82
Hours bled into each other, stretching endlessly in the dark. My body felt heavy, pinned to the bed like gravity had doubled its weight. I tossed and turned, restlessly shifting between left and right, trying to escape the grime that clung to my skin. I felt filthy. No amount of scrubbing or wishing could erase the blood, bile, and fear that had seeped into me.
I didn’t remember getting into bed, but it was clear Adeline had dragged me here. That thought should’ve stirred something—gratitude or anger maybe—but I couldn’t muster anything. My eyelids were too heavy, refusing to stay open, but the moment I closed them, my heart picked up a frantic rhythm, thundering against my ribs. Exhaustion, however, won the fight. My fingers clutched at the scratchy sheets as if they were my anchor, and finally, the pounding of my chest began to fade.
I fell.
The world shifted softly, seamlessly, and when I opened my eyes again, I was no longer in that dark, suffocating room.
The morning sun poured through the windshield of a car, casting golden streaks across the dashboard. New York was alive, buzzing and chaotic in its usual Monday morning rush. The streets were packed with people—commuters clutching their coffee cups like lifelines, taxis jerking forward in impatient bursts, and pedestrians darting between honking cars.
Adrianne Lenker’s Not a Lot, Just Forever played low in the background, the melancholic strum of her guitar weaving through the cacophony. My hands were on the steering wheel, one gripping it tightly, the other slamming against the horn with growing frustration. What a specific song to be playing at a moment like this. It reminded me of Dominic, because it was our song, the one we’d both found comfort in during the two years we lived poor and wretched in New York, before Dominic’s fake death.
My heart banged, and my hands tightened against the steering wheel, my fingers moist and clammy against the leather, clenching and unclenching with impatience.
“Move already!” I barked, my voice sharp and tense. The traffic ahead was a solid, unmoving wall of cars. Yellow cabs idled, their drivers gesturing wildly, and delivery bikes zipped through any gap they could find. My patience, already thin, was fraying fast.
Behind me, a child’s voice broke through the noise.
“Mom. Mom.”
I froze. My hand, still hovering over the horn, dropped back to the wheel. The sound of my pulse filled my ears as his words echoed around me. I lifted my eyes to the rear view mirror, a fucking child wad in the back seat, quite odd but it felt like a usual thing, me just casually dropping my kid off at school. The way he looked. Like Dominic as a child. Made my heart thud so hard, I felt nauseous, fighting the urge to throw up.
The sunlight streamed through the windshield, catching the glint of his dark, unruly hair as he leaned forward slightly from the back seat. His small hands, resting in his lap, were curled into impatient fists, fingers drumming softly against the fabric of his jeans. With every tilt of his head, he looked so Dominic,—his straight, slightly aquiline nose, his cheeks chubby and round as Dominic had been growing up. I’d never met this boy, but I just knew his name was Adam and he was mine.
“Mom, are you listening?” Adam’s voice was insistent, pulling me out of my daze.
“I am,” I said, my throat tight as I glanced back at him through the rearview mirror. His eyes locked onto mine, and I almost forgot how to breathe.
Those eyes.
They were Dominic’s eyes—piercing, dark green that seemed to shift in the light, full of a depth that could cut through walls. On Adam, they were softened by youth, framed by thick lashes that gave him an innocent, almost angelic look. But the intensity in them was unmistakable, and it sent a chill down my spine.
“Then why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked, leaning forward a little more, his small brow furrowing in frustration.
“I’m sorry,” I said, forcing my voice to steady. “What were you saying again?”
He sighed, exasperated. “I said I got an A on my spelling test.”
I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. His pout was so much like Dominic’s when he didn’t get his way, a subtle downturn of the lips that made him look more charming than upset.
“You did?” I said, my voice softening as I glanced at him again. “That’s incredible, sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” he said, the frustration melting from his face, replaced by a grin that showed off his small, slightly crooked front teeth. “Miss Porter said I was the only one in the class who got all the words right.”
“That’s because you’re the smartest,” I said, and his cheeks flushed a faint pink, the same way Dominic’s used to when I complimented him.
“You really think so?” he asked, his voice quieter, more tentative.
“I know so,” I said, my chest tightening as I studied him in the mirror.
There was so much of Dominic in him—the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way his lips quirked up slightly on one side when he smiled. But there was also something softer, something wholly Adam. His hair, though dark like Dominic’s, had a slight wave to it that softened his angular features. His skin was warm-toned, with a hint of freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks, remnants of summers spent outside.
“Mom?” he said again, drawing my attention back to him.
“Yes, Adam?”
“Do you think I should tell Dad about the spelling test?” His voice was small, hesitant, and my heart clenched.
“Of course,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m sure he’d be so proud of you.”
Adam leaned back in his seat, his expression thoughtful. “But he’s never home. How am I supposed to tell him if he’s never here?”
The question hung in the air.
“Adam…” I started, but he cut me off.
“Do you think he’s mad at me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, and his brows drew together in a way that made him look so much older than his ten years.
“No, sweetheart,” I said quickly, the words tumbling out. “He’s not mad at you. He loves you very much.”
“Then why doesn’t he come home?” His voice cracked slightly, and my chest tightened painfully.
I glanced at him again through the mirror, and for a moment, it felt like Dominic was sitting in the back seat, his features mirrored so perfectly in Adam’s face. But Dominic had never looked at me with that kind of vulnerability, that raw, unguarded pain that only a child could feel.
“Sometimes adults have… responsibilities that take them away from the people they love,” I said, hating how hollow and inadequate the words sounded.
Adam frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” I agreed quietly. “It’s not.”
He leaned his head against the window, the sunlight casting golden streaks across his hair. “Miss Porter says fairness is important. She says everyone should do their part.”
“She’s right,” I said, forcing a smile. “But sometimes life isn’t as simple as that.”
Adam was quiet for a moment, his small fingers tracing patterns on the fogged-up glass. “Do you think Dad even knows I got an A?”
“I’m sure he does,” I said, my voice soft.
“But how would he?” Adam asked, turning to look at me, his gray eyes wide and searching. “It’s not like he’s here to see it.”
The weight of his words settled in my chest like a stone. I couldn’t lie to him, not when he was looking at me like that, with Dominic’s sharp gaze and Adam’s own quiet, unyielding hope.
“You’re right,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t know yet. But we’ll make sure he does, okay?”
Adam nodded slowly, his expression still thoughtful. “Do you think he misses me?”
“Of course he does,” I said, my voice trembling.
“Do you think he misses you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
The question hit me like a freight train, the words ringing in my ears.
I froze, staring at him in the mirror. My fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white, as my chest tightened. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. The realization crept over me like a shadow in the night, cold and inescapable.
I didn’t have a son.
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