Page 45 of The Fake Affair

I have always been careful with women. It’s why nothing like this has happened before, but Bella came along, and I threw caution to the wind.

“Logan?” Bella’s voice again. “We need to know.”

The drive to the drugstore is silent. My hands are too tight on the steering wheel, but if I loosen my grip, they’ll shake. Bella keeps glancing at me, questions in her eyes that I can’t answer yet.

The fluorescent lights in the store are too bright and too sterile. Like the hospital lights.

“I’ll get it,” Bella says quickly. She disappears down an aisle while I stand frozen, surrounded by baby products and prenatal vitamins.

A young couple nearby argues about diaper brands. The woman’s hand rests on her swollen belly, and her husband’s arm is protective around her shoulders. They look so fucking happy, so unaware that hospitals have back doors where they wheel out mothers who never get to hold their babies.

“Got it.” Bella’s back, tucking a paper bag into her purse. “Let’s go home.”

Home. It’s where I wake up every morning, wondering if this is the day she realizes she deserves better than a man haunted by nursery rhymes with a Scottish accent.

“Logan.” Her hand covers mine on the gearshift. “Whatever this test shows... we’ll figure it out.”

I want to tell her there’s nothing to figure out. That I’ve known since I was seven exactly how I never wanted the women I love to have children for me. Instead, I start the car.

The pasta she was cooking is burned beyond salvation, even if I had the foresight to turn the stove off when she fainted. Neither of us mentions it. The test sits between us on the bathroom counter like a live grenade while we wait the required three minutes.

“My mother died having Audrey,” I say suddenly, but she already knows this, and I shouldn’t be fucking pointing it out right now, but I continue anyway. “She—there were complications. Dad never really came back from it.”

Bella’s intake of breath is sharp. She reaches for my hand, but I step back. I can’t be touched right now.

The timer on her phone chimes.

She picks up the test. I watch her face change and see the exact moment two lines appear where there should be one.

“Logan,” she starts, but I’m stepping back.

“I need a minute.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Just... I need to think.”

I’m out the door before she can respond, keys somehow in my hand, the echo of hospital corridors chasing me to the elevator.

I have to get out, breathe, and stop seeing my mother’s face superimposed over Bella’s.

The city lights blur past my windshield. I don’t realize I’m heading to my Chelsea property until I’m already punching in the security code. This place has always been my refuge—bare walls, minimal furniture, no memories.

My phone keeps buzzing.

Please come back.

We need to talk about this.

Logan, you’re scaring me.

The last one hits like a punch to the gut. I’m scaring her. Just like I was scared, watching my father spiral after Mum died. Watching him try to drown her ghost in whiskey while I learned to heat formula and check for fever.

I pace the empty living room, memories surging faster now.

Dad missed Audrey’s first steps because he was passed out on the couch.

The way Audrey would cry for Mum in her sleep, and I’d sing the lullabies I remember, my accent a poor substitute for our mother’s gentle American voice.

My phone rings. Audrey.

“Bella called me,” she says when I answer. “She’s worried sick.”

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