Page 21 of This Beautiful Lie
I didn’t knock when I reached the front door. I never did.
Jake and Katie’s house had always been my safe haven. A second home. A place where the air didn’t feel so heavy, and I didn’t have to explain why I needed to stay for a while—or why I left without warning.
The door creaked open under my hand, and the warmth of it hit me instantly. The familiar squeak in the floorboard by the entryway. The faint hum of something cooking in the kitchen. The living room still smelled like vanilla and clean linen, like the space was always mid-hug.
But then my eyes landed on the bassinet in the corner—and my steps faltered.
I already knew John and Tuesday kept it here. They’d said so in a group chat I never answered. But knowing and seeing were two different things. My chest tightened as memories flooded in—whispered stories to a baby too young to understand, soft lullabies I’d hummed to keep from crying.
A familiar ache bloomed beneath my ribs. The kind that never truly went away.
This.
This was why I hadn’t come back.
This was why I left messages unanswered, avoided calls, and made excuses.
Because walking through this door meant facing all of it.
Them.
Me.
And the kind of demons that wrapped around your ribs and made it hard to breathe.
My gut clenched. I hovered near the door, half-turned, ready to bolt. I could still leave. Get back in the car, drive away, vanish for another month or two. No one would stop me. They’d forgive me. They always did.
But then?—
Laughter rang out from the backyard, light and full of life.
I froze.
And as if he sensed me standing there, John appeared in the doorway. His gaze locked on mine. He didn’t say a word. Just crossed the room and, without hesitation, pulled me into a bone-crushing hug.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmured into my hair. “I know this was hard for you.”
My body shook, hard, and with a tremor I couldn’t control. I cursed under my breath, my voice cracking as I pushed against him. “Damn you, John. Let me go. Please.”
But he didn’t. He held tighter.
Because he knew I didn’t mean it.
He always knew. He knew my scars, because he carried some of the same. We were cut from the same jagged cloth.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Shhh…”
I stiffened and pushed away, anger flaring like a sudden flame. “See? I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have come.”
“You were nineteen, Em,” he said gently. “You did what you had to do. I really wish you’d stop torturing yourself.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, my voice rising with the swell of guilt. “I gave up on him, John. What kind of mother does that?”
John didn’t flinch. But he did step closer again. “You didn’t give up on him,” he said, steady and sure. “You gave him a family.”
I turned away, pressing a hand to my stomach like I could still feel the echo of him there—like my body remembered him, even though no one else did.
“You gave him everything you always wanted,” John continued, his voice low. “Everything you never had. And you did it when you were a damn kid. Give yourself a break already.”
