Chapter 18
Eighteen
The barest sliver of moonlight ghosts through the windows, shrouding the sunroom in pre-dawn shadows and hiding the book my foot strikes, sending it skidding across the floor.
“Shit,” I whisper.
A lump on the couch jolts upright. I jump, the sweater I’m still wearing from last night billowing out from the motion.
James runs a hand through his tousled hair, eyes still clouded with sleep.
A soft blanket is tucked around his waist. I smooth my hair into something more presentable than when I crawled out of bed to a babbling Anna.
“God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I was reading and must have dozed off.”
“I’ll leave. Sorry again.” I look away.
“Please don’t go.” His voice cracks, betraying what we’ve both been holding in since yesterday.
In the quiet shadows of the sunroom, sheltered from prying eyes, everything between us feels simpler.
We don’t have to measure our words or glance over our shoulders.
Here we don't have to pretend. In this early morning, tucked away in this beautiful space, we exhale enough to let go of the hurt and tension—if only for a moment.
With a flip of the switch, Christmas tree lights flicker to life.
Anna drinks her milk while James and I slip into conversation about work and running, sharing our latest reads, the races we have coming up.
Just our easy, natural connection when we forget the rules and limitations that should exist. He selects a Sade album, her silken voice floating through the shadows, a low hum beneath our words.
When Anna finishes, we slide to the rug with her toys. James follows, dropping onto the floor as Anna moves between us. She climbs on to James’s lap, stopping for a moment to put her hands on each side of his face and just looking at him. She smiles, then walks off, heading toward her toys.
“I was telling my mom about you the other day,” he says, nudging my shoulder.
Surprised he’d mention me, I realize I don’t know about her life now, or what happened after she left her husband all those years ago.
“She was worried about a woman in a dangerous situation. Concerned she wouldn’t get proper legal help.”
I wrap my hand around his without thinking about it—without weighing whether it’s right or wrong. The contact jolts me, but I don't pull away. Talking about these deep wounds is hard, and I want him to know I’m here; that I understand.
“Is she in Boston?” I ask.
He pauses, staring down at our joined hands as if surprised to find them there. Then he turns our palms over, interlacing his fingers with mine, exhaling long and slow. “After we left my father, we moved to western New York, where she grew up. She still lives outside Rochester.”
“I’m licensed to practice in New York. I took both the D.C. and New York bar exams because I wasn’t sure where I wanted to stay after graduating. I don’t practice family law, but I might be able to help.”
“I’d love that. Cases like this take their toll on her, and I want to wipe away her guilt and fear over what happened when I was younger.”
“Let me give you my number so she can call me.” I release his hand, and he passes me his phone.
He laughs when he sees how I saved my name: Dutchess Fan.
“It’s only fair I get to name myself something too.” He holds his hand out, and I relent mostly because I want to see what he does.
He hands back my phone with a grin as mischievous as a high school prankster’s. I look down to read: Skating Stud. I laugh so hard my stomach aches.
“Where’d you actually learn to play pool?” He bumps my shoulder, trying to steer us to safer ground, not knowing what he’s asking.
My deflection last night wasn’t only because Mason asked a question twelve years too late. It’s the hurt wrapped in those memories; the hurt that might never go away, the hurt I’d rather not feel. Even though James never judges, telling him about boarding school means revealing the whole truth.
True to form, I deflect. “When you spend your teenage years at boarding school with more freedom and money than oversight, you pick up a few useful skills.”
“You were at boarding school?”
“Yeah.” I pause, gathering courage. “Nannies raised me until I was thirteen, then my parents sent me to school in France.”
James doesn’t push, reading my unease. “Aha, so you learned how to hustle in shady European bars?”
A grin takes over his face, eyes glittering, and I feel it down to my toes. The dangerous current, the one always just there below the surface, zaps to life.
“Among other useful skills,” I say, wetting my lips.
His gaze snags there. Breathing becomes hard. Heat pools as I take him in. His worn college T-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, muscular arms taut beneath the fabric, sweatpants bunched around thighs carved from endless miles of running.
“Are we going to talk about how we left things last year?” He asks, a tilt to his head, daring me to lie or deflect.
“Not necessary, right? You’re engaged. Future’s set.”
I say it like it’s nothing and haven’t spent the past year replaying every word, every glance, every single moment I walked away from—or the last twenty-four hours spiraling.
“Don’t.” He catches my hand, his grip firm. “I’m so tired of the games.”
I look at our hands, at how easily mine fits in his. His fingers are rough, calloused. Not just the hands of a man who designs buildings, but one who builds them.
Someone who knows how to shape something from nothing.
Part of me wants to fight and yell at him for proposing. For simply existing. But the woman worn thin wants to stop pretending that he hasn’t wrapped himself around my heart, burrowed so deep I can’t extract him without breaking something essential. That woman wants to stop lying.
