JACKSON

"Whatever business you think you have with her, I can assure you that you're wrong," I say, keeping the door open only as much as it needs to be. I don't plan on letting these police officers strongarm their way into the house or anywhere near April. "On what grounds are you here? On private property, no less."

The bigger, bulkier officer clears his throat. I'm not intimidated by them, though I'm sure they would like for me to be. "We were called by an anonymous informant," he says. "And because of that, we need to speak with your wife. Is she available?"

"She's not," I say sternly, not budging. "What concerns her also concerns me." I stand a little straighter, a little more assertively. "I'm sure you're aware of whose household you're at." I'm not blind to the power I hold in the community; I'm used to throwing my weight around. Even more so before April came into the picture. Now, it's harder to picture myself doing as such. But when the situation calls for it - and I have reason to believe this one does - desperate times call for desperate measures. "So, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to know what this 'anonymous informant' told you."

It's clear I've knocked them down a peg, which had been my goal. The lesser officer to the right clasps his hands at his waist and lifts his chin, preparing to speak. "It's been brought to our attention that your wife was involved in the murder of an infant," he says.

A waves of adrenaline washes through me but I don't let it show on my face. Instead, I appear surprised and shocked, like that's the last thing I expected him to say. "Excuse me?" I sputter, squinting. "How would that make sense?" I shake my head. "I always thought I could take the Chicago PD seriously. But instead, you spend your days making house calls for pranks."

"It wasn't a prank, sir," the bigger officer says seriously.

"Where's the evidence?" I press, not missing a beat. I make direct eye contact without wavering - I won't be the one who backs down. "Because I have plenty that's counterintuitive. I've known my wife for the better part of our lives, though we've kept our relationship quite secret. Don't you think I would be aware of such a thing?" I close my eyes for a moment. "It's laughable that you would run with this lead as if you're unafraid of losing funding from the Avery foundation."

"Mr. Avery, understand that we're just trying to do our job," the left officer says. "We didn't come here with any pretenses."

"You came here believing what a faceless voice told you," I say, though I'm very aware of the face behind the voice. I knew the minute I answered the door and saw uniforms standing in the threshold. "How credible does that seem in hindsight?" Their facial expressions crumple a bit and I know I have them right where they need to be. "I know my wife better than I know anyone else, and to think she's capable of such a thing is ludicrous and quite honestly, offensive. If you'd like to look an innocent woman in the eye and accuse her, be my guest. But if you choose to do so, be aware that the consequences will be greater than any satisfaction you might glean."

"No, sir," the bigger officer says, and I'm aware I have the upper hand now. No longer am I the victim whose property the police forced their way onto, instead they're trespassers. I learned from my mother how to quickly flip the script in such a way. "That's alright."

"I assume you'll be leaving then," I say.

"Yes, sir."

"Please, don't make this a habit," I say, one hand gripping the doorknob with incredible strength. It's the hand they can't see, though. To them, I'm the picture of calm, cool and collected. If I were anything else, they'd have reason to be suspicious and I won't give them such pleasure. "I'd like not to see you here again."

"Of course. Our apologies."

I give them a nod and close the door without any further goodbyes, turning around with the feeling of a searing hot poker in my gut. I'm not sure where April is at the moment, but she's not on the forefront of my mind. Of course she's there, but whatever might ensue between us can wait. The issue of Antonio cannot.

I walk with purpose to the southerly part of the house, where I can usually find him. He's not there, though, seemingly deliberately, so my anger rises as I make my way back to the front of the house. Seemingly waiting for me, he's poised near the door, having obviously heard the conversation between myself and the officers. "Mr. Avery," he says smoothly, wearing a slick expression.

"I know it was you," I say, unwilling to waste time. I don't want him in this house any longer, circling our atmosphere and tainting it. Everything will improve once he's gone. I'll be able to think more clearly and help April in the way she needs, the way we both need. With him lurking about, nothing positive will happen because he'll make sure of it. "It was you who called the police."

"Was I wrong to do so?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "What transpires between my wife and me is, quite frankly, none of your business. You work for this household and my family but our affairs are not yours. I think you've come to think differently."

