After His Secret Son Cost Me Our Baby

The Whole Foods on Capitol Hill smelled like fresh bread and expensive coffee. I held Hayes' hand as we walked past the bakery section, our fingers laced together the way they'd been for two years of marriage and three years before that. Anniversary number two. We were here for champagne. Something French. Something celebratory.

"What about this one?" I held up a bottle with a gold label.

Hayes leaned in to read it, his shoulder warm against mine. "Too sweet. You hate sweet."

He was right. He always remembered things like that.

We turned the corner into the produce section, and Hayes' hand went slack in mine.

A woman stood by the organic apples. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Yoga pants and an oversized sweater. She was holding the hand of a little boy, maybe six years old, who was trying to reach for a banana from the display.

Hayes stopped walking.

I felt his fingers slip away from mine.

"Hayes?" I looked at him. His face had gone strange. Pale. His mouth was open slightly, like he'd forgotten how to close it.

The woman looked up. Her eyes found Hayes immediately, like she'd been waiting for him to appear. A slow smile spread across her face.

"Hayes Tucker," she said softly. "Oh my God."

Hayes took a step forward. Then another. I stood there with my hand still suspended in the air where his had been.

"Lydia," he said. His voice came out rough. "I—wow. Hi."

Lydia. The name landed in my chest like a stone.

I knew that name. College girlfriend. The one he never talked about. The one who left him when he had nothing.

She walked toward us, pulling the little boy with her. Up close, she was pretty in that effortless way some women are. No makeup. Clear skin. The kind of pretty that didn't need to try.

"It's been what, six years?" She laughed, a soft, musical sound. "You look exactly the same."

"You too." Hayes was staring at her like she was a ghost. Then his eyes dropped to the boy. He stared even harder.

The boy had Hayes' eyes. The exact same shade of gray-blue.

My stomach tightened.

"This is Coleson," Lydia said, resting her hand on the boy's head. "My son."

Hayes crouched down to the boy's level. "Hey, buddy. I'm Hayes."

Coleson looked at him with solemn curiosity, then hid his face against his mother's leg.

I stood there. Watching. Invisible.

Finally, Hayes seemed to remember I existed. He straightened and gestured vaguely in my direction. "Lydia, this is Scarlett. My wife."

My wife. He said it like an afterthought.

Lydia's smile didn't falter. She extended her hand. "It's so nice to meet you. Hayes and I go way back."

I shook her hand. Her grip was soft. Warm. "Nice to meet you too."

Her eyes swept over me, quick and assessing, then returned to Hayes. "I heard about Apex Ventures. Congratulations. You always said you'd build something big."

"We built it," I said quietly. "Together."

Lydia's gaze flicked to me for half a second. "That's wonderful."

Hayes was still staring at Coleson. The boy had picked up a banana and was peeling it with intense concentration.

"He's six," Lydia said, answering the question Hayes hadn't asked.

Six years old. Six years since she left him.

The math sat heavy in the air.

Hayes opened his mouth, then closed it. He ran his hand through his hair. That tell. The one I'd catalogued years ago. The one that meant he was lying to himself about something.

"We should catch up," Lydia said. She pulled her phone from her pocket. "Can I get your number? Maybe coffee sometime?"

Hayes took her phone without hesitation. He typed in his number. Handed it back.

"Text me anytime," he said.

Anytime.

I watched him. He didn't look at me once.

Lydia smiled again, that soft, careful smile. "It was really good to see you, Hayes." She glanced at me. "Both of you."

She walked away, Coleson's small hand in hers. Hayes watched them go. He watched until they disappeared around the corner into the cereal aisle.

I stood beside him, holding nothing.

"Hayes."

He blinked. Turned to me. "Yeah?"

"The champagne."

He looked down at the empty cart. The bottle I'd been holding was gone. I must have set it down somewhere.

"Right," he said. "Champagne."

But he didn't move. He just stood there, staring at the space where Lydia had been, like she'd taken something with her when she left.

I walked back to the wine section alone.

When I returned with a bottle—something French, something gold—Hayes was exactly where I'd left him.

He didn't take my hand again.

Not in the checkout line. Not in the parking lot. Not in the car.

I sat in the passenger seat as rain began to streak the windshield, and I thought about the way he'd looked at that little boy.

Like he was seeing something he'd lost.

Or something he'd never known he wanted.