“I’m scared,” I say it aloud, never breaking contact.
“Of what?” he asks.
“Of…this.”
We stare. Breathe. My truth is finally out. Then, he drops my hand, crossing the room to close the French doors. When he kneels in front of me, his eyes are steady, but his hands tremble. “Why are you scared?”
“Because I shouldn’t feel this way. I have Anna to think about. You’re with Ivy. We met a decade too late.” The reasons spill out, excuses I’ve clung to like a prayer.
“Love isn’t always neat and convenient, Sydney. We don’t have to fear this if we both choose it.”
I look away, finding Anna as she toddles over and plops down, her chubby fingers brushing my arm. She looks up with such pure, unwavering love.
“Love destroyed my mother.”
James stays silent, giving me the space to say what I’ve never spoken aloud.
“My parents didn’t have room in their lives for me.
That’s why they sent me away.” I pause, steadying myself to get the words out.
“During my senior year, my dad died in a car crash. My mom called me… completely distraught. Inconsolable. I…I couldn’t get a flight home until the next morning, but before I boarded, my mom’s assistant called.
She was found lying in bed with an empty bottle of pills, holding a picture of my dad. ”
The tears I usually try to hold back flow, and my shoulders shake with the force of them. James doesn’t try to stop them or pull me close. He simply holds my hand, a steady anchor as I finally let myself feel the weight of it all.
“There was no note, no missed call on my phone. No indication she thought of me at all in those final moments.” Sobs punctuate the words between gasping breaths. “She would rather have died than live without him. I…I wasn’t enough. I was never enough.”
James exhales and cups my face, gently wiping my tears with his thumbs.
“You’re not her. The way you love Anna, anyone can see that. Nothing will come between that. Nothing.” His hands stay on my face, holding me there. “And you are enough. You are enough. Just as you are.”
I lean back, examining every plane across his face: the slope of his nose, his full lips, the stubble he hasn’t shaved in days. The man who’s shown me a glimpse of another future. One I have to be willing to put my trust in and believe the rug won’t be pulled out from under me.
“I know this isn’t simple, that I can’t just ask you on a date. But Sydney, what we have is real. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“Why did you ask Ivy to marry you?”
He looks away, pausing as he searches for the right words.
His fingers thread ours together, a soft stroke on my pulse point.
The sun peeks over the mountains. Spreading rays of yellow across the soft carpet.
We’ve been here for hours. Christmas morning must have started as my nephews rarely sleep past sunrise brimming with excitement.
Within these walls, we’ve missed what else has been happening in the cabin.
“When you left last year, after I told you everything and you said nothing, I was so fucking angry. And I thought… if I tried hard enough, I could forget you.” He draws in a shaky breath.
“And I did try. I’d been thinking of proposing for weeks.
But every time I tried, I couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
” He pauses, running a hand through his hair.
“Standing on my steps, knowing I was about to see you with him again, I thought if I did it, maybe I wouldn’t fall apart when I saw you. ”
A humorless laugh escapes him. “But I couldn’t even get the words out. I know how much of an ass this makes me. But sometimes… sometimes we make choices out of fear. Out of the desperate need to avoid pain.”
Understanding his words doesn't make this easier or change how much I stand to lose if this falls apart. I lift Anna, and she wraps her body around me, hiding behind the security of her warm little body.
“It’s not that simple. I can’t walk away from this family when they’re the only ones who’ve ever shown up for me.
” I force myself to speak the truth that terrifies me most. “Maybe you’ll tire of me the second I say yes.
Maybe this is about the chase. Wanting what you can’t have.
And I'll be left in the wreckage alone, again. "
Color drains from his tan face as he holds himself rigid, fighting his immediate reaction.
I don’t wait for his response. I’m out the door when I hear “Sydney, wait.” By the time I reach my room, Mason’s gone, and the sobs come in silent, shaking waves.
I brush a curl from Anna’s forehead and find the small, worn ladybug tucked in her crib.
It has become her most treasured possession.
So much so that the nickname Bug is now woven into our day-to-day, spoken with love and a constant reminder of him.
With her settled and playing safely, I step into a searing shower.
Maybe this isn’t even about him. Maybe it’s about me admitting I can’t let things go on like this anymore.
I have agency. I’m not stuck in this life if I give myself permission to believe in a different future—to let go of the idea that staying is what’s best for Anna and that leaving means I’m selfish.
That losing the family is not the worst thing.
I take my time getting ready. Christmas may have started but I need these minutes. I smooth foundation over my skin, each brush stroke a layer of armor. Concealer hides the shadows under my eyes. Powder blurs the turmoil. A hint of blush fakes vitality I don’t feel.
When I reach for lip gloss, a defiant ruby shade falls into my hands.
It’s not soft or delicate.
It’s bold. A statement.
Just not one I know the meaning of yet.