Chapter 21 Nina
Nina
“Or it might be exactly what you all need.” Callie returns to her onions. “Sometimes the only way past it is straight through the mess.”
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, though my pulse is still elevated from naming the impossible situation I’ve created.
Callie’s onions make my eyes water, sharp and clean—a relief, actually, because now there’s a reason for the stinging.
I suddenly miss the overly clinical medical conversation we were just having.
I’d rather spend the rest of the night talking about Zoey’s developmental progress than face what’s coming.
Mason’s voice drifts in from the backyard along with the scent of the lit grill.
I finish the cilantro and move on to the peppers, then the limes, grateful for the task that keeps my hands busy and gives me an excuse to avoid Callie’s too-perceptive gaze.
The lime juice stings a small cut on my knuckle I didn’t notice getting, and I wonder when I started being so careless with knives.
“There,” I say, combining everything in the serving bowl. “Perfect salsa.”
“You always were better at this than me.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel.
“Chopping isn’t cooking,” I remind her. “Anything else I can do that doesn’t require a stove?”
“Nothing. You’ve done enough.” Callie pulls a container of marinated meat from the refrigerator, balancing it against her hip. “Pour yourself some wine and relax. I need to get this out to Mason and get him grilling soon or we’ll be eating at midnight.”
She disappears toward the back door, leaving me alone in the suddenly quiet kitchen.
I pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle she left on the counter—a crisp sauvignon blanc that catches the late afternoon light streaming through the window.
I take a longer sip than I should, feeling the alcohol warm my chest. I focus on these details, filing them away like evidence, anything to avoid the weight of what I just told Callie about wanting to be here for her family.
The house is no more than a cozy bungalow with an open plan—small dining area and kitchen on one side, living room on the other where Zoey has gone back to building. It’s comfortable and clean but obviously too small for a growing family. And to think Mason grew up here with four siblings.
Zoey babbles, animated and pleased with herself.
I watch her from the kitchen, keeping the island between us, assessing her motor skills, her verbal patterns, the way she problem-solves.
Safe observations. Clinical distance. Except that’s exactly what I’m doing—turning a toddler into a case study because being around her makes me uncomfortable in ways I don’t want to examine.
Classic avoidance behavior, Nina. Very professional.
But my very active avoidance of her distracts me enough from my thoughts about what tonight will bring.
Her construction has grown considerably more elaborate since I arrived, and despite myself, I’m genuinely impressed. Maybe if I focus on the cognitive development aspects, I can manage this one small step without falling apart.
I meant what I said to Callie. I want to be here for them. For her. Which means I need to stop treating a toddler like a specimen and start seeing her as... well, as Zoey.
I take another sip of wine for courage and step around the island.
“What are you making?” I ask, crouching beside her.
“Grande chateau pour Papa,” she says without looking up, placing another block with precision. “Like Mémère’s pictures.”
The easy bilingual switch surprises me. At eighteen months, most kids are barely stringing two words together, but Zoe’s constructing sentences in two languages like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“That’s very impressive,” I tell her, and mean it.
She beams at the praise, then adds a smaller block to what might be a tower. “Papa come home from el océano grande. Now we make chateau together.”
“Your papa’s back from his honeymoon,” I say, understanding. “That must make you happy.”
“Oui! Muy happy.” She claps her hands once, then immediately returns to her construction with the same intense focus as Mason.
I watch her work for another moment. There’s something methodical about her approach, almost scientific. Like she’s already inherited Callie’s precision along with Mason’s intensity.
A strange weight settles in my chest as I watch her. She’s so perfect, so complete in her small world of blocks and multiple languages and absolute certainty about what she’s building. The kind of clarity I haven’t felt in years.
Callie appears from the back patio with reusable grocery bags in hand, sliding the door closed behind her. “Wyatt’s here,” she announces, moving to the counter to unpack. “Marcella intercepted him the moment he stepped into the backyard and is now giving him the full botanical tour.”
My pulse kicks up at the mention of his name. I hope I can find the right moment to pull him aside for a chat.
“I should say hello,” I manage.
I walk toward the back door on legs that feel steadier than they should, wine glass in one hand and a wooden block Zoey pressed into my palm—apparently I’ve been enlisted as a construction consultant.
Through the glass, I can see Wyatt and Marcella standing near the herb garden, her silver hair catching the late afternoon light as she gestures toward the basil.
He’s listening with the focused attention he gives everything—hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, genuinely interested in whatever she’s telling him about companion planting.
He’s changed since I saw him last. Not physically—he still moves with that steady confidence, still fills out his clothes in a way that makes my mouth go dry. But there’s a careful alertness in his posture, like he’s bracing for impact.
I set the block on the small end table by the door—Zoey will find it later and probably incorporate it into whatever architectural marvel she’s creating.
