4. Aubrey

4

Aubrey

Standing there, in the warm glow of the kitchen, facing Shane after all these years, is like being thrown into a scene I never scripted. It's him, unmistakably him, the same Shane who's occupied a corner of my thoughts more often than I'd care to admit. And here we are, not just the two of us, but with Luke—our Luke—totally unaware of the gravity of this moment.

Shane’s gaze holds mine, a silent conversation in a room suddenly too small. The air between us is charged with a decade's worth of questions, the weight of what was left unsaid hanging heavily.

"It's been a while," I manage, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. It's the understatement of the century, and we both know it.

"Yeah, a lifetime, seems like," Shane replies, his voice carrying that familiar blend of charm and something else—a hint of uncertainty, perhaps? It's unsettling to see the ever-confident Shane at a loss.

Emma picks up on the tension. "Aubrey, would you like me to take Luke to see the cows? He's been dying to meet them." Her offer is a lifeline, one I grasp without hesitation.

"Luke, sweetie, do you want to go see the cows with Emma?" I ask, grateful for the diversion.

His response is immediate and enthusiastic. "Yes, cowsies!" he exclaims, any trace of the earlier tension dissolving in his excitement.

As Emma and Luke head out, their departure leaves Shane and me in a bubble of awkward silence, the enormity of the situation settling in. We're alone, truly alone, for the first time in years, standing on the edge of a conversation that's been delayed but can no longer be avoided.

"So," I start, the word hanging between us, a bridge and a barrier all at once. "Here we are."

"Yeah, here we are," Shane echoes, a semblance of his usual smirk flickering to life. But it's different this time, tinged with vulnerability.

In the newfound quiet of the kitchen, Shane’s gaze shifts, a clear indication he's about to venture into territory we've both consciously avoided. "The boy," he starts. “He's...?"

His question hangs in the air, a bridge half-built. I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself for the words that need to follow. "Yeah. Luke is your son," I confirm, the simplicity of the statement belying the complexity of emotions it carries.

Shane’s reaction is instantaneous, his face a mask of confusion evolving rapidly into anger. "My son?" he repeats, the words laced with incredulity. "And you just decided not to tell me? To keep him from me?"

The accusation stings, more than I care to admit. "It wasn't like that. After that night, I didn't know how to find you. I didn’t know who you were,” I explain, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

"So, you thought it was better to just keep my son a secret? To make that decision for both of us?" His voice rises, the hurt unmistakable beneath the anger.

I stand my ground, despite the turmoil swirling inside me. "It was complicated. I was alone, scared, and you... you were a memory, a what-if. I made the best decision I could at the time."

The tension between us is palpable, a taut line that could snap at any moment. Yet, beneath the anger and the accusations, there's an undeniable pull, a connection that time and distance haven't dulled.

"Complicated? You call denying me the chance to know my own son complicated?" His voice softens, but the edge remains. "I had a right to know, Aubrey. We... we could have figured it out. Together."

"Figured it out?" I retort, the old hurt resurfacing. "You were a ghost. How do you figure out life with a ghost?"

The more Shane leans into his anger, the more I feel my patience thinning, like ice under too much pressure. And then, just like that, it cracks.

"Okay, you know what?" I say. "You don't get to play the wounded party and talk to me like I'm the villain in your tragic backstory."

His eyes flash, surprise mingling with his frustration, clearly not used to being put in his place.

"And for your grand information," I continue, feeling my inner sass taking the wheel, "I didn't tell you because you ghosted me. You blocked me. Poof! Disappeared like a bad magic trick. So, excuse me for thinking you weren't exactly father material at the time!"

His stance shifts, the offense momentarily stunned out of him. It's clear he hadn't connected those dots, or maybe he just didn't want to.

"I deleted your number, moved on with my life because I had to, not because I wanted to," I add, punctuating each word with a pointed look. "And by the time I found out about Luke, you were just... you were just a memory. A 'what could have been' that turned into a 'what now?'"

For a moment, the kitchen is silent, the air between us thick with words unsaid and paths not taken. It's like we're both seeing each other for the first time, not as the ghosts of our past, but as the very real, very flawed individuals we are now.

The anger in his eyes ebbs, replaced by something that looks a lot like realization. It's as if he's finally understanding the weight of the situation, the gravity of the choices we both made, and the consequences that followed.

But despite the clash, the undeniable spark that ignited the moment we saw each other again refuses to dim.

Shane’s usual confidence seems to evaporate under the heat of my words, and he sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, the fight gone from his eyes. "I thought you knew," he mutters, almost to himself, a stark contrast to the man who walked into the kitchen moments ago. He shakes his head. “Then again, how would you have?”

Knew? Knew what? My frustration falters, replaced by a creeping sense of concern. "Knew what? What happened?"

He hesitates, then looks up at me, a shadow of vulnerability crossing his face. "That night, after we... I got robbed. Shot." His voice is low, each word heavy with a weight I hadn't anticipated.

I blink, my anger evaporating into disbelief. "You were shot ?" The question comes out as a whisper, a mix of shock and concern flooding through me.

"Yeah." He reaches up, pulling down the collar of his shirt just enough to reveal a scar on his shoulder—a stark, visible testament to his story. "Lost my phone in the whole mess, too. That injury... it ended my career. Just like that."

The revelation hits me like a cannonball to the chest. Here I was, furious over what I perceived as a callous ghosting, and he'd been fighting a battle of his own, one that had costs I couldn't even begin to fathom.

I'm speechless, the remnants of my anger dissolving into a pool of guilt and empathy. "Shane, I... I had no idea." What do you say to someone who's just laid bare a trauma you never knew they endured? Especially when your last memories before this revelation were tinged with resentment and hurt?

The kitchen, once a battlefield of accusations and defenses, now feels like a sanctuary of exposed wounds and raw truths. Shane, looking smaller somehow, less like the confident man I remembered and more like someone who'd been through a storm and came out the other side forever changed.

"I'm sorry," I manage, the words inadequate but heartfelt. "I really didn't know."

He straightens up in his chair, the shift in his posture signaling a resolve that seems to materialize from the charged air of revelations and reconciliations. There's a determination in his eyes now.

"I need to do the right thing," he says, his voice steady, belying the tumultuous journey of emotions we've just navigated. "I come from a Catholic family, Aubrey. Out-of-wedlock babies... they're not just frowned upon; they're a no-go. My family, they've got expectations, traditions."

Before I can even begin to process his words, he does something completely unexpected. He slides off the chair and drops to one knee, right there on the kitchen floor, transforming the moment into something utterly surreal.

I'm frozen, every synapse firing in disbelief as I watch Shane, the man whose absence marked years of my life and the father of my child, proposes. Here. Now. After years of silence, misunderstandings, and a confrontation that laid bare more wounds than I knew we had.

"Will you marry me, Aubrey?" he asks, the question hanging between us in the quiet air.