"I was your grandfather's number one advisor," he says. "I've always had your family's best interest in mind. And if I'm being honest with you, your murderer of a wife doesn't fit the Avery bill. Do you really expect her to carry out the duties of an Avery woman? To hold herself with dignity and grace while knowing what an abhorrent thing she did? If she's capable of such a thing, what else is she capable of?" He squints, eyes boring into me. "Have you thought past your own nose, Mr. Avery? Past the fact that she's beautiful and bends to your will? Have you thought about how a girl like her will mar your family name that has been built up for generations upon generations?" My silence gives him what he wants, though it doesn't mean what he thinks. "I hadn't thought so. She doesn't belong here, and she doesn't deserve this roof over her head. Imagine what Harper would think. Imagine what Robert would think."

My skin tingles. I want nothing more than to launch forward and punch him square in the jaw, but violence will solve nothing. It's not the way in which I want to assert my power; I'm above that. "My father would adore her much in the way I do," I say, teeth clenched. "Keep his name out of your mouth. You know how he felt about you. I never knew why, but now I've begun to understand. April is important to me and I won't allow you to ruin her."

"As if a woman like her doesn't deserve to be ruined," Antonio says. "She killed a child, Mr. Avery, and threw the body in a dumpster. I'm surprised you're able to look at her and see the same person you once did. The violence, it's inhumane. I'd be surprised if she has the propensity to feel towards you what you think you feel for her. She's a monster."

"She is no such thing," I growl, nearing him with my body on fire. "I won't hear her name on your lips again. I want you out by tonight."

"Out?" he repeats, eyebrows up. "You're firing me, Mr. Avery? You don't have the power."

"I'm the patriarch of this household and I don't want you in it," I say, unrelenting. "I don't want you associated with the Avery name any longer. You've now slandered it and that was the final straw. You're clearly against us; it's not in our best interest to continue employing you."

"You're making a mistake," he says coolly. "I know all the dark secrets about your delicate little wife that I'm sure neither of you would like the media to see. Isn't it smarter to keep your enemies close?"

"I don't care!" I roar, having no control over the way my temper explodes. I can't stand to look at his face any longer and if he doesn't clear away soon, he's going to get hit. "I want you out of this house and out of this family. For good. You won't be coming back."

We stare at each other for a long moment, sizing up the other and waiting for someone to move first. I refuse; I'll stand here until he leaves, and he realizes as much. He breaks eye contact and slowly marches past me, towards his quarters to assumedly collect his things. I watch the back of his head as he disappears, ignoring the urge to shout something after him and undercut the power of my orders. No more words are needed, I laid everything out. If he's not gone by nightfall, then I'll have to force him out. But until then, all there is to do is wait.

So slowly, I go upstairs to the old studio. It's not a conscious decision, but my feet eagerly take me as if it were. Strangely enough, though I'd come to be alone, the door is already cracked and there's movement inside. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if it's Antonio come to destroy the remaining parts of my father, but when I push the door further I see April. She's crouched by the window, one arm resting on the sill with her legs tucked under her. Her forehead rests on one wrist as she leans forward, shoulders shaking with powerful sobs.

"April," I say quietly so not to scare her.

It does, anyway, though. She jumps and flips around, madly wiping her eyes, appearing like she got caught doing something she shouldn't. "I'm sorry," she says with a hiccup. "I shouldn't be here, I know."

She gets up to leave, but I stop her. "It's okay," I say.

"No, this is your space," she says, attempting to brush me off. "I just thought you were gone, so… I don't know. It was a dumb idea."

I blink and take a long look at her. Her shiny, wet cheeks, bloodshot eyes and the dark circles beneath them. She's exhausted, that much is clear. "It's calming, isn't it," I say softly, taking her hand in mine. She looks at the contact and then back up at my eyes, nodding. "I know," I say. "Being in here after so many years, I remember why I liked it so much."

She relaxes against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. She still keeps my hand as she asks, "Are they going to take me away?"

"Who?" I ask, momentarily forgetting.

