21. Mallory
Mallory
It had been a few days since the glucose test, and the verdict was in: all clear.
No gestational diabetes, no scary new instructions.
Just a gentle nudge from my OB to keep eating regularly and stay hydrated—which felt like the most ironic prescription of all, considering I spent half my life running on caffeine, gatoraid and protein bars.
“Add some fruit, Mallory,” she’d said with a smile, patting my shoulder like I was a teenager skipping meals on purpose.
I ’d nodded, promised I’d try, and then walked straight to Jaymie’s car waiting outside, where he handed me a smoothie with a smug grin.
“Look at that,” he’d said, tilting the straw toward my mouth. “Already ahead of the curve.”
Jaymie had been... steady. That was the only way to describe it. Solid. Present. Unshakably kind in the quietest, most unflashy ways.
He texted before every appointment. Showed up with snacks when my stomach turned at the idea of grocery shopping.
Some nights we ended up at his place upstairs—a surprisingly spacious two-bedroom with actual sunlight and furniture that didn’t look like it had come from a college dorm.
But every few nights, he’d wander down to my eighth-floor matchbox and let me pick the movie and eat popcorn on my lumpy couch like it was the best seat in the house.
Sometimes he’d fall asleep there, long legs hanging off the edge, mouth parted just enough to be ridiculous. Other times, we’d just talk.
About hockey.
About everything else.
About nothing.
It had started to feel... normal. Easy. Like this version of my life, with Jaymie woven into the background, was something I could build around.
I w as barefoot in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, hair pulled back, spoon in my mouth as I stirred a pot of pasta.
Jaymie was supposed to come by around seven.
I’d picked up those almond cookies he liked from the bakery and had half a bottle of Pellegrino chilling in the fridge because he claimed it made him feel “classy.” I was determined to figure out how to make them by the end of this pregnancy as a thank you, just as soon as the thought of raw egg didn't induce nausea.
A few loud raps on the door got my attention. A few minutes past six, Jay must have gotten out early. I wiped my hands on a dish towel, still chewing, and padded to the door. When I opened it, I froze.
Jackson.
He stood in the hallway, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking both sheepish and yet somehow determined. His hair was shorter than I remembered, his jaw dusted with stubble that probably wasn’t there on purpose. He looked tired, in the worst way possible. But his eyes, were the same.
“Hey,” he said.
My heart dropped to my feet.
“What are you doing here?”
“I know I shouldn’t have just shown up,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t sure you’d answer my texts, and I needed to see you. We need to talk.”
I d idn’t move. The pasta was still bubbling on the stove. The door hung open in my hand like it didn’t know what to do either.
“I screwed up,” Jackson continued, shifting his weight like the words were heavier than he expected. “I freaked out. You told me you were pregnant and... I panicked. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. And then I disappeared. Because that’s what I do when I get scared.”
I blinked. My throat felt tight. I was shocked the man had that much emotional depth to know he ran away when he got scared.
“I was an asshole,” he added. “But I want to fix it.”
I opened my mouth, but he kept going, voice gaining momentum.
“I’ve been thinking about it—about you. About the baby. About how I just... vanished. And that’s not the man I want to be. Not for you. Not for them.”
"Them?" I questioned, He meant the baby. My baby…but I wanted to make him squirm.
“Our baby. I want a second chance,” he said. “I’m here now. I’m ready. I want to be part of this, please?”
And then his words stopped, like he’d run out of breath—or nerve.
It took me a second to realize we weren’t alone anymore. Because behind him, just past the door, stood Jaymie. Brown paper bag in one hand. Keys in the other. Still wearin g his Hellblades hoodie and soft grey beanie. His eyes met mine. Then flicked to Jackson. Then back.
He smiled. Soft, quiet. That same infuriatingly gentle smile he always wore when I least deserved it.
“I was just coming by,” Jaymie said, voice low. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I swallowed hard, but I couldn’t speak. Why the fuck couldn't I speak?
He nodded toward Jackson, like he’d just caught the tail end of his little speech. “You should hear him out. If he’s serious. if he wants to step up, you should let him try.”
I felt the words like a slap and a hug all at once.
"Thanks man," Jackson barely whispered, both men still waiting for the words to come out of my mouth.
