Chapter 30
Istride through the sunlit open-concept workspace, marveling at the crackling creative energy. Our new office may not be in a sleek high rise, but Reconstruxion”s scrappy crew fills the brick-walled loft space on East 44th Street with optimism and purpose.
Amanda types furiously at a small workstation while nearby, Chad leans over an engineer”s screen, gesturing wildly. Programmers feverishly tap code at their standing desks or sprawl on cushy beanbags trading ideas. Across the room, Cade frowns in concentration at his laptop screen, reviewing the latest round of fundraising data that could fuel our rapid expansion. His forehead creases as he jots investment figures on a notepad, strategizing how to leverage the recent clinical trial outcomes. Raising private capital will be crucial for scaling our software distribution quickly. We are gaining strong traction, but our potential impact remains handcuffed without an infusion of funds.
Seeing Cade pouring over investor packets and financial models, determination etched on his face, fills me with conviction. He could have coasted comfortably in a corporate executive role after his military discharge. Instead, he joined me on this quest without hesitation, putting his MBA to work. I squeeze his shoulder in silent gratitude on my way to review the interface updates, earning a distracted thumbs-up in return.
Seeing my rallying cry to revolutionize mental healthcare playing out fills me with endless energy and purpose. Maybe this is what people mean when they talk about a calling—watching a once impossible crusade gain tangible momentum. More veterans will get their lives back because of this ragtag crew. And we are just getting started.
I settle behind my standing desk, reviewing notes for an investor call later today to pitch our clinical outcomes. But first, I pull out my phone, scrolling to Maddie”s number, continuing my ritual of attempting to contact her despite the inevitable rejection. At least the six-hour time difference makes midday here a reasonable post-dinner period to try her in Paris.
I hit dial, my pulse racing irrationally, given the guaranteed voicemail outcome. Still, a foolish hope makes me wait through endless rings before her melodic voice instructs me to leave a message. Again. Sighing, I open the location app out of pointless habit, staring at the blinking icon hovering in Le Marais district.
For months after Preston tried to rape her, paranoia consumed me. Now checking compulsively every morning grounds my swirling thoughts. It’s a tangible connection despite the ocean between us.
Somedays, I catch myself bargaining obsessively. If the icon remains safely in place today, it means that somehow, she is protected. As long as I can track her, my own demons won”t consume me. Logically, I know it”s outrageous magical thinking. But still, the impulse persists.
Shaking my head, I silence the nagging urge to listen to her outgoing message just once more, torturing myself with her lyrical voice. I force myself to minimize the screen, refusing the further descent into pining. But some enchanted hand instructs me to open TikTok instead and scroll through her familiar feed. There are countless clips of her dancing through the pulse of New York across iconic backdrops. I click on a recent upload from a few days ago, soaking up glimpses of the woman burned into my soul.
In this clip, Maddie sways smoothly on the bustling street in front of Centre Pompidou. The iconic building”s towering multicolored pipes and vast glass and metal exterior stand out starkly, modernism and whimsy on proud display.
She blends into the playful, vibrant scene, a red dress subtly showcasing new curves that catch my breath. Her signature lust for life radiates through the screen, brighter than I remember. Joyful freedom and grace flow through her fluid steps inside this stylish frame.
As she tosses her hair, the camera capturing that dazzling signature smile in slow motion, something about her glow pulls me in. She looks lighter than air, and yet somehow more grounded and feminine than the lithe girl who ran from me months ago. My finger hovers frozen over the image, shock rooting me in place as the possibility sinks in.
Is it the buttery French cuisine that rounded her up this deliciously?
I replay it once more, then again, and again, peering closer. Is it my imagination or does she look subtly fuller in the hips and chest? I scrub back further, freeze framing on a side profile shot. Definitely a rounder silhouette compared to the pencil-straight lines I remember.
I zoom in on the image, transfixed. It”s difficult to tell with her signature breezy movements. But as I examine her glowing cheeks and that flirty extra curve around her middle in freeze frame, my pulse starts to race.
Could she be . . . pregnant?
I zoom out, restarting the video, and just stare, stunned, as she shimmies and sashays. She doesn’t look like a girl anymore, but rather like a woman filled with secret joy. I scrub through a dozen more recent uploads, searching for more hints of changes. But I don’t notice it in any of the other videos. Still, the possibility takes root, upending everything.