Fear flashes across her eyes. "The police," she says. "They were here for me. I heard them at the door."

"Oh," I say, the thick lies I told coming back in droves. I'm not sure how to go about telling her what I said and now isn't the time. I don't think she could handle it. "No. I made them leave."

"How?" she asks.

"It doesn't matter right now," I say. "What matters is they're gone and they won't be back. No one's going to take you away, April. I won't let that happen."

She nods to herself, chewing her lower lip. Every time she blinks, new tears fall but she does nothing to clear them. Instead, she lets them roll down her smooth skin and slip past her jaw to make a trail all the way down her neck. "It was Antonio," she whispers after a long period of silence has passed.

"I know," I respond. She lifts her head to meet my eyes, visibly surprised. "I fired him. He's on his way out."

"You fired him?" she says incredulously. "How?"

"Easily," I say. "I'm head of house. He obviously has a vendetta against you and since you are a part of this family, he has animosity towards us as a whole. I won't accept such a thing under our roof."

"Oh," she says, releasing a bit of tension. "Oh."

I move to sit next to her, leaning against the wall as well. I extend an arm and she looks at me warily, judging the situation before falling into my side. She does so eventually, though, and melts against my body in a way that grounds me so much. "My father never liked him," I murmur, turning so my lips move against her hair. "I never knew why. He always seemed fine to me, as a child. But now, I understand." She nods and I rub her outer arm, kissing her crown while letting my lips linger. "April, I will never let him nor anyone else hurt you."

She shakes her head, shoulders growing tight again. Her arms curl into her chest as she makes herself smaller, muscles tightening. "How can you be so kind to me after all I told you?" she asks.

I take my time in replying because, in all honesty, I'm not sure of the answer myself. When she told me the secret she'd been keeping safe for so long, it was nothing I expected and I was horrified, as anyone would be. But I wasn't disgusted or appalled. She was a child, only 16. She had no resources and, in her mind, no other choice. If I'm to feel disgusted by anyone, it's her ex-boyfriend Matthew who was a legal adult and wrong in more ways than one. I'm deeply saddened that it happened, but I feel no differently towards April. And if I do, it's only positively - I understand her more deeply, I can sympathize with her whereas I wasn't able to before. A wall was broken, which is what I wanted. But now, there's a certain degree of separation because of it - she assumes I'm scrutinizing her because of what she did, when that is simply not the case. I need to find a way to make her believe it. "Because you're my wife," I tell her. "And that means more to me than I can find words to explain. You mean more to me, April."

"I did an awful thing," she says, tucking her face into my neck.

"But this is how you move forward," I say. "It wasn't doing you any good to keep it bottled up. By unearthing it, you're setting yourself free."

"I don't deserve to be set free," she whimpers.

I close my eyes and lean my cheek against the top of her head, spotting a small, photograph-sized canvas only a few feet away. I reach and hold it between my hands, recognizing it as one of the last pieces I painted before my father passed away. "On warm nights, my father would take me to the lake," I say, speaking quietly after studying the painting for a long while. April's breathing changes as she listens, turning her face towards the picture I'm holding. "When he began teaching me watercolor, that is. It's an important medium, but one hard to control. Real-life inspiration works the best, and he always told me sunsets were the only place to start. We spent countless nights on the sand with canvases in front of us; we'd bring our paints and arrive just in time for it to start. We had to paint fast, it didn't last forever, but that was the most exciting part. Every night, it was different and we had the chance to capture that uniqueness." I trace the edges of the small canvas resting against my thighs. "This was the last one I created before his death. He wasn't there, but told me to bring the painting back to show him."

"Did you?" she asks. Her voice almost surprises me; I'd been so lost in my head, so lost in that memory, I'd almost forgotten she was there.

"I did," I say, and if I close my eyes I can remember his face when I showed him. I smile a bit and say, "He told me that I did so well, he could the sun come to life and she was a redhead." I point to the oranges and fiery reds in the painting, the colors having not faded one bit. "Funny. I haven't thought about that for so long. But it comes back, looking at this. The sun is a redhead."

