Sweet Romance12 min read
My Godson Turned My World Upside Down
ButterPicks11 views
I never thought the day I agreed to be someone’s “godmom” would wreck my calm life and rearrange my heart.
“It’s settled,” Blythe Ibarra said when she first grabbed my hand at the office pantry. Her voice was loud and proud, like she’d decided the weather for the day.
“You sure you don’t mean god-aunt?” I tried to joke.
“Young people and labels.” Blythe waved me off. “Just be there. My son will come by tonight. He needs a godmom. You’re perfect.”
“I don’t even have kids,” I said, half laughing.
“Not about kids,” she corrected, eyes glittering. “It’s a local thing. For luck, for love. You’re a good person. Be my sister, be his godmom.”
I smiled and agreed because I was sleepy and because Blythe had a way of making decisions for everyone. I thought she meant a toddler. I pictured preschool crayon hands and snack-time chaos.
That night, when I stepped out of the building after work, a man was waiting by the curb.
He was all broad shoulders and casual black clothes. My breath stopped.
“He’s my son!” Blythe called, waving at him like a proud parent on a stage. “Come here, darling!”
My brain did an awkward flip. Son? Blythe’s son?
He came over, calm as a tide. He called Blythe “Mom” low and soft. The sound in his voice made my stomach lurch.
“This is Lena Renard,” Blythe said, gripping my hand like we’d always been family. “You must meet your godmom.”
He raised his eyes to mine. I swallowed. He was taller than me by a head. He had a serious doctor face with a hint of mischief.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. His voice was warm. “Godmom?”
“Uh.” I felt like someone had dropped me in a play without a script.
He slid me into his car with efficiency and a small smile. “Drive, please. I’ll treat.”
On the way, he glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “What would a godmom do?” he asked lightly.
“Pay?” I offered.
He snorted softly. “Maybe. Come, it’s just dinner.”
At the table, Blythe talked a mile a minute, explaining the family custom and why I needed to accept. I barely followed. I only noticed his hands and the way he tilted his head and the soft laugh that reached his eyes.
“Which university?” I asked when Blythe left to the restroom.
“Medical school,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Residency now.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Technically.” He shrugged. “But I don’t like small talk.”
“That’s fine.” I tried to match his mood. “So what do you read for fun?”
He leaned back, one hand on the table. “’Step-mom novels,’” he said, deadpan. “You know, godmom literature.”
I choked on my tea. He’d said it like it was nothing. He watched me as if he’d just told a joke he hadn’t fully decided was funny.
When Blythe came back, he was polite and distant. Then he walked me to the car at the end of the night, offered to add me on WeChat, and—before I could think—pressed his number into my phone.
“Add me,” he said. “No old-fashioned splits. We’ll do a modern share.”
He drove me home. At the gate, he asked, “Need me to walk you up?”
“No, thank you,” I said, my voice too steady. “Drive safe.”
He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. He looked handsome even in that small, bad habit way. I watched him go, and later I dreamed about it.
In my dream, he held me on a couch like a careful secret, bent to my ear and—whispered “godmom.” I woke with a thrum in my chest and a ridiculous, guilty smile.
A week later, the chest pain I’d been ignoring nudged me to action. I booked a day off, went to the hospital, nervous and silly.
When I sat in the clinic room and said my name, the doctor entered. He crossed the threshold and for a ridiculous heartbeat the world stopped.
“Elijah?” I said before I could stop myself.
Elijah Ramirez, in a white coat, smiled politely. “Godmom?” he answered, voice low.
Of course it was him. He explained with quiet competence. He asked me to lie down, pressed carefully at places that made me nervous, ordered a CT, examined results, and finally said what every panicked patient wants: “Probably nothing. Likely nerves and sleep. Go home, rest.”
“How can you tell?” I asked, raw.
He adjusted his glasses—he wore glasses at work—and said, “You’re worried. That can make the body do odd things.”
He finished by saying, “Also, you’re in the wrong clinic. This is gynecology. You should have gone to breast clinic.”
“I—” I started.
“Because,” Elijah said, looking at me like he was about to deliver dessert, “today the on-call for breast clinic is also a man. I can handle this. Better I press than some stranger.”
He was calm, clinical, unfairly confident. I left with a passing comfort and a strange flutter. His competence felt like a warm blanket.
