Chapter 184

Chapter 184
Ryan's POV

By seven PM, I was sitting across from Eleanor at her favorite restaurant, barely tasting the food on my plate as she talked about quarterly projections and the upcoming board vote on the AI initiative. She seemed not to notice—or chose not to comment—that I was only half-listening.

"You look tired," she said finally, setting down her wine glass.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in days." Her eyes were sharp. "This situation with Lily—"

"Is handled," I said firmly. "We have a custody agreement. Everything is settled."

"Settled," Eleanor repeated, her tone suggesting she didn't believe that for a second. "Ryan, I know you think I don't understand, but—"

"You don't." The words came out harsher than I'd intended. "You don't understand what it's like to lose—" I stopped, forced myself to breathe. "I'm fine. William is fine. Everything is fine."

Eleanor studied me for a long moment, then mercifully changed the subject.

I didn't know if that made it better or worse.

Tuesday was the same. Wednesday was the same. I woke up, told myself it was fine, that this was just like before, that Lily was at Silver Peak with William and I'd see them both on Friday. I went to the office, sat through meetings, made decisions. I ate lunch without tasting it. I returned phone calls. I reviewed contracts.

This is really happening, I thought, sinking into my chair. This is my life now.

I pulled out my phone. Opened my messages. Scrolled to Lily's name.

The last text was from me, three days ago: William's doing well. Let me know if you need anything.

She hadn't responded.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I wanted to text her so badly. Wanted to ask if she was okay, if she was eating enough, if she was sleeping. Wanted to tell her that I missed her so much it felt like a physical wound. Wanted to beg her to reconsider, to give me another chance, to come back.

But she'd asked me to let go.

So I locked my phone and set it face-down on my desk.

Thursday night, I stood in front of the liquor cabinet for twenty minutes. The Macallan was right there. All I had to do was reach out and take it.

One drink won't hurt, I told myself. One drink to help me sleep.

But one drink becomes two, said Lily's voice in my head. And two becomes the whole bottle.

She's not here anymore, I argued back. What does it matter?

William is here, said another voice—my own this time. And he deserves better than a father who can't handle his feelings without a drink.

I closed the cabinet. Went to bed sober again.

But I didn't sleep.

Friday, I drove back to Silver Peak, my heart hammering the entire way. Because tomorrow was Saturday. Saturday meant Lily would be here. Saturday meant I'd see her.

I got there at 5:30 PM, earlier than I needed to. Went straight to the nursery where William was lying on his play mat, staring up at the mobile above him with intense concentration.

"Hey, buddy," I said, scooping him up. He made a happy gurgling sound and grabbed at my tie. "Your mom's coming tomorrow."

Your mom. Not Mommy. Not Lily. Just the clinical term that described her role in his life now.

I held him close, breathing in that baby smell—milk and soap and something uniquely William. Tomorrow at 9:00 AM, she'd walk through that door. I hadn't seen her in six days—the longest we'd been apart since William was born. What would I say? How should I act? Should I—

Stop, I told myself. You'll see her tomorrow. Just get through tonight.

I went to my room—the room that had been ours, during the late pregnancy. The room where I'd held her while she cried about Eleanor's demands.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my hands.

Just one more night until I see her again.

Just one more night until I can pretend, for a few minutes, that we're still something other than strangers who share a child.

That night, I did pour myself a drink. Just one. Two fingers of scotch, neat.

I told myself it didn't count as breaking my promise because Lily wasn't here to see it.

Saturday morning, I was awake at 6:00 AM, unable to sleep. I showered, shaved, changed my shirt twice because the first one felt too formal and the second too casual. Settled on a simple gray henley—the kind I used to wear on weekends when we were still us.

She probably won't even notice, I thought. She barely looks at you anymore.

By 8:30, I was pacing the East Wing hallway like a nervous teenager. The nurse had already fed and changed William, and he was alert and happy in his crib, making those babbling sounds that seemed to mean he was practicing for actual words.

At 8:58, I heard her car.

My heart kicked against my ribs so hard I thought I might be having a cardiac event. I forced myself to stand still, to breathe, to not run down the stairs like a desperate fool.

At exactly 9:00 AM, I heard her footsteps on the stairs. Light, quick, purposeful. The footsteps of someone who knew exactly where she was going and wanted to get there as fast as possible.

She appeared in the doorway, and I forgot how to breathe.

She was wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater that brought out her eyes, her hair loose around her shoulders the way I loved—the way I used to be allowed to love. She had her work bag slung over one shoulder and that determined set to her jaw that meant she was holding herself together through sheer will.

"Morning," she said, her voice carefully neutral. Her eyes went past me to the crib. "How is he?"

"Good." My voice came out rougher than I'd intended. "He slept through the night. Ate well this morning. He's been babbling a lot—I think he's trying to figure out consonants."

The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "He does that with me too. I swear he's trying to say 'mama.'"

He probably is, I thought. Because you're the one who's always there. You're the constant. I'm just the weekend visitor in his life now.

She moved past me—close enough that I caught her scent, that combination of her shampoo and something uniquely her that used to drive me crazy—and went straight to the crib.

"Hi, baby," she said, and her whole face transformed. Softened. Became the Lily I'd fallen in love with in college, before I'd buried her under years of neglect and broken promises. "Hi, sweet boy. Mama's here. I missed you so much."

William kicked his legs excitedly and made a sound that was definitely directed at her. She laughed—that pure, unguarded laugh—and scooped him up, pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his tiny hands.

I stood there watching them, my hands clenched at my sides, fighting the overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around both of them. To pull them close and never let go. To bury my face in her hair and tell her I was sorry, I was so fucking sorry, and please, please could we try again.

But I'd promised to let go. To not make this harder.

So I stayed where I was, keeping a careful three feet of distance between us.

"I'll just—" I gestured vaguely toward the door. "I'll give you some space."

I left before I could do something stupid like beg.