April tips her face up, deep sadness still laden in her eyes. I close mine and kiss the space between her eyebrows, then run my fingers through her beautiful hair while keeping her close. Watching her in the low light of the room, I'm sure my father was right.

…

The next morning, I wake before April does. The sun is just coming up and our room is warm; I don't want to move but know that I should. I hear Calliope's voice sounding from downstairs and the tone isn't warm. Something doesn't feel right.

I turn to watch my wife for a moment, lying on her stomach with the covers pushed to her ankles. Her arms are under the pillow with her face turned towards me, back rising and falling as she breathes deeply. I lean over and press a kiss to the back of her head, stroking her hair a few times before sliding off the mattress and into my robe.

I make eye contact with Calliope as soon as I come down the stairs and she's hanging up the phone wearing a harried expression. "Jackson," she says, breathless.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, eyebrows furrowed. "Who called so early?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, clearly upset. "I was talking to the people over at US Weekly," she says.

"Why?"

She runs her teeth over her top lip and lets out a long sigh. "Because of these," she says, tossing a few magazines over the tabletop. "I already called Star and OK! No success anywhere."

I stare at the covers for much too long, taking in the horror. The same photo is on the cover of all three with relatively similar headlines. APRIL AVERY - A BABY KILLER TWICE OVER? The words stare me in the face and I feel sick to my stomach. With a shaking hand, I reach to pick up US Weekly and flip to the article featuring April and me. I only read the title before closing it - Chicago's sweetheart might not be as sweet as we thought.

"Antonio did this," I say, keeping my voice low. "The police couldn't do anything, so he took to the press." I stand in place and clench my fists, inhale deeply, then shout, "The fucking bastard!"

"Wait, this is true?" Callie asks. "I've been on the phone with magazine outlets for an hour refuting a story that's true?"

"No," I say instantly. "Well, yes. But no. That blood - this blood all over April…" I point to photo on the cover that showcases her cradled in my arms, limp and wet. I have no idea how that picture was taken; I don't remember seeing any photographers on our way out. I must have been too distracted. "That isn't hers. That's fake, it was from my mother's party."

"Then what's true about all this?" she prompts.

I sigh, knowing I have to tell her. "Don't say a word," I say, and Callie nods seriously. "April had a stillbirth when she was 16. Antonio overheard the conversation we had yesterday and contacted the police because the way April and the father of the child disposed of the baby left much to be desired. It was a mistake, yes, but getting the law involved wasn't the way to go. I had to shake them off and I fired Antonio. He warned me he would do this… I didn't think he would go through with it."

"Well, he did," Callie says, seemingly unfazed by everything I dropped on her. That's one of her strengths - she is absolutely unflappable. "And the magazines won't recall their issues. It was a long shot, but I tried. Everything is on the stands already as of midnight last night. I don't know what else I can do."

I think quickly, pulling out my phone. "I'll handle it," I say.

"I already made the calls, Jackson," she says.

"I'm not calling the magazines," I say. "I'm calling Yang and the legal team."

I spend a while on the phone with our family's horde of lawyers, all willing to fight like dogs for the sake of my family name. They've been with us for years and we hired them for a reason - they never lose. Along with getting the magazines pulled, I organize a team to sue Antonio for defamation of character. I won't take this lying down.

Unfortunately, the phone calls also includes one to my mother that forces me to explain everything. It lasts for much too long, is filled with far too many questions, and by the end I feel she dislikes April more than ever for 'running our name through the mud.' Trying to tell her otherwise was useless, and though I've made plenty progress by the time I hang up the phone, defeat weighs heavy on my shoulders.

"Baby?" I hear from behind when the sun has risen much higher.

I've been leaning forward with my hands on the table and my head hung low for quite some time. I don't know how long exactly, but Calliope is gone and I'm alone in the kitchen - well, now with April having joined me. "Hi," I say tiredly. I've been up for hours, though it's barely 9am.

"Are you alright?"

I lift up and look at her where she stands, wrapped in the same gauzy robe as yesterday when she told me everything. She looks a bit more rested now, though her hair is a mess and her eyes are wide with trepidation. In the time she spends staring at me, she doesn't so much as blink once. "I… no, not exactly," I say.