Later that day I met my friend Kaydence Cox for spa and shopping. We ended up at a car show where the city had dragged half its gorgeous men into uniforms and leather.
And there, of course, he was again—Elijah. How could the universe keep playing that card?
Kaydence saw him and grinned like she’d found treasure. She went full tactical, sashaying over wearing a dress that could cause traffic accidents.
“Elijah, buy a car?” Kaydence purred.
He glanced at her like she was a minor distraction and said, “Just looking.”
I wanted to curl into my shoes.
“You okay?” Kaydence demanded later, when she’d pulled me away.
“Fine,” I lied. “He said something cheeky about breasts at dinner.”
“You mean chest?” she narrowed her eyes.
“He said ‘godmom literature,’” I said, like it explained everything.
Kaydence smirked. “You like him.”
“I don’t,” I lied, but the lie made me hot.
We went to a bar. I saw a face from my past—Dexter Watkins. Old pain rose like bile. He’d been my college boyfriend who’d used my trust like a scarf and then tossed it away. The memories were loud and ugly.
“You look good, Len,” Dexter said, too casual over a drink, a history of hurt in every smug grin.
“Don’t call me that,” I said. “Don’t call me anything.”
He tried to cozy up, offered apologies, called them “real talk,” and when Kaydence saw him, she poured a whole drink over his head as retribution. The guardrails of my calm started to crack.
After a night of too much drink and too many words, I slipped out and woke in Elijah’s arms. He had carried me home like a reluctant, careful hero. The morning light showed a strong jaw and a sleepy smile.
I woke and realized with horror and something else that I’d kissed him in my drunken fog and had called him by the name of my ex.
He watched me with slow amusement. “Godmom,” he said quietly. “Do you feel guilty?”
“I remember nothing clearly,” I lied until I thought of the small, angry memory: I had called him every ugly name I’d stored for Dexter. I had blamed him for all the damage my ex had caused. Then in the fog, I had fallen on him and kissed.
Elijah looked at my shoulder and raised an eyebrow. A mark—two tiny punctures—showed up stark and red.
“You bit me,” he said.
“You deserved it,” I muttered.
He laughed in that low way again. “Did I?”
He set me up with breakfast, cleaned my small apartment, and left with the quiet of someone who’d done a favor and expected nothing for it.
I expected nothing either, but Blythe had other plans. She told me that she had already told Elijah’s relatives about his new girlfriend. She smiled in a way that meant mischief and victory.
Then one Wednesday, Elijah appeared at my desk at work.
“Lena.” He said my name like a ribbon.
“You here for…?” I stammered.
“My mom wants me to go to a fake date—make her aunt think I’m not single. Will you pretend to be my girlfriend for a day?” he said, fast and with a pulse of amusement.
“You want me to—what?” I asked.
“You’ll be paid,” he said, smiling like it was a business proposal. “And you’ll owe me nothing.”
“You’re asking me to lie to your mom?” I hissed.
“No. I’m asking you to help a son out of a jam.”
His calm made it feel like charity. I agreed because I still felt guilty for kissing him, and because he’d been kind.
We went to a small private room at a hotel. He linked his arm through mine like a man who owned the world. Inside, we found a pair: a girl and a man having more intimacy than decorum.
That man had the face of my old pain. It was Dexter.
My mouth dropped and my face must have turned to ash.
The girl slid away from Dexter, rose, and announced she wanted to keep the date. She looked at Elijah with a brazen brightness and said, “I want to continue.”
Elijah raised an eyebrow. “You have a boyfriend here.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she answered. “He’s a hookup.”
Blythe’s plan had dovetailed into a mess.
Elijah, cool and a little chilly, took my hand and said, “Let’s go. We’re done here.”
She suddenly stood between us and said, “No. I like him. I change my mind. Continue.”
Elijah scooped me to his side and said, “Then you’ll have to fight for it.”
“What?” I asked, heart pounding.
He said, quietly, “We leave. You can go be with your hookup.”
We walked out. But before we left, Dexter—bald-faced, smug—tried to block the door. He smiled at me like a predator.
“Elijah!” he called. “You let her go? Come on.”
Elijah’s face turned hard. The man had been more than meet-cute cute. He was a protector.
“Elijah, forgive me—” Dexter started to say something, but Elijah did not listen.