A baby? Our baby?
What the Hell? When exactly is she going to tell me?
My pulse hammers, gut swirling with shock, possibility, and fury. If Maddie is expecting, why is she freezing me out? No matter the issues between us, this is our baby.
A decision crystalizing, I pack my laptop and stride toward Cade”s workstation, resolve quickening my pace. Tapping distractedly, Cade glances up, confused as I urgently announce, “I”ve got a flight to book, and I’m heading home to pack. You need to take the call with the investors this afternoon by yourself.”
Cade”s fingers freeze mid-air as he processes this abrupt about-face. “Wait, what? Where are you going? We”ve been prepping this deck for weeks, and you”re the closer!”
I”m already tapping at my phone, scanning flight times as Cade sputters incredulously behind me, demanding more information. I call out over his bellowed threats where I’m disappearing to.
“Paris!” Just before the doors seal closed, understanding registers across Cade’s face followed by his thumbs-up and an encouraging call.
“Go get your girl, brother.”
* * *
My bodystill buzzes with restless momentum despite catching a few hours of sleep on the plane. I splash brisk cold water on my face before yanking heavy brocade curtains open. Parisian rooftops glitter cheerily under the gentle morning sun, beckoning a glorious spring weekend day.
I quickly towel off after a blistering shower in the marble-lined suite, hurrying into jeans and a casual button down. The stylish Saint Germain boutique hotel provides a polished backdrop to gather courage before seeking out Maddie somewhere amid the labyrinthine Parisian streets.
Checking my phone, I note her location pings eastward in the chic Marais neighborhood. If I had to guess, probably sipping a latte outside some charming café near Place des Vosges Park about now.
My eyes catch on a vase of delicate pink peonies on the console, matching the tree-lined street below. Its extravagant beauty echoes my racing thoughts. Could Maddie truly be pregnant?
Of course she could, you moron. Or did you forget that sixth-grade biology lesson on the birds and bees?
I shake my head, tamping down irrational hopes and fears roiling inside. I have to see her. I clip a slim wire frame pair of sunglasses over my eyes, hoping their modern edge obscures my foreigner appearance, along with my erratic emotions.
With a final steadying exhale, I grab the room key and stride into the Parisian day washed in golden sun rays. Turmoil and smothered hope wage war inside my still battle-weary heart as Maddie”s icon blinks steadily eastward.
Balmy spring air kisses my cheeks as I traverse picturesque narrow streets, pulse racing faster the closer her icon blinks. I round a corner into a small square, lush with blooming foliage. Up ahead, a group has spread yoga mats over grass in front of granite steps rising to an ancient basilica.
I slow down, realization cresting over me—it”s a prenatal yoga class. Heavily pregnant women flow gracefully from pose to pose, bellies swaying under form fitting athleisure. My eyes scan the dozen mamas-to-be, breath catching as I spot a familiar chestnut ponytail swaying near the back row.
It”s her. This is no longer a possibility. As small as her belly still is, she is cradling it, woven into this serene Parisian tableau. She gently bends sideways, the pronounced bump unmissable now. Her glowing skin caressed by dappled sunlight erases any shred of doubt. Pregnancy looks good on her. Seared into my soul for eternity, I could pick her lithe form out of an endless lineup.
I stall, frozen some yards away but close enough to discern her softly rounded profile as she presses her palms prayerfully skyward then folds into a lunge. My fist clenches in an agonized grip taking in this staggering vision.
A petite brunette wearing yoga pants and a crop top balances gracefully on one leg next to Maddie, chatting casually. She says something that makes Maddie throw her head back, laughing before flowing into the next pose.
Still unseen, I drink her in—that beloved face is fuller but still striking as ever. Her ponytail reveals the sleek neckline that still haunts my nights. But as she straightens gracefully from a lunge, her gaze catches on me.
Maddie startles violently, hands flying protectively to the bump as she chokes out a strangled gasp. After endless still moments suspended, Maddie mutters quickly to her yoga mate then hastily grabs an oversized cardigan sweater, wrapping it around herself as she strides over.
Heart seizing, I force my frozen limbs to meet her halfway until only footsteps separate us on the leafy path. Maddie halts, looking up at me wide-eyed, the wool edges of her sweater still clutched closed over her middle. My wandering gaze traces the beautiful face I have ached for.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Little Bird?” I ask hoarsely.