She inches closer in socked feet. I look down and see that they're pink and fuzzy, making her feet look bigger than usual. If I weren't so distracted, I would think it's adorable. "What's wrong?" she asks.

I rub my temples with a thumb and forefinger and raise my eyebrows, breathing deeply as I gesture towards the magazines on the table. She comes closer and stands next to me, arms curled close as she gasps at what's before her. "What… what does this mean?" she asks, picking one up. "This isn't true. They're saying… they're saying I'm… but that blood isn't real."

"I know," I say, eyes still closed. "I'm doing what I can to get them off the shelves. My legal team is on it already. I didn't want you to have to see them; I wouldn't have shown you, but I don't think we should keep things from each other anymore."

"You're right," she says quietly, setting the magazine back down. She takes a long breath to say, "People think I'm a murderer. No one will look at me the same."

"Everyone knows these magazines are bullshit," I spit. "It's a bunch of gossip, and anyone with a brain doesn't believe it. And even so, they won't be out for long. Our team has a lot of power."

"It's not entirely a lie, though," she says, lips barely moving. "I am a baby killer. Just not twice."

"April, stop," I say. "Don't say that. It's so much more complicated than that."

She doesn't respond, she only gets quiet and turns away from the display on the table, unable to look anymore. "You were having nightmares last night," she says. "Trying to talk. Kicking. You wouldn't settle down."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"It didn't bother me," she says. "I just felt bad."

"You should've woken me up. You need your rest."

"I tried," she says. "You wouldn't. I tried to soothe you, but nothing took. You were really upset."

"I guess I have a lot on my mind right now," I say.

"Of course you do," she says. "So do I, so I understand. I'm just sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry anymore, April," I tell her, turning towards her with a determined look in my eyes. "I mean that. What happened was in the past. It can't haunt you anymore."

"It does, though," she mutters. "It always will."

"Not always," I say, standing up straight to move further into the kitchen. "Do you want something to eat? It'll do you some good."

"Sure."

"I'll call the chef."

"No," she says. "We can make it."

I shoot her a look. "I don't cook," I say. "I promise, it'll be fast and the chef will make it a thousand times better."

"You can learn," she says, and there's a smile in her eyes for the first time in a while. I'd be evil to cast it away. "Just pancakes. They aren't hard as long as we have all the ingredients. It'll be fun. It'll take our minds off everything."

"Okay," I concede, seeing her point. "Sure."

We find all the ingredients needed and she tells me what to do. "You pour the dry ingredients into this bowl," she says, pushing a small one towards me. "Not too much and not too little. Just like the recipe says. That's important."

"Yes, chef," I say, noticing how she stands behind me. She guides my wrists as I measure the ingredients and trails her fingers along my forearms while I pour them into the bowl, watching carefully from around my side.

"Just like that," she says gently, leaning her cheek against my outer bicep. "You're doing so well. A very fast learner."

"Thank you," I say, sifting the dry ingredients together as she wraps her arms low on my waist. She hugs me tight and presses her cheek between my shoulder blades, lingering for a long moment while I mix and stir. My chest swells with a feeling I can't name - or one I'm afraid to name - and I find myself wanting to be with her like this forever. At the moment, I can't think of anything better. "I'm sorry for what Antonio did," I say, feeling the need to say as much.

"It's not your fault," she says. "It's mine. I shouldn't have told you in such an open area."

"It was his fault, not yours," I correct. "He had ill intentions and that was his issue. Don't take responsibility for his lack of character, sweetest."

I hear her smile though I can't see her face. "Sweetest," she says. "I like that."

"Good," I say.

"Jackson," I hear, turning to see Calliope in the entryway wearing a pensive expression. She's holding the landline with a hand cupped over the receiver, waiting for my attention. "Phone call for you."

"Who is it?" I ask, being that this is a moment I don't want interrupted. I've been feeling quite separate from April for too long and we've started to pull together again. I don't want it cut short.

"It's important," she says. "Trust me."