The way it happened was fast. Elijah grabbed Dexter and slammed him into the wall with the force of someone who’d rehearsed the move in a nightmare. A crowd saw it. People turned.
“Get off him!” I shouted, but my voice was small in the chaos.
Security men moved in and the hotel manager shouted for calm. Dexter tried to laugh it off, then tried to step forward and touch Elijah’s shoulder. Elijah’s hand tightened and then he threw a left and a right that landed hard enough to make Dexter’s cheek bloom.
The room went silent. Then gasps. Phones out. A few people began to record. A woman clapped softly. A man near the door swore. Someone shouted, “You shouldn’t lay hands on people, sir!”
Dexter’s face changed. He went from smug to stunned. His expression cracked into something else: fear and shame. He spat an apology, a scramble of words. “I didn’t—don’t—she’s mine—” he stammered.
Elijah’s voice was quiet but sharp. “You used her. You cheated on her. Not tonight.”
The crowd closed in; the heat of attention was worse than the physical blow.
Then security hauled Dexter to his feet. He staggered, rubbing his jaw. People stepped back. Some said, “Good.” Others hissed, “Too far.” But most phones were up. A video would be online in minutes.
Dexter’s bravado crumbled. He tried to grin at the cameras, but the smile was thin, a cracked mirror. He looked over at me. I felt both a rush of triumph and a sour twinge.
“Len,” he said, voice small now. “I—this is a misunderstanding.”
“Is it?” Kaydence shouted from the doorway. She pushed through, hair perfect, eyes furious. “You used her, then ran with whatever was prettier. You’re a coward.”
Dexter’s mouth opened, closed. He tried to say, “You don’t know the full story.” The room laughed. That laugh cut him to the bone.
A woman near the bar, young and loud, started to chant, “Real men don’t cheat!” Others joined. Someone slapped his shoulder with disgust. The mood changed into a public shaming.
Dexter began to plead. “Please, please, I can explain. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
A teenager in a leather jacket stepped forward and pinned a phone in his face. “Own up on camera,” he taunted. “Say sorry to her and mean it.”
Dexter’s eyes darted. They were wet but not sincere. “I—Len, baby—” he began.
“Don’t call her that!” Kaydence barked.
Dexter tried to be charming, to grin, to joke. The charm had zero water. People muttered. The hotel manager, angry and embarrassed, stepped between, hands on hips.
“You two, out!” he ordered. “I will not have violence in my venue.”
Elijah turned to me, voice soft. “Are you okay?”
My throat was tight. I swallowed. I had wanted to smash his smug face for years, but seeing him whine like a boy under a thousand stares felt different. I looked at Dexter and saw not the handsome man I’d loved but a puppet with broken strings.
“You’re a coward,” Kaydence said into his face. “You hurt people and you’re proud of your scars.”
Dexter’s face crumpled. He reached desperately for anyone who might be on his side, and found none. A couple of men who had once been his friends edged away. A woman near the bar scolded him for stepping out on the girl with her. Old acquaintances exchanged whispers. A barista who’d once dated him spat, “You always were trash.”
He fell to his knees, not from physical force but because the room’s attention had taken more from him than punches could. Someone filmed him, the clip already taking its first breath on the internet. He lifted a hand, palm open, and begged, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please.”
The public shaming was a feast of small reactions: the whispering, the phones, the disgusted faces, the laughter and the pity. A stranger—one of the event’s staff—leaned in and said, “You should be ashamed.” He meant it. Security escorted him out.
As he walked, the crowd parted like a sea moving aside. People murmured. The girl who’d stayed with him watched from a distance, expression unreadable. She did not move. She had her phone out, camera aimed, as if making sure the evidence of his downfall would be kept.
Dexter’s face shifted from angry to pleading to stunned to defeated. He tried once to look brave, but the camera caught the tremor in his hands.
Outside, someone shouted, “You earned it.” Another voice, less kind, wanted worse. But I only felt the rawness of having my chest reopened for a moment of public justice. My anger eased. His humiliation was not enough to heal the years, but it felt honest.
Later, rumors swelled. The video cut into the day’s gossip. People texted me screenshots. Dexter’s social circles shrank like ice in sun. Men who’d once winked at him avoided my path. Women I barely knew called to say, “Good riddance.” The hotel removed the footage; others had already shared it.