And then, like it was nothing, Jaymie added, “Have a good night, Mal,” and turned toward the elevator.
He didn’t wait. Didn’t linger. Just walked away, as easy and quiet as he’d arrived.
I stared after him, stunned. Then turned back to Jackson, whose shoulders were still tense, whose hopeful expression hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that Jaymie’s presence had rattled me to my core.
I didn’t say anything to address what either of them said. I just stepped aside, holding the door open.
“Come in.”
***
I s tepped aside and let him in.
The air in the apartment shifted the second Jackson crossed the threshold.
Like his presence nudged every molecule out of place.
I could smell the sauce still simmering on the stove, the faint vanilla of the candle I’d lit an hour ago.
It was warm, dim, soft—and suddenly, it felt too small, too fragile to hold this moment.
He looked around like he was remembering it all. Like he had the right to remember. Like he hadn’t disappeared without a word, without even asking if I was okay.
“Smells good,” he said, trying for a smile that felt like it didn’t fit his face anymore.
I didn’t respond. I turned back to the kitchen and shut the burner off. My hands moved on autopilot, reaching for plates, scooping pasta. I placed the food in front of him. No fanfare. Just noodles and sauce, still steaming. He murmured thanks, but I didn’t look up.
We sat across from each other at my tiny table, two feet apart and a thousand miles away.
“So,” he said quietly, “how far along are you? Have you been going to the doctors?”
“Sixteen weeks,” I said, not bothering to soften the edge in my voice. "And yes, I have been. Not that it mattered to you previously,"
His brows rose. “Wow…" clearly ignoring my remark, "Well, you look… you look great.”
I didn’t answer that either. I just took a bite.
“I missed a lot,” he added, staring down at his plate like it held something heavier than pasta.
“You chose to miss it,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
Silence. Just the clink of forks and the low hum of my fridge kicking on.
"We barely know each other, Jackson."
“I know. I know but I’ve been thinking about this—about everything I do know about you.
The number one thing I do know for certain is you are a hell of a lot better person than I am.
” He paused, like he wanted to be careful with his words.
“I panicked when you told me, I really, honest to God did... I thought it meant the end of everything I had planned for my life. But now… I think it might be the beginning of something I didn’t know I needed. ”
His voice cracked just enough that I believed he meant it. But that didn’t erase the weeks I’d cried alone. The nights I held my stomach and wondered if I’d have to face labor, and motherhood, and every damn thing after that… by myself.
I s wallowed hard. “I have an appointment next week,” I said, my tone steadier than I felt. “They’ll probably do another ultrasound. You can come, if you mean it.”
“I do,” he said quickly, he reached across the table and put his hand on top of mine. “Please. I’d like that. Let me pick me up and take you,”
I nodded. “There’s also a few birthing classes I want to check out in a few weeks. Just… something to help prepare.”
“I’ll be there.”
I wanted to believe him.
“I’ll text you the details,” I added, quieter now.
His gaze lifted to mine. “Is my number still blocked?”
I didn’t answer. I stood, went to the counter, unplugged my phone, and unblocked him. It took three seconds. Three tiny, stupid seconds to undo weeks of silence.
“There,” I said.
He smiled—gentle, tentative, like he was reaching out with his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
He looked around again, taking in the apartment like he was trying to memorize it. “I know I can’t fix what I did. But I want to do the right thing now. For you. For the baby. I promise I’ll do better.”
And maybe he would.
Maybe he’d show up to the appointments, to the classes. Maybe he’d hold my hand when the baby kicked for the fi rst time. Maybe he’d finally become the man I once thought he was.
But as I watched him speak—watched his lips form all the right words—I couldn’t stop the ache in my chest. The one that whispered, Do you want the right thing… or the thing that feels right?
Because Jaymie hadn’t just said the right thing. He’d been it. He’d shown up when there was nothing in it for him. He’d stayed. Quietly. Steadily. Always with cookies or stupid jokes or just a hand on my back when I needed to breathe through the nerves.
Jackson felt like a promise I wanted to believe in.
Jaymie felt like the truth I already did.
And for the first time since I saw those two pink lines, I didn’t know what I wanted more: the safety of what was 'right'… or the terrifying, beautiful risk of what felt real .