"Okay…" I say, trailing my fingers over April's birdlike wrists. "I'll be back, okay? Don't finish without me."

"I won't," she says, unwinding her grip and watching me walk towards Calliope.

"Who is it?" I ask once we're out of the kitchen and in the main entrance.

"Matthew Taylor," she says.

"Am I supposed to know who that is?" I ask, frustrated. I only left April because whoever is on the the phone is supposedly important. A name I'm not familiar with doesn't fall into that category.

"Yes, you are," she says. "Matthew Taylor is the father of your wife's late child." She extends her arm and, in turn, the phone towards me. "He wants to talk to you."

I blink hard and stare at the device like I've never seen one before. I take it from her while setting my shoulders straight and clearing my throat, turning my back once I lift the phone to my ear. "Jackson Avery speaking," I say coolly.

"Um, hi," a meek-sounding voice says. "This… this is Matthew Taylor."

"I'm aware," I say. Hearing his voice doesn't make my respect for him increase in the slightest - I still think he's a cowardly, spineless, pathetic prick who should have known better. And not only that, he's a manipulator who took advantage of a minor. He gets none of my sympathy, nor will he ever.

"I saw the magazines," he says. "I saw my April with… with you."

I raise my eyebrows and blink hard, flabbergasted that he would say such a thing. His April? I shake my head to clear it and resist getting into a petty argument over the phone with a stranger. His opinion and words mean nothing. What means something is both signatures on the legal marriage document that April and I share. "Yes, she was with me," I state. "She's my wife. We're together often."

"She's married now, I read that," he says. "In the article, there was information about what happened to our baby."

He came out and said it so forthrightly, without any hesitation. That forces me to see him in an even worse light. His voice doesn't tremble nor does it seem to hold much emotion. I can't even conjure up a decent image of this person in my head, but I know I don't like him. "The magazines are being recalled," I say. "And your name wasn't mentioned. You have nothing to worry about."

"It's not that," he says. "I want to see her."

"Excuse me?" I say, forehead wrinkling. That's the last thing I expected him to say. I thought he might be angry with the story coming out, but nothing like this. I never thought I'd actually meet this person, nor did I ever want to.

"I haven't seen April since it happened," he says. "She fell off the face of the earth. We… we pulled apart. We had to. There was no way we could stay together after what happened, but I'm ready to see her again."

"Oh, you're ready," I say.

"Yes."

I make an incredulous sound. "I'll discuss it with her," I say. "If she wants to see you, then so be it. But if she doesn't, I won't press the issue."

"Okay," he says. "Is she there? Could I talk to her?"

"No," I say flatly.

"Could you at least tell her that I called?"

"I'll have a discussion with her about your potential meeting," I say. "Thank you for calling."

I hang up and exhale loudly, setting the receiver down on the tabe in the middle of the room. I keep one hand over it, encasing the whole thing, and feel my body become heavier again. He wants to see her. He wants to see her because he's ready to see her, and that's apparently a good enough reason. Unbelievable.

I lift my head and take one step back towards the kitchen, but I stop before I can get far. Going back in there means April asking who was on the phone, then having to tell her, and that's not something I want to do. She shouldn't have to unearth that part of her life more than she already has; the skin has already been peeled back and I assume his presence would only pour salt inside.

Before I can have any further debate with myself, I hear her voice. "Jackson?" she peeps, and I look up to see she's standing in the kitchen doorway, peering around the half-wall.

"Baby, hi," I say, mouth gone dry.

"I heard you on the phone," she whispers, fingers tangling together as she chews the inside of her cheek. The color has drained from her face and left even her lips a ghostly white. Her hair stands as a shock juxtaposed next to the paleness and sends a shiver up my spine. She doesn't look like herself.

"You did," I murmur.

She nods and asks, "He wants to see me?"

I open and close my mouth in an attempt to organize the thoughts inside my head. "Yes," I say. "But it's something we should talk about. He-"

"I want to see him," she says.

"April," I say with a sigh. "It won't be that simple. Seeing him could dredge up emotions that you aren't ready for. These resurging memories are all so new, who's to say what you can and cannot handle right now?"

