Chapter 101 One Hundred And One
“You’re the one who said there is no ‘us,’” Antonia whispered.
“I know what I said.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her either.
Because the memory of her standing in that apartment, fragile but proud, refused to leave him.
Because he had dismantled one ghost only to realize another living, breathing woman still occupied space in his heart.
He ran a hand down his face on the other end of the line.
“Antonia,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to blur lines.”
“Then don’t.”
The words came faster than she intended.
Sharpened by hurt.
“You think I enjoy this?” she continued softly. “Hearing you reduce us to logistics?”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It feels like it.”
Silence.
Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it. “You act like what we had was an inconvenience.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because that was the problem.
It had been real.
Too real.
And that terrified him more than betrayal.
“It was complicated,” he said at last.
She closed her eyes.
“No,” she whispered. “It was simple. We fell for each other. But we just didn’t trust each other.”
The truth of it settled heavily between them.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at nothing.
“You hid my child from me,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught.
“I was scared.”
“You should have trusted me.”
“And you should have made me feel wanted,” she shot back.
A pause.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“You were so quick to end what we had,” she said softly. “You realized it was no more an act, and you didn't want to deal with it.”
His jaw tightened.
“It doesn't justify what you did.”
“The last thing I wanted was for you to think I wanted to trap you with a pregnancy.”
“I thought you knew me well, Antonia?”
Her throat tightened.
“I guess I didn't.”
“Your actions damaged things between us.”
“And walking away doesn’t?” she countered.
Her voice cracked slightly at the end.
He closed his eyes briefly.
This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid.
The old feelings.
Rising.
Fighting.
Refusing burial.
“I’m trying to do the responsible thing,” he said.
“And what is that?” she asked.
“Not letting emotion dictate decisions.”
Her laugh this time was soft and sad.
“You’ve always hidden behind responsibility.”
“And you’ve always hidden behind fear.”
The words hung there.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
She inhaled shakily.
“I don’t want to fight,” she said finally.
“Neither do I.”
Another pause.
Then, softer—
“I still love you,” she admitted before she could stop herself.
The confession slipped out like something long held under pressure.
Silence swallowed the line.
On the other end, Kennedy’s fingers tightened around his phone.
He hadn’t expected that.
He had prepared for tension.
For civility.
Not vulnerability.
“You shouldn’t say that,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
“Because it complicates things.”
“They’re already complicated.”
He exhaled slowly.
“I’m coming back this weekend,” he repeated, almost as if reminding himself. “We’ll talk face-to-face.”
“And if we say things we can’t take back?” she asked.
“We already have.”
That hurt.
But it was true.
Her voice softened. “Kennedy… when you held him, what did you feel?”
The question disarmed him.
He hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
“Terrified.”
She let out a small breath.
“Me too.”
Another pause.
“And something else,” he added quietly.
“What?”
He stared at the wall.
“Hope.”
Her heart squeezed painfully at that.
“For him?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Only him.
She knew that was what he meant.
But there was something in the way he had said it—something unfinished.
“Saturday,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be here.”
“I know.”
Neither moved to end the call.
Neither knew how to.
Finally, he said softly, “Get some rest.”
“You too.”
A beat.
“Goodnight, Antonia.”
The way he said her name—low, careful—unraveled something inside her.
“Goodnight, Kennedy.”
The line went dead.
She stared at her phone long after.
Across the city, Kennedy lowered his own.
The conversation had been about logistics.
About co-parenting.
About structure.
But beneath it—
Old feelings had stirred.
Saturday was coming.
And with it—
A conversation neither of them was ready for.
\---
Saturday arrived with a kind of restless stillness.
Antonia had been awake since before sunrise.
She had barely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, fragments of Thursday night’s conversation replayed in her mind.
I still love you.
The words had escaped her before she could cage them.
She had meant them.
That was the terrifying part.
Now everything hinged on what would happen today.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the soft morning light spilling through the curtains. The apartment felt unusually quiet, though her thoughts were anything but.
Her discussion with Kennedy could make or break them for good.
There would be no more half-words. No more unfinished sentences. No more hiding behind pride or fear.
Either they would find a way forward—
Or they would close the door on each other permanently.
And she wasn’t sure which outcome scared her more.
From the crib beside her bed, her son stirred.
She softened immediately, walking over and lifting him gently into her arms.
“Good morning,” she whispered against his tiny forehead.
He blinked up at her sleepily.
She studied his face the way she always did—searching for pieces of Kennedy in him. The shape of his eyes. The curve of his lips. The seriousness in his quiet stares.
He was proof of something real.
Something that had existed beyond confusion and mistrust.
She pressed a kiss to his temple.
“Today is important,” she murmured softly.
After feeding him and settling him back down, she began to prepare herself.
Not elaborately.
But intentionally.
She chose a simple pale blue dress—soft, understated. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. She didn’t want to look indifferent either.
She wanted to look steady.
Calm.
Capable.
She styled her hair loosely and applied minimal makeup. Just enough to conceal the sleepless night.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror.
Nervous.
Hopeful.
Fragile.
“Be strong,” she whispered to herself.
Because if Kennedy came determined to close the door—
She needed to survive that.
By noon, every small sound outside the apartment made her heart leap.
A car door.
Footsteps.
Voices in the hallway.
Each time, disappointment followed when it wasn’t him.
She checked her phone twice.
No new messages.
He had said Saturday morning.
Maybe he was delayed.
Maybe he was gathering his own courage.
Her pulse quickened at the thought.
What if he had changed his mind?
What if he had decided clarity meant finality?
Stop, she told herself firmly.
At exactly 12:17 p.m., there was a knock at the door.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
He’s here.
She didn’t think.
She didn’t pause.
She rushed toward the door, smoothing her dress as she went.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the handle.
This is it.
She opened the door.
And the breath left her lungs.