When We Fell Down

  Alexa Padgett

  Sidecar Press, LLC

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2017 by Alexa Padgett

  * * *

  Edited by Deborah Nemeth and Nicole Pomeroy

  Cover Art by Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Designs

  For Chris. Always.

  Contents

  1. Ella

  2. Simon

  3. Ella

  4. Simon

  5. Ella

  6. Simon

  7. Ella

  8. Simon

  9. Ella

  10. Simon

  11. Ella

  12. Simon

  13. Ella

  14. Simon

  15. Ella

  16. Simon

  17. Ella

  18. Simon

  19. Ella

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Acknowledgments

  About Alexa Padgett

  Also by Alexa Padgett

  Excerpt from A Moonlit Serenade

  1

  Ella

  Jeremiah clutched my hand, beaming with pride. We watched the fans, all wrapped up in winter gear, cheeks red from the wind that tunneled into the outdoor venue, clap and cheer for the song Simon wrote for Jeremiah’s birth.

  “He sounds great,” Jeremiah said with a grin. He raised his shining eyes to his father, who was on the stage set up in the middle of the large field. I shivered, surprised by the chill here in Georgia.

  “Indeed. Better than ever.” Bittersweet, this moment. Selfish though it was, I preferred Simon gripping his guitar on the edge of our bed, singing to my belly rounded with our son. Performances such as today’s stroked Simon’s ego. That moment only I could remember, nearly thirteen years ago, was love. Unfiltered, raw, and potent.

  What I’d always dreamed our life would be.

  I blinked back the memory and firmed my chin. Jeremiah needed to see his father, and I . . . well, I had some important details to share with Simon as well.

  Simon bowed, his dark hair falling onto his forehead, his hazel eyes bright as he waved to this cheering crowd, signaling the end of his set. He walked off the other side of the stage, still unaware of our presence. I squeezed Jeremiah’s hand and began the arduous effort of maneuvering around the large crew who would be setting up for the next group to take the stage—some hip-hop act I wasn’t familiar with. Much as I loved music, I was also single parenting and much too exhausted to find time for new musicians I wanted to follow.

  “What’s the plan, Mom?”

  “Find your father and yell surprise. What else would we do, love?”

  Jeremiah bit his lip, eyes rounding with anxiety. “You sure he’s going to be glad to see us?”

  Same refrain, different day. “Of course, my darling. Don’t fret. Your father’s been busy living his dream. But now it’s time to remind him of his best accomplishment.” I slung my arm over Jeremiah’s shoulder, pulling him closer to my side.

  “Dad!” Jeremiah cried, freeing himself from my embrace to break into a run. He flung his arms around Simon’s waist. Simon, for his part, recovered after a couple of staggering steps and hugged Jeremiah back, no longer needing to bend over so he could press his cheek to Jeremiah’s crown. A pang of disappointment slammed through me—Jeremiah, now twelve, reached Simon’s nose. Last time they’d been together, Jeremiah was at least an inch—probably more—shorter.

  “Good to see you, bud.” He stood to his full height and caught sight of me. “Ella.”

  His eyes lit up and he smiled, making me ache.

  “This is the best Christmas surprise.”

  “Really, Simon?” I asked, a catch building in my throat as I fingered the papers in my bag. “That’s how you want to play this?”

  Jeremiah glanced between us, his teeth sunk deep into his lower lip to keep it from quivering. “Not here,” Jeremiah whispered. His lip began to tremble. “Not now.”

  But Simon either didn’t hear Jeremiah’s plea or chose to ignore it. “Play what?” he asked, his brows pulling low over his nose.

  The bloody, bloody . . . twat! I pulled the thick sheaf from the depths of my bag. “The divorce papers you had served to me at school? In front of my entire sophomore choral class. Yes, dear, I did receive those. Thank you so much for the humiliation.”

  “Not now,” Jeremiah practically wailed.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Ella?” Simon’s voice was hard. If I hadn’t been holding the incriminating documents, I might have paused, considered the look on his face. But, as I watched, his lovely hazel eyes darkened, and he scowled.

  He had no right to be upset with me. Not after those pictures. Not after him doing this to me.

  “Your son wanted to meet his stepmum.”

  Simon stepped back, affronted. “What has gotten into you? I’m married to you. Only you.”

  “Right. Good to hear straight from your mouth since that’s not what we’ve both read on the internet—not that you’d bothered to call and tell us any of this yourself.” I swallowed back the ball of emotion that built in my chest, burning up my throat. He’d promised to love me, forever. And, silly me, I believed him—believed in us—even after pictures came out two months ago: pictures of him cuddling in close to Monique, his publicist. The speculation about our impending divorce skyrocketed, but Simon played blasé, saying the entire situation was overblown and he’d see us soon. Then, two weeks later, came the photo of her kissing him.

  “Well, then, since you don’t want us”—I stood up straighter and dropped the papers at my feet—“we’ll be off.”