"I can handle seeing him," she insists. "I need to, Jackson. The last time I saw him was that night. Afterwards, neither of us contacted the other again. I just need that closure. I need to see him and know he's real and that it happened."

I set my jaw firmly. "He hurt you," I say.

Her hand flies to her stomach involuntarily. "He thought he was doing the best thing for me," she says.

"How could he think that?" I protest. "He got through medical school, he was a goddamn surgical intern. And he thought an emergency C-section with a kitchen knife on a dirty bathroom floor was the best option? You have to be kidding, April."

The apples of her cheeks turn pink and bring a bit of color back to her complexion. "You weren't there," she says. "I told you everything, but you didn't live through it. Only two people did, and I need to see the other one. I can't keep feeling like it was only me."

…

The next day, Matthew is due to our house. I arranged the meeting at the mansion deliberately because it's out of the eyes of the press and will be a private ordeal. I'm already dreading the occurrence, there's no need to make it worse with the presence of the media.

April is nervous, I can tell. She's trying to pretend that she's not, but she hasn't stopped fidgeting for the better part of the morning. Before coming downstairs, she changed her clothes three times and fussed with her hair in the mirror until she was satisfied. No matter how many times I told her she looked fine, she didn't hear me. My voice has fallen on deaf ears since the moment we woke up.

"He's here," Calliope says after speaking into her Bluetooth. "He's driving up now."

April leads the way to wait on the porch and I follow suit, stiffly, beside her. I wait with my feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped at my waist, watching the driveway with a stoic expression. She's not so much excited, per se, as she is jittery. Her whole body appears to be vibrating and not in the good way. I can't discern what she's feeling specifically and now isn't the time to discuss it.

His car is no more than I expected as it rolls up the pavement and comes to a stop. When he gets out, he's everything that qualifies as average. A white man with mousy brown hair, wide shoulders, and a dopey face. When he locks eyes with April, my gut lurches and I wonder if I'm in danger of vomiting. It would be the cherry on top of this awful moment.

She doesn't move. She stands with one hand gripping the opposite elbow and watches him as he approaches, shoes tapping against the asphalt with each step. I watch him, too, gauging his movements while staying alert. I don't plan on letting my guard down or exhaling throughout this entire meeting, and I hope he notices. I don't want him to feel comfortable.

"April," he says once he's close enough. He smiles and I feel sick. "You… you grew up."

"So did you," she says.

I resist the urge to raise my upper lip at his comment; it doesn't sit right with me. Of course she grew up - the last time he was with her, intimately at that, she was 16 years old. I'm beyond disgusted.

"It's so good to see you," he says. "I can't believe… sorry. I can't believe it's you."

"I know," she says. There's a grin on her face but not in her voice, and that's a sentiment I'm very familiar with from her. I watch her carefully, wondering how she'll progress, but her face is soon shrouded from view as Matthew wraps her in an overly-enthusiastic hug. It takes her a moment to reciprocate but eventually she does, and I harden even further. It's like there's a metal rod in my spine, forcing me to stand as rigidly as possible. I've never been more uncomfortable, and my rage builds with each passing second. When he pulls away, he goes to cup her face, but she turns demurely away and looks to me. "Matty, this is my husband. Jackson."

He looks at me and, if I'm not mistaken, sizes me up. I stand a bit taller than him though he's broader, and my presence is much more confident. That's no surprise. "We spoke on the phone," I say without any inflection.

"Yeah, we did," he says, shaking my hand without my permission. I'm flustered but finish the handshake for the purpose of cordiality. "Thanks for letting me stop by."

I nod curtly while making steady eye contact and he breaks first, which I knew he would. We make our way inside not long after and sit with coffee in the front room - April and me and the couch with Matthew in an armchair across from us.

