerves duplicate because telling Rachel this same news is going to be a thousand times harder.

“What went wrong?” she cries as I enter the kitchen. “He was so nice. You were laughing. He looks normal. Why did you break up with him?”

Coen stills from where he’s dropping biscuits into a bag. He doesn’t look at me and question if I want his support, already volunteering it by becoming attentive and quiet.

“Coen, do you mind checking on Hayden?” I ask.

He glances at me, his brown eyes warm with support and understanding as he nods.

Rachel watches him leave before turning to me. “You still haven’t forgiven me, have you?”

“Rachel, I’m not mad at you,” I say, shaking my head.

“I didn’t say you were mad. I said you haven’t forgiven me.”

“For what?”

“For letting Hayden eat that stupid granola bar!”

“This has nothing to do with the granola bar,” I say. “It has to do with Garret.”

“You’re upset that I invited him over?”

“Yes! I’m upset you’re pushing him on me when I’ve been trying to tell you that I don’t like him like that.” I take a deep breath, trying to steel myself and reach forward to touch her hand. “I don’t like him because I like Coen.”

“What?” She pulls her hand away from me, her eyes growing wide with betrayal.

“I’ve been trying to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you.”

“You’ve liked him all along, haven’t you?”

“I was trying to ignore it because I knew you liked him, and then when I realized I had feelings for him I tried to stop.”

“You tried to stop? Really? How, Ella? By having him come over every single day and talking to him on the phone all the time? No wonder you stopped doing the online dating!”

“I stopped doing the online dating because I hated it! You of all people know that!”

“That’s because you always went into it expecting to hate it! If you had actually been doing it for any other purpose other than getting over Patrick, you would have found all kinds of great people. But instead, no one was ever good enough.”

“I went on a date with a man and his mother! I ate a kid’s meal at McDonald’s with another. I got bit by fleas! Had to hold a man who was crying about his ex-wife! I deserve more than that!”

“Of course you do! I’ve been preaching that to you for years! And what do you do? You take the first guy that I’ve been interested in since my divorce. The guy you’ve known all along that I care about.” She stares at me with wide, tear-brimmed eyes, and I don’t know which hurts more—the fact that I’ve hurt her or the clear accusation.

“I didn’t mean to fall for him,” I admit quietly. “I never want to hurt you, Rachel, never. It just happened.”

“So make it un-happen.”

“I can’t. I can’t tell my heart to stop. If I could, I would never have moved to this town in the first place. Don’t you understand? I moved here on the premise of love, and now I know how wrong I was, how what I had felt at that time was the need to be loved and infatuation and hurt. That wasn’t love. Patrick created a self-doubt in me that made me work so hard to be perfect so I could be seen as good enough for a town of strangers who have never once been willing to listen to my side, see my points, understand my reasonings.”

“Why does that mean you have to be with Coen? You can’t love him just because he saved Hayden.”

“I don’t love him because he saved Hayden. I love him because he saved me. Because he makes me acknowledge my feelings rather than feel ashamed of them. And he makes me feel calm and safe—two things I haven’t felt since I was seventeen.” Tears speed up, racing the last ones down my cheeks.

She looks at me with arched brows. “You love him?”

I sniffle and nod, feeling a well of emotions about to break. “I do.”

Rachel purses her lips, and her red eyes well with tears. I want to hug her. Hold her because I know she’s hurting, and being the reason for her sadness makes my chest physically ache. I stand up, and she shakes her head, backing up.

“I can’t forgive you,” she says. “You lied to me. You’ve been lying to me for months.” She shakes her head again. “I don’t want to ever speak to you again.” She slams the front door behind her, and I lie on the couch, too tired to cry, and too numb to think.

A few moments later, Coen appears beside me and gently rubs my back as I stare off at nothing.

“I have to call Patrick,” I tell him. “Hayden doesn’t want to go over there this weekend. He says he never wants to go back over there.”

“Is that possible?”

I sigh so deeply my stomach goes nearly concave. “I don’t know. But I do know Patrick’s not going to take this well.”

“Why don’t we wait and do it in the morning?”

“I’d rather go through the entire firing squad at once,” I tell him.

“What did Rachel say?”

“I’m surprised you couldn’t hear her.”

“I closed the door and turned up the movie so Hayden wouldn’t hear anything.”