  “Ella,” Simon growled. I’d bet his anger stemmed from the fact Jeremiah was already back at my side, grasping my hand like the lifeline to normalcy it was.

  I turned my head back over my shoulder, trying to calm my racing heart. “Oh. And just wanted to let you know your solicitor needs to step up a new monthly stipend for us, seeing as we’re expecting another child. Merry Christmas!” I forced as much cheer into the words as I could, knowing I’d never, ever, find this time of year happy or magical again. Not since Simon bloody ruined my life and the excitement of the new child we’d been trying to conceive for eight years.

  I didn’t bother to look back, just continued to clutch Jeremiah’s hand in mine as we wended our way back through the growing crowd. Simon called my name again. And once more, I ignored him.

  “Did you really have to tell him like that?” Jeremiah asked.

  This time, I was the one to bite my lip, hoping it would stem my tears. They spilled over my lashes against my will. “Hadn’t planned on it, no.”

  Jeremiah sighed. “Mason said adults are weird when they divorce.”

  The painful sting behind my eyes spread to my nose as more tears poured down my cheeks. I stopped my mad march toward the exit and cupped my son’s cheeks. “No matter what happens, I love you.”

  “Ella!” Simon’s voice held a note of desperation.

  “Bloody hell.” I did not want to deal with my soon-to-be ex anymore, especially not now that the tears brimmed. Jeremiah’s eyes pleaded with mine for a moment before he looked beyond me at what I assumed was his father. Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed and his mouth settled into a grim line.

  “Time to go, Mom. And I love you, too.” He leaned into me, his arm going around my waist.

  Right. I shouldn’t turn around. No way Jeremiah would say that if it wasn’t bad. So, of course, I looked. And nearly fell to my knees. The woman Simon had been photographed with these past few weeks—the reason I made the snarky stepmum comment—plastered herself to his front, her arms wound around his neck, and her tongue shoved way down his throat. Fucking bastard. Couldn’t he save that for when his son—when I—couldn’t see?

  I staggered, but Jeremiah stayed firm, unwavering presence at my side. Gulping in needed air, I gripped Jeremiah’s hand and let him tow me through the crowd this time. At least the tears stopped.

  “Ella!” Simon shouted again. I didn’t bother to look back, just raised my left hand and gave him the same finger he’d given me in my work place yesterday. I refused to turn around, refused to talk to him again. He’d made his choice and he could bloody well live with the consequences, including the fact he’d never know the child I now carried.

  Somehow, we were at the rental car. I was shaking so hard, I wasn’t sure I could drive. But no way I could stay here to further my humiliation. I cursed Simon Dorsey with every word I could think of. Not enough, not ever enough, but he’d taken the choice from me—yanked my security from me and decimated the love I still felt for him.

  Time to move forward. Into divorcee single motherhood.

  Happy bloody Chri
stmas.

  2

  Simon

  Those first moments when Ella stood there, before dropping the sheaf of papers—and the bigger bomb of her pregnancy—at my feet, I thrilled to see her. She was more beautiful than ever. Even before she spoke, she’d shattered my anger and aggravation at the way we’d left our last few conversations. Sure, I was frustrated she thought I’d cheat on her. She had to know she was all I thought about—her and Jeremiah. As soon as I looked into her eyes, I realized I’d missed her, more than I’d known.

  But now . . . she’d seen me, and the pain in her lovely, light green eyes as she spoke of divorce turned hard when she looked back to find Monique kissing me. No, I didn’t kiss her back. I couldn’t, not with Jeremiah watching and, more importantly, because I didn’t want to.

  Monique wasn’t my wife.

  I clutched at my chest, unsure which was worse—the pain in Ella’s eyes or the disappointment and anger in Jeremiah’s.

  Both. All of it. What the hell happened just now?

  “Where did she get divorce papers?” I asked.

  “You told the lawyer to send them. Remember?”

  I mostly certainly did not remember. I’d visited his office one time—once—just after Ella and I fought nearly two months ago. Over the pictures of Monique and me in the papers. Monique suggested that visit—her and Gerard—saying I’d be better off without Ella holding me back, causing my emotional distress.

  More and more over the past few months, I’d come to realize I could have Ella or I could have my career, but I couldn’t balance both. I’d thought giving her up was the smart decision—the best choice for my future.

  I’d listened. But as soon as I had walked into the office, my stomach tightened. I thought of Ella’s laugh. Her sardonic wit. The way she cuddled up against me at night, her hand always wrapped around my arm, hugging it to her.

  I’d answered the questions my lawyer asked. But with each response, my heart grew heavier.

  “This is wrong,” I’d said, standing.

  “I have a few more questions, Mr. Dorsey, then we can draw up the papers. Do you have a prenuptial agreement?”

  “No.” I’d walked around the chair and placed both palms on the glossy conference table. “And I don’t plan to sue for divorce. This was a mistake.” A really stupid one. “Forget I was ever here.”

