A Tiny Hand Around My Lie

Max’s room was lit by a moon-shaped nightlight that washed the walls in pale yellow.

I lay on my side on top of the blanket, still wearing the thin slip dress I had changed into after my shower. The ivory gown was already hanging on the closet door, zipped inside a garment bag, as if tonight had only been another event that needed to be sent to the dry cleaner.

Max slept facing me.

Somehow, he had managed to take up almost the entire bed even though his body was only as long as a few pillows. One leg had escaped the blanket. His dinosaur pajamas had ridden up a little over his round stomach. His black bangs stuck to his forehead, too long again. I had already told him I was taking him for a haircut on Saturday.

He refused because, according to him, long hair made him look like “a rock star with fast cars.”

I touched the ends of his bangs and brushed them away from his eyes.

Max made a small sound without waking, then shifted his face closer to my hand.

I stroked his cheek with the back of my finger.

Chubby. Warm. There was a tiny scratch near his chin from the scooter incident two days ago, which Max claimed had happened because “the sidewalk was evil.”

“We’re going to be okay,” I whispered.

Max didn’t answer.

The bottle of B-complex vitamins and the low-dose sedative my doctor had prescribed still sat on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water. I had taken them after getting home, changing clothes, and slipping into this room without turning on the main light.

Gabriella had stood in the doorway for a moment and asked if the dinner had been bad.

I told her the wood paneling had been installed wrong.

She looked at me long enough to let me know she knew I was lying, then chose not to ask. One of the reasons I paid her well.

I stroked Max’s cheek again.

Rafael didn’t know.

And he wouldn’t know just because we were now in the same city.

Los Angeles was big. Very big. People could live here for years without ever seeing their own neighbors, let alone the secret child of their ex-husband.

Not secret child.

My child.

Max was mine.

I pulled the blanket over his leg.

Rafael had his own life. Noelle. His business. Perfect suits. That cold face that had shown absolutely nothing when he shook my hand tonight.

He didn’t love me anymore.

Good.

That made everything easier.

A man who still loved his ex-wife would not stand beside another woman with steady hands and say, It’s a pleasure to meet the famous architect of Los Angeles, as if we had just been introduced at a real estate conference.

Rafael had moved on.

So had I.

Moved on was a very useful phrase. It didn’t have to be true to help a person sleep.

I looked at Max’s face.

In the dim light, the resemblance felt harsher. The shape of his eyebrows. The small nose that would probably become straight and sharp like Rafael’s someday. The line of his mouth when he slept.

At least his cheeks were mine.

I hoped, anyway.

Otherwise, I had gone through three trimesters just to produce a tiny photocopy of the man who ruined my life. Biologically unfair.

I held back a smile, then touched the tip of Max’s nose.

He scrunched his face and turned his head away.

“You even sleep with attitude,” I whispered.

His hand moved out from beneath the blanket and landed on my wrist.

Small fingers. Warm. There was a streak of green ink on his index fingernail.

Of course.

Gabriella had said no drawing.

Gabriella had apparently lost.

Tomorrow, I would deal with it. Tomorrow, I would also open the Malibu project revisions, answer the engineer’s emails, and pretend my biggest client was not dating my child’s father.

That sentence sounded worse when arranged in full.

Why did it have to be Noelle?

Of all the women in California, why did the one who had walked into my conference room in a cream blazer with questions about the guesthouse have to be Rafael Moretti’s girlfriend?

Of all the architecture firms in Los Angeles, why did the Jamesson family have to choose Aster House?

Coincidence was supposed to feel random.

This felt like someone arranging furniture in a dark room and then waiting for me to walk in and hit every piece.

No.

I was not doing this tonight.

No conspiracy. No fate. No bored hand of the universe deciding to wreck my life for entertainment.

Just a business contract.

Just Noelle.

Just Rafael.

Three things that happened to be standing in the same place.

I closed my eyes.

The medication was starting to work. My thoughts were still there, but their edges were no longer as sharp as before. The sound of the air conditioner hummed softly from the vent. Max breathed slowly in front of me. His hand stayed on my wrist as if making sure I did not go anywhere.

I shifted closer and kissed his cheek.

“We’re going to be okay,” I said again.

Rafael could be Noelle’s boyfriend. He could show up at dinners, meetings, site visits, or every room connected to the Malibu project.

I would not run from the firm I had built because a man who had not come after me five years ago had finally appeared in someone else’s doorway.

He did not love me.

He did not know about Max.

And I would make sure both of those things stayed unchanged.

I closed my eyes with Max’s hand still wrapped around my wrist.

A few minutes later, for the first time since seeing Rafael standing in that doorway, I stopped thinking about what would happen if he ever looked at my son just once.