“Thanks.” My tone is emotionless. The tears I cried while trying to speak to Rachel have already run dry, and I don’t know why or even how because my entire body feels the weakness and vulnerability that comes with crying.

Sitting up, I reach for my phone and scroll down to Patrick’s name. My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for him to answer, and I think back to when this fast rhythm was due to excitement and lust rather than dread and fear. It now seems so ironic that such opposite emotions can lead to the same effect.

“Hey,” he answers on the second ring. We never talk on the phone. Ever. Not since I found out about Lindsay. All of our communications are handled via text or email which I have preferred because it allows me to weigh out and consider my responses, but with this I feel it’s necessary to speak to him and let him know how serious this situation is. “Ella?” he asks when I don’t answer right away.

“We need to talk about Hayden.” I need to make this clear up front.

“I’m on my way home from visiting a friend. Why don’t I stop by?” His voice is calm and assuring, filled with that attentiveness I used to yearn for—like he knows I’m stressed and need to be comforted.

“Why don’t we meet somewhere instead?”

Coen straightens beside me.

“I’m like five minutes away from your house. That would be silly.”

“Patrick…”

“He’s there. Isn’t he?”

“We need to talk about Hayden,” I say again.

“I’ll be there in four minutes.”

I hang up and turn to Coen. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to ask you.”

His jaw pulses, but he doesn’t provide me with advice, and I’m not surprised. I’ve put him in an awkward position. He hates Patrick for far more reasons than putting his job in a precarious position. I can’t imagine being in his shoes, dealing with him confessing to once loving a person and fearing being incapable of loving again.

“Will you stay? Please?”

“I was hoping you’d want me to. Otherwise, I was going to have to sit in your neighbor’s yard, waiting to make sure nothing happened.”

I grin at the thought. “He won’t do anything. As you’ve learned, Patrick is all talk. But … if he says anything tonight, don’t react. I honestly think that’s what he’ll be looking for.” I stand from the couch. “I’m going to meet him in the driveway so he doesn’t try to come inside. I don’t want Hayden having to deal with him.”

“I’d rather stay downstairs just in case things get heated.”

“He won’t touch me,” I assure him. “And since he knows you’re here, he’s going to likely say something rude and offensive, and I don’t want you to have to hear that.”

Coen brushes my cheek with his thumb. “Wait until you meet my brother. You’ll learn I have really thick skin.”

“But how thick is it when it comes to Hayden or me?”

He breathes in deeply, and I can see thoughts registering. “Not very,” he admits.

“There’s nothing to hide, so if it’ll make you feel better, you can listen—but I promise everything will be fine.”

I hear the rumble of Patrick’s sports car and lean up to kiss Coen. Not to comfort him, but to give me strength.

I’m barely out the front door and Patrick is already on my front porch, his intention to come inside clear.

Patrick’s eyes flash to the closed door and then to me. “Is this really how things are going to go between us now?”

“I don’t understand how this is any different than before?”

“We’re standing on your front porch, Ella.” Patrick swats at a moth circling around him.

“And I’m pretty sure if you think calmly and rationally about it, you’ll know why.”

“Ella, we’ve known each other for ten years!”

I pull my chin back, and my eyebrows furrow. “I thought I knew who you were. I really did. And then I realized I’ve never known who you are. I have a child with you. A child I trusted in your care, and I don’t know you at all.”

“He’s filling your head with lies. This … we never had an issue until he came along.”

I shake my head, and tears burn at the inner corners of my eyes. “No, it was watching a man stare at a girl that made me realize it. You never loved me, and I never loved you. We were each other’s dirty secrets! Our entire relationship was built upon lie after lie after lie. That’s not love. That’s not even friendship—that’s just pure and simple greed.”

“I’ve always loved you.” Patrick’s eyes are wide and bright with an intensity I recall seeing many years ago. “I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you.”

A sick and perverse side of me wants to hear these words I’ve longed for him to say so many times for so many years. Make him give me an actual explanation beyond telling me that it’s complicated. I already know it’s complicated. Life is complicated. Relationships are complicated. Everything is complicated, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept it. Not anymore.