  “But Mr. Dorsey . . .”

  “I said forget it.”

  “Baby?” Monique touched my cheek, turning my head so I would look down into her bright brown eyes. Model beautiful, thin, and glamorous, Monique didn’t do it for me. Not like Ella did. Always had.

  “My name’s Simon.” I stepped back, craning my neck for another glimpse of Ella.

  Because, in that moment, I realized something monumental: I didn’t just love my wife. I adored her as I had since she trounced me in cricket all those years ago. But, somehow, I’d blown our happiness away with my dream. Worse still, Ella thought I was screwing around on her.

  Merry goddamn Christmas to me.

  “Where are you going?” Monique called as I broke into a sprint.

  No way I was letting Ella leave. Not now that she’d told me she was pregnant. A baby. Warmth spread through my chest, my stomach, wrapped around my heart.

  A baby. She couldn’t be that far along—not with as flat as her tummy was. And . . . up until the last couple of months, she would have told me as soon as she missed her period—her not-quite-regular cycle. I frowned, remembering what led to those irregularities, not liking where my mind, and probably Ella’s, went, when she first discovered her pregnancy. To the miscarriages we’d weathered over the years.

  I wondered for how long she’s known. How long she’s been keeping this from me. But with my travel schedule, and those stupid pictures popping up in the gossip pages, Ella quit trusting me—even with something as important as this new child. And the fear this pregnancy would end, too soon, like the last two.

  But a baby . . . hot damn. I wanted another child with El. With Jeremiah. I wanted to be a family, to spend time with them. To cuddle them all close to my heart. To croon out songs and feel the tiny breaths against my throat.

  Monique’s long nails dug into my sleeve as she tried to pull me around to face her. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked again, her breath breaking as she struggled to keep up.

  I shook off her hand. “Going to my wife.”

  I jogged forward, craning my neck. There. Her brown hair glinted in the wintry sun, flashing with bits of gold brought out by the sun’s rays. They were at the entrance. Jeremiah seemed to be holding up much of Ella’s sleight weight. Was she sick? She’d been so ill with Jeremiah, barely gaining enough for the baby.

  “Ella!” I shouted.

  She didn’t turn back, just saluted me with her middle finger. Jeremiah did, though, and the look on his face caused me to stumble to a stop. He pulled Ella closer to his side and quickened his pace, putting as much distance between us as he could.

  My son hated me.

  “You don’t have a wife,” Monique said from my side. “I was there when you visited your lawyer. You remember why, baby?” Monique crooned, running her palm up my arm. “She’s holding back your career. She didn’t want you to add to your touring schedule. She’s keeping you from real fame and respect.”

  Monique spoke in a soft, soothing voice—a siren whose words caused earthquakes and destruction. She wrapped her arms around mine and pulled my biceps to her breasts, trying to ensnare me further into her web of darkness.

  “That means we can get married. Start our own family if you want.” I turned toward her in time to see her smile. “I’d love to have a baby with you, Simon.” Her eyes, before her lashes dropped into a seductive, bedroom pose, flashed with greed.

  She wanted a child with me to secure her place in my life—and bank account. Not because she loved me. Or even liked me.

  I’d fallen for Monique’s spiel before—that’s how I ended up considering the possibility of leaving my wife. Monique stroked my pride—such a beautiful woman showing interest in me—but that interest went only as far as my ability to stay on the Billboard’s Top 200 list.

  With slow precision, I pulled my arms from hers. I stepped back so we were a good five feet apart. “Don’t ever come near me again.”

  Her mouth dropped open and her eyes flashed with vindictive outrage. “I’m your publicist!”

  “Not anymore. You’re fired. My guess is you had something to do with those papers Ella had served to her at her school.”

  My chest rose and fell. At her school. Ella wasn’t just hurt, she must be mortified. That she could ever think I’d do something like that to her made my ears burn with anger.

  Monique narrowed her eyes before spinning on her heel to stomp away. Something told me I wasn’t going to like Monique’s next move any better than Ella’s.

  Catching the glare of a camera lens, I tucked my hands into my pockets and headed over to the paparazzi, hoping to ask one of them for the photographic proof of Monique’s attempt to further disrupt my relationship with my family.

  My need to protect Ella’s feelings reared up, shocking me with its intensity. I’d thought of her before Jeremiah—not my normal modus operandi these past few months. When had I stopped thinking about Ella? Why had I quit?

  Because as my fame increased, her enthusiasm tanked, which hurt my pride, but, more, my feelings. I felt like she didn’t want me to achieve the success my brother-in-law Asher had. Like she didn’t think I was worthy of the adulation.

  I rubbed my hand across the back of my neck, annoyed when the pap ran off. Not surprising, but now I had a new conundrum: How to get those pictures when I didn’t have anyone on my team with connections to the media?