Page 61 of Tempted By Eden

My thoughts drift back to that little boy.

Jonathon, what have you done?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see Cora’s name flashing on the screen. For a moment I consider answering, demanding answers, explanations. But then the anger surges, hot and biting. She lied. She hid the most important part of her life from me. If I didn’t see her today, would she have ever told me?

I stab the Decline button, watching her name disappear from the screen, but the questions remain. I shut my phone off, trying to bury the anger, the hurt—the pain in my heart that no amount of rage can smother. She lied, and I let her in. I don’t want her excuses. I just want it all to stop.

Now.

Forever.

Chapter thirty-two

Cora

Lying in bed, Istare at the ceiling, the cracks in the plaster blurred by my tears. I’ve been here for hours, but the ball of dread in my stomach sits just as heavily as it did when I left the zoo.

My palms are clammy, my skin slick with cold sweat despite the warm room. Each breath feels like a struggle, the air too thick to fill my lungs. I’m gasping, my chest tight with that old, familiar fear. The panic I’ve fought to suppress for years is creeping back, inch by inch, sinking its talons into me. It hasn’t been this bad since… since Mom died. Back then, I thought the worst had passed. But now? Now it’s suffocating me. I can feel it crawling under my skin, coiling tighter, ready to pull me under.

My fingers dig into the bedspread as though it might anchor me to this moment, as though I might hold myself together through sheer willpower. But it’s slipping, unraveling—like the rest of my life. And no matter how hard I try to hold on, the rush of emotions overwhelms me. Guilt. Shame. Fear.

The phone sits like lead in my hand, its screen dark and cold. I’ve checked it every few minutes, my thumb hovering over the Call button each time. Over two dozen calls. Half a dozen voicemails. Countless texts. And not a single response from James.

Why would there be?

I fucked up.

If he could only hear my voice—if he could hear how desperate I am, how much I need him to listen—maybe he’d talk to me. Maybe he’d understand.

But what if he doesn’t? What if it’s just more silence? The thought makes my stomach lurch, anxiety winding tighter and tighter until I might be sick.

I close my eyes, fighting back the flood of tears, but they slip through anyway, hot against my cheeks. How did I let it come to this? How did I let fear—my own stupid fear—ruin everything?

I press my hand against my chest, trying to steady the wild thumping of my heart. Every time I think about his face—how it twisted from confusion to realization, from hurt to fury—I unravel all over again. His eyes… They’ll haunt me forever.

It’s clear now: I should have told him sooner. I should have trusted him. But fear kept me silent. Fear of losing him, fear of how he’d react, fear of what it would mean for Leo.

For the thousandth time, I think about calling him. I’m afraid the silence will keep stretching between us, growing wider and darker until it consumes me. I’m falling into the abyss, and there’s no way out unless I do something.

The sheets are tangled, damp from restless tossing. I kick them off and sit up, my head spinning. Lying here, drowning in misery, won’t fix anything. The only way out is to face him. He has to let me explain. He has to see how much he means to me.

A plan is already forming in my mind as I grab my purse from the dresser. It’s a flimsy plan, reckless even, but I don’t care. I’ll beg him if I have to. I’ll fall to my knees and make him listen. I won’t let it end like this.

I hurry into the living room, where Dad is sitting on the couch with Leo.

“Dad, can you watch Leo for an hour?” I force myself to sound calm. Leo is coloring, absorbed in his crayons and paper, blissfully unaware of his world crumbling around him.

Dad glances up from the TV, frowning slightly at the urgency in my voice, but nods. “Of course. We’re just hanging out, aren’t we, pumpkin?” he says, nudging Leo’s shoulder affectionately.

“Yup!” Leo replies, his face still buried in his drawing, his little hands moving quickly across the paper.

I watch him for a moment. How can I look him in the eyes, knowing I’ve denied him the one thing he deserves most—a father? And for what? A bitter knot of regret lodges in my throat. He deserves more than I’ve given him, more than I’ve allowed him to have. But can I fix this?

After James backed away from me in the café this morning, Leo looked at me with eyes wide, asking, “Who was that man, Momma?” My throat tightened when I answered, “Just a work friend.” The lie tasted sour, wrong.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be back soon.”

Without another word, I head out the door, releasing a jerky breath. The humid air sticks to my skin as I flag down the first taxi I see. There’s no time to waste. No time to think. I have to fix this.

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