Christmas With My Ex (Stuck For the Holidays)

18. Nicholas

EIGHTEEN

Nicholas

See the blazing yule before us/Fa la la la la, la la la la (fa la la la la, la la la la)

10:42 am

The cold air bites at my skin as I walk, my breath coming out in short, visible puffs. Each step crunches under the weight of my boots, but I barely notice. My mind is spinning, racing with everything she just told me.

I left her in my room, needing space, needing to breathe. But now, the anger is simmering just beneath the surface, every thought a sharp jab.

She gave up our child. Without telling me. "Fuck!!" I yell.

I kick at the snow beneath me, frustration surging through my veins. I can’t wrap my head around it. A son— my son. Out there, somewhere, living a life without me. The thought is a punch to the gut.

I do the math in my head, replaying the timeline she gave me.

We broke up mid January, 2019. It was ugly, and I didn’t handle it well.

She said she found out she was pregnant in February. That means she likely got pregnant around January some time, probably when we had make-up sex that was never going to do anything to move the needle. The writing was on the wall.

February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October. He was probably born in October of twenty-nineteen, which means he’s just turned four—four years old, the same age as Sammy. He’s out there, somewhere, and I don’t even know his name. My son.

Sammy and my son could be growing up together, the same age. Helena and I could have shared a year together with our infant sons.

The pain twists in my chest, but there’s something else there too—something I don’t want to admit. Maybe she made the right choice.

I shake my head, trying to push the thought away. It doesn’t make the hurt any less real, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

Back then, I wasn’t in a place to take on another child. I had an eighteen-month-old son. I was just figuring out custody with Bev, and I was barely holding it together.

How could I have handled a second child? What kind of life would I have given him? One where I was constantly torn between responsibilities, trying to be a father to two kids from different mothers while juggling an ER schedule that barely gave me room to breathe.

I stop walking, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. As much as I hate it, as much as it kills me to admit, she did the best thing she could for him. Giving him to a family that could provide what neither she nor I could at the time.

But it still hurts like hell.

I glance up at the snow-covered landscape around me, the soft glow of Christmas lights from the resort in the distance. My heart aches, knowing there’s a child out there with my blood running through his veins. And I’ll never know him. Never be a part of his life.

I know she didn’t do it out of spite or cruelty. She was grieving her mom, dealing with the loss in a way I can’t even begin to understand, and she had to carry this child for nine months all by herself.

I was a dick. I didn’t answer her calls. I walked away. I made it easy for her to believe I wouldn’t have wanted to be there. In a way, I failed her long before she made the decision to give our baby up.

I let out a breath, my chest tight. I promised her I wouldn’t walk away again. I meant it. This time, I’ll be different.

Somehow, we will get through this. Or at least put in the work trying.

I start walking again, this time heading back toward the resort. I pick up my face. Suddenly I need to get back to her as soon as I can.

The snow crunches beneath me, each step a reminder that I can’t change the past. I can’t undo what’s been done. But I can choose how to move forward.

My emotions are a tangled mess—anger, hurt, confusion, despair—but I know one thing: I don’t want to lose her again. Not now. Not after everything we’ve been through.

I just hope she’s still there when I get back.

11:31 am

When I push the door open to my room, I immediately know something’s wrong. It’s quiet—too quiet. The bed is made, and the tray from breakfast is still there, untouched. My heart sinks.

She’s gone.

Panic hits me like a freight train. I left her alone, with all of that hanging in the air, and now she’s gone. What was I thinking?

I whirl around, sprinting for the door, my mind racing. I need to find her, need to fix this. I can’t lose her again, not like this. My hand slams against the elevator button, but when I glance at the display, it’s stuck several floors above me, not moving.

Damn it.

I turn and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time, my legs burning as I fly down three flights to the fourth floor. Her floor. When I reach her door, I barely pause to catch my breath before knocking.

Nothing.

I knock again, harder this time, my heart pounding in my chest. "Rives," I call through the door, hoping, praying she’s inside.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then, finally, the door creaks open. She stands there, her eyes red-rimmed, face pale. My chest tightens at the sight of her, and before she can say anything, I pull her into my arms.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry I left. Then and now.”

Her arms wrap around me hesitantly, but then she squeezes me tight, her face pressed against my chest. For a moment, we just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the weight of everything still hanging between us, but it’s different now. I feel it in the way she holds me.

“I panicked,” I admit softly, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do, but... I don’t want to leave things like this. I don’t want to leave you.”

She looks up at me, her expression softening, though her eyes are still full of uncertainty. “It’s okay, Nicholas. You were in shock. I get it.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have left you like that. Not after what you told me.”

She sighs, her fingers tracing the fabric of my shirt. “You came back. That’s what matters.”

