Page 75 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“A start?” I laugh again, but this time it’s devoid of humor. “Noah, we’re not starting over. We’re not going back to some fairy tale where everything is perfect because you decided to come back.”
He looks pained at my words, and for a moment, I almost feel guilty for being so harsh. But then I remember all the nights spent alone, all the times the kids asked about their dad and all the moments when I had to be both mother and father.
“I’m not asking for perfection,” he says quietly. “I’m asking for a chance.”
“A chance?” The word hangs heavy in the air between us. “What does that even mean? What does it look like?”
“It means being present,” he replies, his gaze steady on mine. “It means showing up for our kids and for you—being there when it matters most.”
“And what if it’s too late?” I challenge him, crossing my arms tighter across my chest as if that could shield me from the vulnerability creeping in.
“It’s never too late,” he insists fiercely.
“Isn’t it?” My voice cracks slightly as the weight of everything presses down on me. “You’ve missed so much already.”
“I know,” he says softly, stepping even closer until there’s barely any space left between us. “But I want to make it right.”
“Make it right?” The words taste bitter on my tongue as I stare into his eyes, searching for any hint of sincerity or truth.
“Yes,” he says firmly, reaching out as if he wants to touch me but hesitating just before making contact. “I want to be part of your lives again.”
“And what if we don’t want you back?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
His expression falters for a moment before he regains his composure. “Then I’ll respect that,” he replies quietly.
“And then what?” The question hangs in the air between us like a fragile thread.
Then the back door crashes open, breaking every bit of intimacy we may have been forming, and Amy’s head pokes in. “What’s taking so… oh shit.”
thirty-seven
. . .
Noah
Amy half-standslike she’s ready to bolt. “I’ll just, uh—go… scrub my baseboards or something.”
“Ames,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
She freezes.
“Stay.”
She leans against the kitchen doorway, looking between me and Elle like she’s watching a match with no referee. “Should this require wine?” she asks.
“God, I hope so,” Elle says, already at the wine fridge. Bottle, two stems. Then she opens the cabinet, grabs the cut crystal tumbler and the Macallan 12 Sherry Oak. One cube, two fingers, and she presses it into my hand like a memory.
It shouldn’t get to me that she still knows my pour. Or that the bottle’s open and I’m not the one who opened it. It does anyway.
I let silence settle the way it does in an interview room—just the fridge hum and the rhythm of a house that has seen too much and still pretends it’s fine.
Elle doesn’t break first.
She tips a glass toward Amy, pours, then fills one for herself and lets the wine sit on her tongue while she looks at me over the rim. Her hands are steady now. Of course they are. She’s always held a line better than half my suspects.
She must know what’s coming, even if I barely know what I’ll say until I hear it.
“What’s this about, Noah?” she asks.
