Page 83 of Breakaway Daddies

I could keep it simple. I could walk away, stay quiet, raise this baby on my own. I’ve done things solo before. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would bemine.

No messy custody battles. No emotional landmines. No mornings where I have to pretend I’m not devastated watching one of them buckle a car seat and drive away.

But also… no Thomas grinning like a maniac the first time the baby kicks.

No Bruno building a rocking chair by hand because “nothing from the store is good enough.”

No Rowan holding them like they’re made of stardust, whispering lullabies in that low, steady voice that always calmsmedown.

My throat tightens. I sit up and hug my knees to my chest.

I want it all. That’s the stupid, impossible truth. I wanteverything. The baby. The degree. The career. The life.Them.

But I don’t know how to fit it all in the same damn box.

And the longer I sit here doing nothing, the heavier it all gets… like if I don’t make a move soon, the decision will make itself. And that scares the crap out of me.

I reach for my water bottle and take a sip I don’t really want. My stomach does a slow roll.

“Okay,” I whisper to no one. “Get it together, Anderson.”

But before I can take any action, my phone buzzes.

It’s the group chat.

Ally >> Just a heads up… your guys are not doing great. Like, emotionally imploding levels of not great.

Kenzie >> They’ve been snappy and weird in practice. Bruno and Rowan nearly threw down yesterday over a drill. A drill, Jinx.

Ally >> Thomas isn’t talking. Not even in GIFs. We’re worried.

I stare at the screen, heart doing that awful achy thumpy thing that feels too much like guilt and not enough like anger to push through.

They’re hurting.

Because of me.

Because I walked away. I thought maybe it was the right thing, for the baby, for me, forthem, but it’s not like I left unscathed. I’ve been walking around with this hollow pit in my chest since the second the door closed behind me.

I run my thumb over Ally’s message again and again, as if I rub it hard enough, the truth will smudge away. But it doesn’t.

They’re fighting each other. And hurting. And spiraling.

And maybe I thought I could protect them from this mess by taking myself out of the equation, but all I did was leave everyone bleeding out in separate corners.

I close my eyes and press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

What do Ireallywant?

Not what’s easy.

Not what’s expected.

Not what some fantasy version of Future Responsible Jinx would pick from a tidy life catalog.

What do I, Jessica “Jinx” freaking Anderson, want?

I want to stop waking up alone, listening for footsteps that don’t come.

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