He tried to readjust his life. He posted an apology letter that read like a script. People dissected it. The friends who had once puffed his praises were quiet. The places he’d frequented no longer welcomed him. A small humiliation turned into daily friction.
One evening, months later, a mutual acquaintance told me he’d been at a charity event and nobody asked his name. At a work meeting he once dominated, people walked around him. He tried to apologize in town halls and coffee shops, but the sting of his reputation had grown into a bruise that would not fade quickly.
His fall from grace was not a legal sentence. It was worse in a way—he lost the small comforts of his peer group and the easy access to the people he’d used. People leaned away now. Where he expected sympathy, he found eyes cold and tight-lipped. That alone taught him something.
Back at the hotel that night, Elijah stood over him like a statue of quiet power. He looked more terrified than guilty; then he looked fierce. When the fight broke, people were on Elijah’s side, because he’d stood up for a woman they liked.
Elijah came back to me. He took my hand and did not let go. “I did it for you,” he said simply.
“You didn’t have to,” I answered.
“I did anyway,” he said.
That night marked a clean break for Dexter Watkins. He learned what public shame felt like, and it altered his path.
The rest of our story moved faster than I expected.
Elijah sat me down after the dust settled.
“Why did you come into my life?” I asked at one point, laughing weakly.
He told me the truth.
“I saw you the day of your interview,” he said. “You had run into an accident scene and were holding an umbrella over a stranger. You were small in the rain but you were brave.”
“You told your father?” I guessed.
He smiled. “I sent a photo to someone who would notice. I thought nothing would come of it. Turns out it did.”
Blythe had been watching the office like a hawk. She loved my bluntness and honesty. She admired my refusal to flatter the boss. She saw in me the kind of woman she wanted near her son.
“So this whole godmom business was a setup?” I asked.
“It was a plan,” he admitted. “My mom thought you would stir my luck. I thought you were interesting. It became complicated.”
We laughed and drank and the bar of walls between us lowered night by night.
He told me he liked me because I’d stepped into someone else's chaos without thinking about credit or proof. I told him that I had once believed a man named Dexter could fill the world. He listened.
The next time we took truth seriously, we did it in private. He admitted he’d liked me since the umbrella. I admitted I had been jealous of his efficiency. He kissed me and the world narrowed.
“Godmom?” he whispered once, half playful, half real.
“No,” I said, breathless. “Girlfriend.”
He laughed and kissed me again.
We built an odd small life—me older by two years, him younger and stubbornly in love. He would tease me about my “mom” title and then make it soft with his smile. I found myself thinking of his hands on my neck and the tiny bite mark on his shoulder like a secret badge.
Blythe came around to the idea of us. She pretended she had planned it all and laughed as if she had never once watched with worried eyes. Kaydence kept her jokes and pushed us to be braver in public.
Elijah and I had fragile mornings and loud, warm nights. We argued over small things: who left the kettle on, who forgot to reply to a message. We made up with coffee and terrible cooking and clumsy hands.
The mark on his shoulder remained a proof for me of a messy, foolish start. I liked to trace it sometimes, to remind myself we had moved from messy to real.
One night, after a small fight about pride, we sat in my small living room and played a clumsy game of confessions.
“Why did you bite me?” he asked, chuckling.
“You were charming,” I said. “And you deserved the truth.”
He took my hand. “I take you as you are. This whole thing—godmom, fake dates, hotel melodramas—was messy. But I like messy with you.”
“I like you,” I replied, honest and small.
He bent and kissed me on the forehead. “Then we will be messy together.”
In the end, it was simple. We were two people tangled by mistake, cleaned up by apology, pushed forward by affection.
I kept the nickname. I kept the bite mark in a small, private place in my mind. And when I thought of that first night—when he called me “godmom” and the word landed like a stone—I laughed.
We leaned into each other, into the laughter and the quiet. He teased me for being older. I teased him for being reckless. We held hands and we did our small, honest lives.
That final night, as we sat on my balcony with a can of beer and city lights humming, he nudged me.
“Remember when I said boys can’t look at who they like?”
“You mean because we’ll kiss them?” I said, grin widening.
He kissed me then, soft and sure, and whispered against my mouth, “Because I can’t stop.”
I felt the old worry fade like an old bruise. Then, with a ridiculous smile, I answered him with the truth I’d refused to say before.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s be messy.”
He laughed. “Good. Then stay.”
And I did.
The End
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