“You loved that I was easy to manipulate and control. You loved that I was impressionable and naïve. I don’t even doubt that you loved spending time with me because I made you feel like a bigger man.” I shrug, not embarrassed to admit that it was my insecurities that allowed his illusions. “But you have no idea who I am, to love me, Patrick. Because knowing my favorite candy at the movies, or my favorite drink, or color, those things don’t define me. They aren’t what make up my soul. They’re a mirage of inconsequential details because you never took the time to see the full picture, to know what makes me laugh so hard my cheeks burn, or what causes me to wake up at night, or what I hate hearing but need to. You know none of that.”

“You pushed me away.” His temper makes his voice grow deeper.

“You were married!” I cry. “What did you expect me to do? I moved here with a baby. Your baby. And I learned you had already created your own life, complete with a wife and a white picket fence.”

“Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way.”

I laugh humorlessly. “What part?”

“We were happy.”

“We were a lie.”

“We weren’t a lie. What we had was honest and simple and true.”

“Patrick. You. Were. Married. I was your affair. Nothing about our relationship was honest or simple or true.”

“There were no expectations. No complications. What we had was what I imagine great loves are all about. What Shakespeare wrote about!”

I glare at him, hating that he’s thrown Shakespeare into this mess, though I shouldn’t be surprised. His words make it sound like Coen is merely a safe and dependable guy and that’s the only reason I’ve fallen for him, and I know that’s wrong and ridiculous because nothing about our love has been easy, yet it’s all been real to the point he’s seen my ugliest sides, ones Patrick doesn’t even know exist—and Coen still wants more. He’s still here.

“Our relationship wasn’t built for longevity, Patrick. And it never will be. I don’t know why we’re discussing this now. We need to talk about Hayden, because he doesn’t feel safe anymore at your house.”

“Oh, come on, Ella! He’s playing you.”

I don’t know if he’s referring to Hayden or Coen so I stare at him blankly.

“Hayden knows exactly how to get whatever he wants from you. He’s manipulating you, and you can’t even see it.”

“He died last weekend, Patrick. I’m pretty sure that’s a valid reason to spark concern.”

“He’ll be safe,” Patrick argues. “Come on. You know me. You know how much I love him.”

“How was it possible that your wife didn’t even know how to use the EpiPen? We’ve discussed this a thousand times, and you’ve always assured me she did. You lied to me, Patrick. Again. And once again, our son is who paid the price.”

“Don’t give me this guilt bullshit. A few weeks ago it happened under your care, and that’s why this reaction was so severe. You were letting Rachel babysit our son while you went out on a date with some guy, and you want to stand there and point fingers at me. Well guess what, Ella? I’m not the only one who fucked up!”

“Rachel isn’t his stepmom, and at least she knew to get help right away!”

“Oh, that’s right, from your boyfriend.”

I ignore this dig as well. “Hayden knew to ask if there were peanuts in the cake or if it had been made around any peanuts. He did his responsibility, and it was your wife who gave him a piece. It was your wife who didn’t know where a single EpiPen was, and it was your wife who waited five minutes to call nine-one-one. Don’t you dare try to compare what happened with Rachel to what happened with Lindsay.”

“I don’t care if you think this guy is Superman, I don’t want him around Hayden.”

“Can we finish one goddamn point before you go chasing your tail in the opposite direction?”

“I don’t want that guy around my son.”

“Well that’s too bad.” I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin.

Patrick takes a step closer to me. “I’m not going to sit by and allow some other man to raise my son!” His eyes flash to me, burning me with accusation and contempt. “I’m his father, and he’s lived with you for nine years; I think it’s my turn now.”

Blood is draining from my limbs, leaving me chilled and weak, unable to respond to him or even function as I hear his words run through my head again and again. “You’re. Not. Touching. Him.” My voice is icy as I enunciate each syllable.

He gives a cocky shrug. “What are you going to do about it? Did you really think I was just going to come over here and let you tell me that you’re sleeping with some guy, and that I’d be okay with it?” His lips remain parted, his eyebrows heavily furrowed.

I stare at him so hard my eyes become slits. “That’s what this is all about? Me sleeping with someone else? Me getting over you?”

“He’s some big city asshole who doesn’t even belong here. I’ll be damned if he…”

“If he what?”

Patrick nails me with another glare. “Keep him away from my son. If I hear anything about him being around Hayden, I’ll take you to court and you’ll never see him again.”

Patrick turns and climbs into the driver’s seat of his sports car, the one I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sit beside him in, and now see it for what it truly is, what it has always been: another thing he has acquired because it’s fun. Just like I was, just like he uses Hayden.

And all at once, my tears arrive.