Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
I sit cross-legged on the floor of Jeremy’s old office, sketchbook open in my lap. The morning light streams through the window, catching dust motes that dance through the air.
I stare at the blank page. I've spent the past twenty minutes trying to come up with a business plan. The words “Freelance Services” stare back at me, underlined twice, followed by nothing.
“Come on, Alexis,” I mutter, tapping the pencil against the paper. “It’s not that hard.”
But it is hard. Every time I try to write down what I could offer–digital design, custom illustrations, brand work–my throat gets tight. What if I’m not good enough? What if I’ve been out of the game too long?
The doorbell startles me from my spiral. I get up to open the door to see Lilly standing on the porch with two takeout bags from our favorite deli and a stack of magazines.
“Thought we could use brain food for nursery planning.” She breezes past me into the house, her perfume lingering in her wake–something new, sharper than her usual scent.
“You’re a lifesaver.” I follow her upstairs to the office. “I’ve been stuck up here all morning trying to work on business ideas.”
“Oh, show me!” She settles onto the floor, pulling out containers of pasta salad.
I hand her my pathetically empty list, watching as she scans it. “Not much to show.”
“Are you kidding? You’re crazy talented, Lex.” She hands the notebook back. “Remember that logo you designed for my sister’s bakery? People still ask about it.”
“That was years ago.” I accept the fork she offers, stabbing at a piece of tortellini.
“So? It’s like riding a bike.” She spreads magazines across the floor between us. “You just need to get back on.”
“Oh my god,” she laughs, holding up a picture of an over-the-top safari-themed room. “Can you imagine? Your poor baby would have nightmares.”
“Jeremy would have a fit. He hates anything too busy.”
“Speaking of Jeremy…” Lilly sets down her fork, something shifting in her expression. “Have you two talked about what kind of father he wants to be?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs, but there’s something deliberate in the gesture. “Just… you know. He works so much. And with the divorce and everything… is he really ready for this?”
“Of course he is.” But even as I say it, I notice how she’s watching me, head tilted like she’s waiting for something.
“If you say so.” She turns back to the magazines, flipping pages too quickly to really see them. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
The room feels smaller suddenly, I stand, needing to move. “I should open a window.”
“It is warm in here. Must be all these pregnancy hormones, right?”
I fiddle with the window latch, and open it up. When I turn back, she’s arranging paint swatches in a fan pattern on the floor, humming under her breath. She looks up and smiles–the same smile I’ve known since high school.
“What about this color scheme?” She points to a soft green. “Very gender-neutral.”
We spend the next hour looking at colors and furniture, making lists and rough budget plans. On the surface, everything is normal. But there’s an undercurrent I can’t quite name, like music playing, just slightly out of tune.
When she leaves, the house feels both emptier and lighter. I return to my sketchbook, staring at the blank space under “Freelance Services.” Maybe it’s not just fear of failure holding me back. Maybe it’s about figuring out who I am now–not just Jeremy’s ex-wife, not just a soon-to-be mother, but me. Alexis. An artist.
I pick up my pencil and start writing. No services this time, but dreams. Things I used to love: typography that flows like water, illustrations that tell stories without words, designs that make people feel something. By the time I’m done, the page is full.
It’s not a business plan. Not yet. But maybe it’s a start.
My phone lights up with a text from Jeremy about picking up dinner on his way over, and I smile. Despite Lilly’s questions, I know what kind of father he’ll be. I’ve seen it in the way he researches baby gear, in how he asks about every doctor’s appointment, in the gentle way he talks about our future.
The day slips away as I lose myself in sketching. Random doodles turn into actual designs–a logo for a coffee shop, a children’s book character, a typography that swirls across the page. My hand remembers things my brain had forgotten.
The front door creaks open downstairs. “Lex?” Jeremy calls.
“Up here!” I call back.
He appears in the doorway, still in his orange work shirt, holding up a bag that smells like garlic bread. “Thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving, actually.” I gather papers, trying to create order from chaos.
“Leave it,” he says, settling onto the floor next to me. “Show me what you’ve been working on instead.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “It’s nothing, really. Just experimenting with some ideas.”
“These don’t look like nothing.” He picks up a sketch of intertwined letters. “This is really good, Lex.”
“Yeah?” I watch his face as he studies the design. “I was thinking maybe I could start small. Take on a few projects, build a portfolio…”
He looks up, smiling. “About time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you’ve always been talented.” He unpacks the food–Italian from Mario’s, my favorite. “Remember that mural you did for the community center? People still talk about it.”
“You’re the second person to mention that today.” I accept the container he hands me, the smell of marinara making my mouth water. “Lilly brought lunch earlier.”
Something crosses his face–concern? “Yeah? How was that?”
“Good. Weird.” I twirl pasta around my fork. “She had a lot of questions about you.”
“Like what?”
“About being a dad. If you’re ready.” I study his reaction. “It was strange.”
He’s quiet for a moment, staring at his food. “What did you tell her?”
“That, of course, you’re ready. You’re already being amazing about everything.” I pause. “You are, you know. Amazing about everything.”
His fork stills. “Even though I messed everything up before?”
“We both messed up,” I say softly. “But this is different. This is our baby.”
He nods, then reaches for my sketchbook. “Tell me about these other designs. The coffee shop one caught my eye.”
I let him change the subject, explaining my ideas for local businesses, for children’s books, for anything that comes to mind. He asks questions, makes suggestions, remembers details about my old projects that I’d forgotten.
The sun sets as we talk, casting long shadows across the floor. Empty takeout containers litter the space between us, and my hand cramps from gesturing as I explain concepts.
“I should clean this up,” I say finally, looking at the mess around us.
“Here.” He gathers containers while I stack papers. As I reach for a fallen pencil, my shoulder brushes his arm. The contact sends warmth through me, familiar and new all at once.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, trying to sound normal. “And for listening to me ramble about art stuff.”
“I enjoy hearing you excited about things again.” His voice is soft in the dimness. “Missed that.”
Before I can respond, a wave of nausea hits–apparently the baby isn’t as fond of garlic as I am. I must make some sort of face because Jeremy immediately stands.
“Water?” he asks, already heading for the door.
“Please.”
When he returns with a glass and some crackers, I’ve moved to sit against the wall, head between my knees.
“Morning sickness is such a lie,” I groan. “More like all-day sickness.”
He sits beside me, close enough that I can lean against him if I want to. “Want me to stay until it passes?”
I want him to stay, but not just until the nausea passes. I want him to stay, period.
“I’m okay,” I say instead.
“Okay, I’m going to head downstairs and get ready for bed.” He says and kisses my forehead and leaves the room.
Or just stay here with me.
Why can’t I just say the words?