The door handle is warm under my palm. I step outside into air that’s softer than Denver’s ever was, carrying the green scent of Marcella’s garden and the rich, smoky aroma of meat on Mason’s grill.
The temperature difference makes me aware of how tense I’ve been inside—my shoulders drop slightly as the evening warmth settles around me.
Wyatt turns immediately, as if he felt me coming, and the familiar way his eyes find mine sends warmth flooding through me.
Some of the heaviness in my chest lightens for the first time all evening.
“Nina.”
Just my name, but the way he says it makes my pulse skip.
“Wyatt.”
Marcella glances between us with shrewd eyes, then smiles and excuses herself to check on dinner preparations. She squeezes my shoulder as she passes, a gesture that feels like benediction.
And then it’s just us.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for me. Just stands there, letting me set the pace, the boundaries, still obeying my need for space. It’s so typically him.
“How was the flight?” I ask, because it’s safer than anything else I want to say.
“Long. Nikita was displeased with the entire experience.”
“Where is she now?”
“The apartment over Mason’s shop. Exploring her new domain.” His mouth quirks slightly. “She’s already claimed a chair by the sunniest window.”
The small talk feels both necessary and absurd. We’re circling around the real conversation, the weight of everything unspoken between us. But I’m not running from this. Not today.
“Wyatt,” I start, then stop. Take a breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other.
The late afternoon light turns everything golden, makes the ordinary beautiful.
His hair is a little longer than I remember, curling slightly at the ends.
There’s a healing nick on one side of his freshly shaved jaw.
I want to touch it, want to trace all the small changes that accumulated in the few weeks we’ve been apart.
But I also came here for a reason.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say quietly. “About what happened after the wedding. After that night.”
His attention sharpens immediately. “Okay.”
“Not here, though.” I glance toward the house, where I can hear Mason’s voice mixing with Marcella’s returned chatter.
“Can we sit?”
He follows me to a small bench tucked under an archway heavy with purple bougainvillea. The bench is just wide enough for two, positioned to catch the evening breeze while offering some privacy from the rest of the patio. Music drifts from Mason’s speaker.
Callie emerges from the house carrying Zoey, who’s clutching a stuffed elephant and babbling contentedly. She sets up a small playpen in the shade near where Mason tends the grill, then settles Zoey inside with an array of toys.
“There’s my beautiful granddaughter,” Marcella says warmly, appearing with a beer for Mason. She accepts his kiss on her cheek, then moves to sit in a chair near the playpen, her expression serene as she watches Zoey arrange her toys.
The domesticity of it all dredges up shame that just won’t stay buried. This is what family looks like when it works. When the ordinary moments feel sacred instead of suffocating.
Wyatt settles beside me on the bench, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body but careful not to crowd me. “Nina.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
I believe him. That’s the thing about Wyatt—he creates space for truth, even when it’s ugly. Especially then.
“I was pregnant,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “After that night. After the wedding. I found out the week after I got to LA. And I—I terminated it. Last week. Callie was with me.”
Wyatt goes still beside me. The confession changes the air between us—everything it means and doesn’t mean stretching in the silence. Ten days of carrying this secret, of trying to find the right words, the right time.
The gate buzzer cuts through the moment. Zoey’s excited voice carries across the patio: “Uncle Chris! Uncle Chris!”
My stomach drops. Wyatt’s eyes widen slightly as he processes what I just said, then his gaze shifts toward the house as he realizes who’s arriving.
“Did you tell him yet?” he asks quietly, urgently.
I shake my head, panic rising in my throat.
Wyatt reaches for my hand and squeezes once.
“It’s okay,” he says, and there’s so much more in those words now. “We’ll talk later.”
But we won’t, not really. Not the way I need to.
This isn’t how I wanted this to go. I had a plan—tell Wyatt first, explain everything, then face Chris together.
But now I’m caught halfway, the worst possible timing, with the most important conversation of my life interrupted by the sound of the gate buzzer.
The shame of it sits heavy in my chest, which is ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. It was my choice, basic reproductive autonomy—except some part of me keeps whispering that I’ve taken something away from them. That I’ve made a decision about their potential future without consulting them.
God, listen to me. “Their potential future.” Like I’m some kind of vessel for their genetic legacy instead of a person with her own—
No. Stop. This is exactly the kind of internalized misogyny I help other women recognize and reject. I don’t owe anyone my fertility. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for choices about my own body.
So why does it feel like I do?
“Nina. It will be okay,” Wyatt says again, holding out a hand to me. I finally take it and rise, bracing myself as we join the others on the back porch.
Wyatt’s hand brushes mine as we walk toward the house—brief, grounding, a promise that whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone.
At least, I hope not.