I reach up, cupping her face gently, my thumb brushing her cheek. “I want to talk about it,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I want to understand. Will you... will you talk to me?”

Her eyes search mine for a long moment, and then she nods. “Of course.”

She steps aside, letting me into the room. The door closes softly behind us as we sit down together on the edge of the bed. The tension still lingers in the air, but it’s different now—quieter, softer.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “I don’t know where to start.”

“You can ask me anything,” she says quietly, her hands folded in her lap. “I’ll tell you everything.”

I pause, my thoughts spinning. The questions I had earlier flood my mind—how could she not tell me, why didn’t she try harder to reach me—but they feel... different now. Less important. What matters is that she was hurting, and I wasn’t there. What matters is that we both lost something, and neither of us realized how much it would change us.

“You tried to call me,” I say, my voice tight. “And I didn’t answer.”

She nods, her eyes filling with sadness. “I called you more than once. But you didn’t call back.”

I close my eyes for a second, the guilt hitting me hard. I remember those calls. I remember seeing her name on my phone, but I was too consumed with my own mess to pick up. I thought we were done, and I couldn’t deal with anything more.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I should’ve been there. For you. For him.”

She wipes at her eyes, her voice trembling. “I didn’t know what to do. I was a mess after my mom died, and then I had this... this huge thing hanging over me. I didn’t think you’d want to be part of it. I didn’t think you were in a place to deal with it. But I should have tried harder to tell you.”

I nod, understanding more than I care to admit. She isn't wrong. I wasn’t in a place to be a father to another child. But it still stings, knowing we both lost that chance.

“Do you ever think about him?” I ask softly. “About what could’ve been?”

She nods, her eyes filling with tears again. “Every day. I think about him every day. And I wonder if he’s happy, if he’s loved. I hope... I hope I made the right choice.”

My heart aches for her, for everything she’s carried on her own. I reach out, taking her hand in mine, squeezing it gently. “You did what you thought was best,” I say quietly. “And maybe it was exactly what needed to be done. We weren't in any place to have a child, together, or as co-parents.”

She looks at me, surprised, and I feel the emotion swelling in my chest. “I wasn’t ready,” I admit, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. “I wasn’t in a place to have another child. I barely knew how to be a father to Nicky back then. It would’ve been nearly impossible.”

She nods, tears spilling over as she leans into me. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, my heart breaking for both of us. We lost so much, but in this moment, it feels like maybe we can find a way to move forward together.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. “I can’t lose you again, Rives.”

She looks up at me, her face streaked with tears, but her eyes are filled with something softer now. Hope.

“You’re not going to lose me,” she says quietly.

Sitting here with Rives, I realize how much has shifted. It’s not that everything’s suddenly okay. It’s not. There’s still this giant hole inside me, knowing I have a child out there.

But I don’t blame her. I can’t. She did what she thought was best, and when I think back to where I was at the time, I can’t imagine any other way that would have been best for the baby.

I asked her a hundred questions. Hell, I still have more. Where did she go when she found out she was pregnant? What was the adoption process like?

She doesn't know anything about the family—only that they were a few years older than her, desperate for a child, and that the adoption was private. She had no way of knowing who they were, and honestly, I think she preferred it that way. She didn’t want the attachment. It was a clean break, or at least as clean as something like this could be.

To her credit, she answered all my questions. Every single thing I threw at her, she gave me straight, even if the answer sucked. There was never any hesitation on her part, no holding back. And even though part of me is still reeling, there’s a quiet relief in knowing. In understanding.

I’ve asked how she managed to keep it together after everything happened—losing her mom, finding out she was pregnant, and then making that impossible decision on her own.

She admitted she didn’t keep it together. She told me she crumbled for a while, and it wasn’t until much later that she started to rebuild. Hearing that just made me feel worse, knowing I wasn’t there to help her through it.

And yet, somehow, here we are. Sitting together, picking up pieces we didn’t even know were still shattered.

"You're amazing. You know that, right?"

"I don't feel very amazing right now," she answers. She seems almost defeated, but I still see that spark in her blue eyes. There's a softness there, a deep softness I hadn’t appreciated before all of this.

Maybe it’s because we’ve laid it all bare. There are no more secrets, no more half-truths. And somehow, that feels heavier than anything else. It's an awesome responsibility.

“I don’t know what’s next,” I say quietly, breaking the silence. My voice is rough, thick with emotion. “But I know I want to try to figure it out with you.”

Rives meets my gaze, her eyes brimming with understanding. “I feel the same way. Now that we know everything, we have a clean slate to find out.”

“Speaking of clean slate, I need some food. That bacon can only tide me over for so long. What do you say? The Last Dollar for burgers?”

“I never thought you’d ask!”