He was right, I realized. It wasn’t Jake that I needed, not actually, not the way I’d thought for so long. What I truly yearned for was to fill the hole that had punctured my heart all those years ago, the night I lost our baby. The night I miscarried. That is what Jake had begun to represent to me. I let myself believe that if I could get him back, we could eventually replicate the child we had lost.
But Jake hadn’t lost anything—the loss was mine alone. I didn’t understand that until I finally told Jake about the miscarriage. He looked shocked and sorry, but not broken. I was the only one who’d been broken by it.
My love for Jake may have been real, but that didn’t make him a lifeline. He was a vessel. And there were other vessels. Like Hans.
Maybe I’ll find a partner someday, but for now, it’s not my concern. My priority is my son, who is due in just six weeks. I’m back in our old apartment on the Upper East Side—thank God we only subleased it during our time in Flynn Cove—and I’ve spent the past few months turning the second bedroom into a nursery. I like to drink my coffee in here in the mornings, admiring the way I’ve decorated the space: white vintage-style crib, sheepskin rug, a custom upholstered glider in my favorite blue ticking fabric. There’s a tall bookcase full of children’s classics in the corner and an airplane mobile floating above the navy rattan dresser–turned–changing table. A set of framed safari animal watercolors is spaced evenly across the wall above the crib. It’s a little boy’s dream.
It feels a bit excessive, the amount of effort I’ve put in to decorating the nursery, given we’ll be leaving soon. New York will always have a place in my heart, but for the long term, it isn’t for me. I’m still freelancing—which suits me, I’ve decided—so I can really work from anywhere. Once the baby is a little older and we’re in a good rhythm, we’ll head west. Malibu or Santa Barbara, probably. A house with a view of the ocean. A fresh start for our little family. The two of us.
I saw Jake several months ago, the afternoon we met in Flynn Cove to clear the last of the stuff from the house. It sold quickly once we finally put it on the market, after the divorce was finalized. I hadn’t told Jake about the sperm donor, and when he saw me, my bump just big enough that it was starting to show through clothes, his eyes practically popped out of his head.
“Wow, Sisi…” His jaw hung open.
“The father’s name is Hans.” I didn’t owe Jake an explanation of the details. It had been nearly ten months since our split.
“Good for you.”
“How’ve you been?” I’d asked. “Seeing anyone?” I couldn’t help myself.
Jake gave a soft chuckle. “You know, this is the first time I’ve been single in a decade, and it’s pretty much exactly what I need.”
I smiled, relieved, whether or not I wanted to be. “Still subletting that place in Greenpoint?”
He shook his head. “I bought a place, actually. It’s a loft in Gowanus. I love Brooklyn. I can’t really imagine going anywhere else.”
“That’s good,” I told him. “You seem happy.” I took in the sight of Jake, and it was true. His eyes were clear and bright, his shoulders relaxed. He seemed more comfortable in his own skin than when we’d been together. I hadn’t been surprised to learn—through a passive-aggressive email from my father—that Jake had left Randolph Group to pursue music full-time again.
“Your solo album comes out soon, right?”
Jake nodded, pride blooming all over his face. “It drops October third. Look for it on Spotify.”
“I will. That’s just before the baby is due.”
“Good.” He’d grinned. “I hear listening to music in utero helps with brain development.”
Jake had gestured to the box at my feet in the empty foyer, the last of my belongings from the house. Overlooked items, like the Sonos speakers from the pool cabana and a few forgotten toiletries from the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. Everything else had been packed up and taken on the moving truck the week before.
He picked up the crate of stuff. “Let me carry this to your car.”
From the driveway, we turned to face the house together, one final time. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say.
I climbed into the driver’s seat of my Range Rover. I turned on the ignition and rolled down the window, searching Jake’s face.
My mouth opened instinctively—I wanted so badly to ask, to pose the question he must’ve known was on my mind. But I closed my lips. It had to be over, my sleuthing, my relentless interest in you. Why did I still care, anyway?