Adriane Leigh - Light in Mourning

We were also starting to talk about wedding plans. I was on her ass to set a date. I wasn’t willing to let her slip through my fingers or give her a chance to wise up and dump my ass. I knew I had it good; I knew with my past, she could easily choose to be wary. She was old hat at relationships but I was a newbie. The old me would have been scared. The notions of a family and wife were new to me—something I hadn't given much thought to before—but now it was here, I wasn’t worried in the slightest.

I was pushing for a fall wedding, but Georgia rolled her eyes every time I tried to convince her. She wanted something well-thought-out and planned. She argued she’d moved in with me on impulse and said yes on impulse, but she was not willing to get married on impulse. After weeks of working on her, I finally got her nailed down for spring. She wanted a small wedding on the beach, right here at our home, just our closest friends and family. It sounded perfect.

We were having this very discussion on a warm day at the beginning of July when a loud knock sounded at the door. Georgia lifted her eyebrows in surprise and then slid back through the French doors. She called my name a few minutes later, so I tracked in after her. I stepped up behind her, sliding my palm up her neck and giving her a soft massage before my eyes turned to the guest standing at the doorway.

“What’s up?” I asked my beautiful fiancée, who was looking up at me with a confused expression.

“Tristan?” The woman in the doorway murmured my name. I glanced at her, searching her face. I was sure I didn’t know her. “It’s okay, baby.” She pulled a little boy, not more than three or four, from behind her. A mass of tousled blond hair and light green eyes stared back at me. “This is your daddy, honey.”

My heart roared in my ears. It beat so fucking fast I swore it would fly out of my chest. I met the woman’s eyes, unable to speak, searching for answers. I didn’t fucking know her. At least I didn’t think I knew her. But that kid—that kid could have been me at four. His hair, his eyes, I didn't want to believe it, but the resemblance couldn't be denied.

“I’ll let you guys talk.” Georgia pulled away from me.

“No. Don’t leave.” I pulled her closer to me, searching her eyes, begging her not to walk away. I swallowed the huge lump that had formed in my throat. I felt Georgia shuffle beside me. Shit, I’d forgotten how she must be feeling. She must have been able to see how much he looked like me. Would she run? Would this be the last straw? This summer had been so perfect, everything about it—from our engagement on—and was it all about to shatter at my feet?

The sad thing was I couldn’t blame her if she did run.

This was her greatest fear. Her biggest insecurity when it came to us—my past. And here it was, three feet tall and starting up at me.

“It’s okay.” I watched her take a deep breath. “Hey, little guy, want to take a walk with me? We can look for sea glass on the shore.” She bent down to his level and I watched their interaction, tears burning the back of my eyes. I ran a hand through my hair and pulled. I was going to be fucking bald before I hit thirty, without a doubt. I chomped down on my lip painfully. I couldn’t imagine what Georgia was feeling, but if this kid was mine, I had to be there. It just tore me up inside that I couldn’t have this with Georgia, because she was the girl I wanted. I didn’t want this with anyone but her, but now here we were, another wrench thrown in our path.

“What’s sea glass?” his soft little voice asked her.

“Here, lemme show you.”

His little hand slipped into hers. His mom nodded to Georgia in agreement before the girl who stole my heart, and the little person that may or may not have my DNA coursing through his little body, turned the corner and walked out toward the beach.

“Are you sure? I mean, I don't really remember . . .”

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember. We hooked up one night in Jacksonville more than four years ago and that little guy was the result.”

“No fucking way.” I shook my head in disbelief. But it couldn’t be denied. He looked just fucking like me. I was sure I could dig up a baby picture that had me looking just like him. “Impossible.” I stared at her, unable to rip my gaze away.

“I’m sorry it took me so long. I didn’t have your number, and the situation being what it was . . . I just didn’t think you’d want . . .” She trailed off.

“Yeah.” I shuffled to the side and invited her in. We had four years worth of talking to do but I couldn’t calm down; my heart thudded and my breath came out in quick exhales.

I can't fucking breathe. Jesus Christ, is it hot in here?

My brain buzzed with a million thoughts, all the time my eyes searching her face.

Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Long legs. Light blonde hair.

Why didn’t I know her? Why didn't she look familiar? I’d been with a lot of women, but fuck—I never thought I’d forget a face like this.

I walked down to the water with a little fist clenched in my hand. The sweetest little boy I’d ever laid eyes on—a little boy who could easily be Tristan’s son. I tried to distract myself with small talk as we picked our way along the shoreline, pointing out shells, watching the sea birds, throwing sticks for Charlie to fetch, as his mom and possibly his dad talked in my house.

Our house.

The kitchen we made dinners in.

The bedroom we made love in.

The living room we planned our wedding in.

The house I’d been envisioning our kids growing up in, and yet here was this little guy, a product of Tristan’s one-night stand with someone else. The thought wrenched my heart into two painful, jagged pieces.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I bent beside him as he drew swirls in the sand with his finger.

“Trevor,” he said in a singsong voice. “You're pretty.”

“Thanks, Trevor.” God, even his name was close to Tristan’s. She’d named him after his dad.

Tristan and Trevor. My heart galloped inside my chest cavity, beating against the walls and threatening to burst out.

I suddenly felt lightheaded and plopped my ass in the wet sand.

The worst part was she seemed perfectly nice. She didn’t seem vindictive. I’d run into a few of Tristan’s exes and he had a type. Bleached blonde and bitchy, and while she was blonde, she didn’t seem at all bitchy. Other than the fact that she'd announced to this little boy that Tristan was his dad before she'd even spoken to Tristan about it, she seemed perfectly honest. Understanding.

I was about to throw up.

I took deep breaths and watched the little boy's wavy golden locks fall over his forehead as he drew stick figures.

Jesus, he looked like one of the little kids I’d imagined in my daydream last summer. Except this one wasn’t mine. He was Tristan’s and this beautiful little boy's mother’s. Another woman. The product of another night of passion Tristan had had with someone other than me. It didn't matter we hadn't known each other then; he’d always been mine. We’d belonged to each other, were meant to find each other from the beginning, and it felt like such a loss of a dream, having kids together, because now he might have a child with someone else.

And then I remembered we didn’t know for sure.

But God, he looked so much like him: the odds were in favor of Tristan being this beautiful little boy’s daddy. I ran a hand through my hair, a habit I was picking up from Tristan, and took a few deep, calming breaths.