Luc #2
She takes a deep breath. “I loved school. But my heart isn’t in engineering.” She looks over, and I can tell she’s evaluating me. “You will learn that my family is pretty messed up. My brother became a psychologist to figure it all out. And I paint to deal with them.”
“I saw one of your paintings in the window of Monica’s gallery. You’re very talented.”
She smiles. “I’m learning. I get better with every work I paint, and I enjoy looking at the beauty of a town I took for granted for so long.
I couldn’t wait to get out, and then I moved back.
” She looks up at the ceiling. “God, I’m so boring.
Tell me more about you. What made a good boy from the prairies come to this little town?
Can’t be for the job. GPs are the most sought after. You had your pick of places to live.”
“I have some family here,” I explain. “We came out here every summer when I was growing up, and I loved it. My cousin mentioned that she thought Dr. Hutchinson was considering retiring, and she hooked us up.”
“What do you think?”
“I’ve always liked Paradise,” I reply. “But I’m not sure how I’ll do with the way it expands and contracts around the wine season.”
Her gaze stays on mine. “It grows on people.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I can see that. I’ve only lived here in the summer, so it’ll be interesting to see how all four seasons are.”
She nods, eyes dropping back to her plate, and I realize I’ve stopped eating. I scoop up a bite as she sets her fork down carefully. Her gaze lifts to mine, steady but thoughtful, the easy rhythm between us pausing without breaking.
“Do you want a paternity test?” she asks.
No preamble. No apology.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I hope you’re comfortable with that.”
She nods. “I figured you might. I know the baby’s yours.” Her mouth curves, faint but sincere. “But you don’t know me, and I understand why you would want to confirm.”
“I know enough to respect you,” I say. “But being sure matters. For both of us.”
She takes a sip of tea, buying herself a second, and then nods again. “Okay.”
I take another bite. The clink of silverware fills the space between us.
After a moment, I glance toward the window. “So what’s fall like around here? What do I need to know?”
She sets her fork down and looks outside. “It’s quieter. For about a month.”
“That’s it?”
She smiles at her plate. “Then the crush starts.”
“Wine people?” I ask.
“In the summer, the lake pulls a lot of people in, and the vineyards attract a crowd. But fall is different,” she says. “It’s all about the wine. Harvest, festivals, tasting weekends—the roads clog up fast.”
I nod, picturing it. “Sounds busy.”
“It is.” She nudges her plate a fraction closer, eyes still on the window. “But it’s a good kind of busy. The town tightens up. Everyone knows what they’re doing.”
I take another bite. “What about the weather?”
She smiles faintly. “The days stay warm longer than you’d expect. Nights don’t. They turn fast.”
“How fast?”
“Cold enough that everyone at the vineyards starts checking the forecast before bed,” she says, tracing the rim of her plate with her fork. “You don’t watch the calendar. You watch the temperature. One bad frost can ruin an entire block if the grapes aren’t in yet.”
“So it’s a gamble.”
“It’s timing,” she corrects. “You wait as long as you can for the sugar to come up, and then you pick hard and fast and hope you beat the cold.”
I glance back at the light shifting outside. “Sounds stressful.”
She shrugs, unbothered. “It’s also the best part. Everything feels heightened. Like the whole town’s holding its breath together.” She looks over at me. “And once the first snowflake falls, it’s just us locals here in town again.”
We return to our food, falling into a rhythm without effort, the conversation slipping easily into the space between bites.
When my plate is mostly clear, I set my fork down and wait for her to meet my gaze. Not to push. Not to persuade. Just to be clear. “I want to say something,” I tell her. “And you can stop me if it feels like too much.”
She watches me for a beat, and then nods. “Okay.”
I choose my words carefully. “I’m not here to take over anything. I’m not here because I think I deserve answers or unlimited access.”
Her expression stays open, curious but guarded.
“What matters to me,” I continue, “is that you feel safe. However that looks. If I’m the father, we’ll need to transfer your care to an OB.
I’ll have to explain why since you’re not a high-risk pregnancy, but I can do that.
If it means boundaries, we set them. If it means everything stays documented and straightforward, I’m fine with that too. ”
She doesn’t interrupt. She just listens.
“And emotionally,” I add, “I’ll follow your lead. I’m not asking you to decide anything right now. If it’s mine, I want to take responsibility, and we can decide what that looks like together.” I clear my throat. “And if it’s not mine…I hope we can still be friends.”
Addison looks down at her plate, and then back up at me, her expression softer now, more intent. “Thank you,” she says.
I nod.
She takes a breath, slow and measured. “I appreciate you saying it like that,” she says. “I like that you’re not waiting for the right answer.”
“I’m not,” I agree. “I’m waiting for yours.”
Her mouth curves, and she nods. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As we finish breakfast, we agree to meeting as soon as we can get an appointment for a paternity test—a blood draw for each of us at the local lab.
Then Addison gathers her bag and meets my eyes again. Once we’ve said goodbye, she steps back into the flow of the diner. A few people call after her, and she answers without slowing down.
I settle up with the server and remain where I am a moment longer, processing the experience of the morning. Nothing is resolved. Nothing is claimed. But I feel good. I showed up the way I wanted to, said what I needed to tell her, and now, it just has to unfold.