"When I saw you on the cover of that magazine, I was like… what the fuck?" he rambles, going on his tenth minute of solo conversation. "I barely recognized you with all that blood. But at the same time, I actually did recognize you, 'cause like that was how I last saw you, you know? It was a lot to take in. I freaked out. No one even knows that I was part of the whole thing, nobody except your mom and I know she won't say shit. So, I bought every magazine on the rack so no one could read them. It cost a shitload, by the way, but that doesn't look like it's a problem for you anymore. But yeah, I read all of them and realized my name wasn't even in there and then the store wouldn't take the magazines back. So, that was annoying as fuck. Why would they make up that shit about you, though? That you killed a baby twice? It wasn't twice."

"It wasn't once," I cut in sternly, power behind my voice. "You should know better than to word it in such a way."

"My bad," he says. "Sorry. It's been a really long time."

"You haven't forgotten, though, have you?" April says quietly. She traces the rim of her mug and stare at Matthew with intensity. "Don't you think about it every day?"

"I don't know about every day," he answers. "I think about it sometimes. I mean, I really thought about it after seeing the magazines. All that blood. It never came out of my cloth seats, so that kinda made me remember that I had to sell that car for parts." I can't contain myself for much longer; the anger is about to boil over. "So, are you guys ever gonna have a kid?" he asks. "How's that scar, by the way?"

"Listen to yourself," I say, standing up so quickly that April jumps. I tower over Matthew and he doesn't do a thing to level the playing field. Instead, he just stares at me. "Honestly, listen to the words coming out of your mouth. How old are you now, 26?" I shake my head with my upper lip raised. "You must have aged backwards. I've never been a stupider, more willingly dense person."

"Hey. Listen, man-"

"No," I say, jutting a hand out towards his face. "Not only are you incorrigibly wrong in the way you speak about what happened, but you're a deplorable human being. You took advantage of a 16-year-old girl. 15, really. A child. You impregnated a child and left her following tragedy. Do you realize what kind of person that makes you? You left her to clean up the mess, literally and figuratively, and bear the weight while you went and lived the rest of your life the way you wanted. Had you never thought to reach out to her? To check on her? Of course you didn't. Because you're a child, Matthew Taylor. No wonder you were attracted to one, you sick fuck." I take a deep breath through my nose and hold it for a moment before letting it free. "I want you out of our home," I say, pointing towards the door. "You shouldn't have come. Get out. Now. Don't think about coming back to try and scrape up what you did."

Without a word and much as I expected, he turns tail and leaves in the way he came. After the door closes and security ushers him down the driveway, April and I exist in stunned silence in the front room, an empty chair left in the place of her ex-boyfriend.

"Why did you do that?" she finally asks, tone weak.

"Do what?" I ask.

"Why would you let him come over if only to berate him?" she says, blinking up at me with a scowl. "It was unfair. You cornered him, Jackson. He couldn't win."

"He shouldn't win," I say stubbornly, knowing I was right. "He hurt you, April. Can't you see that? Can't you see that a 21-year-old made adult mistakes with a child who had no way of knowing better? Don't you see that he's the one who should shoulder the weight of the blame here?"

Her lower lip trembles in a way that lets me know she realizes exactly that but can't admit it. "The feelings I had for him made blame impossible at the time," she says, barely a peep.

"I'm not talking about 'at the time,'" I insist. "I'm talking about now. What about feelings now, right now? It's not too late to realize that he was the one in the wrong. It would make you feel exponentially lighter if you'd just admit that."

"It's not as simple as admitting it," she says. "Of course I see how it looks from the outside. But on the inside, isn't it always so much different?"

"Not this time," I say. "Not with what he did to you - or all he should've done."

"But I can't go back and change it," she says. "And what good would holding a grudge do now? It's over."

"I don't know," I say. "But watching you sit here and just… accept every foolish thing that came out of his mouth was too much to bear."

"You hate him," she says, point blank.

I don't bother refuting it. "Sure," I say. "I hate him."

"Why?" she asks. "Why waste your energy?"

"Because I don't like to see the person I love suffer," I say, and what I've said dawns on me only after the words come out. I love her. I don't know how long I've loved her, but there's no denying it anymore. Especially not now, after saying it in such plain terms. I love her.

"The person you...?" she echoes, the concept sinking in in the same way it is with me.

I nod slowly, gravely, eyes locked with hers. "Yes," I say. "Love."