Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MORGAN
This is a terrible fucking idea and I still have yet to fully comprehend how I got to this point or what the fuck I’m going to do after I arrive at my destination.
This is beyond me, beyond Morgan Creed. I’m so screwed.
The passenger seat is cluttered in a way that would make my clean-freak mother, God rest her soul, twitch.
There’s a brown paper bag that smells faintly of smoked brisket and vinegar sauce, a six-pack of lemon-lime Gatorade, and a sleeve of saltines.
Another bag holds a plastic case with the newest SpongeBob movie that the bored cashier swore every kid wants to watch.
I don’t remember deciding to buy any of it.
I remember standing in the convenience store aisle, staring at a wall of options, and thinking in a detached, almost clinical way that sick kids need bland food and something familiar.
Then my hands started moving.
Now I’m driving across town with supplies like I’m someone’s husband instead of the man who signs off on million-dollar security contracts.
The neighborhood is quiet when I pull up. The kind of quiet that only exists in streets where people still leave bikes in their yards and trust their neighbors to bring packages inside if it rains.
A wind chime taps softly somewhere to my left, and the air smells faintly like cut grass and laundry detergent drifting from an open window.
This is not my world.
My world smells like leather and polished steel and expensive cologne that sits too long in climate-controlled air.
I cut the engine and sit for a moment with my hands resting on the steering wheel.
There’s a part of me that says I should leave. Not because I don’t want to be here, but because I shouldn’t want to be here.
Constance Hale wasn’t supposed to be a complication, a variable. Instead, I’m sitting outside her house with crackers and a cartoon movie like I have any business being part of this.
I grab the bags before I can talk myself out of what I'm about to do and walk up the short path toward her front door, while the porch light flickers once overhead. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of a television somewhere inside, and for a second I wonder if I should turn around and leave before I complicate her life any more than I already have. My knuckles rap against the wood, anyway. There’s movement on the other side almost immediately, quick and uneven, the lock clicks, the door opens, and she’s standing there in the warm spill of yellow light, eyes wide with surprise and what could only be described as a flash of suspicion
Her hair is pulled back in a loose tie, a few strands already escaping. Her eyes are tired in that deep way that only comes from hours of worry. She’s wearing an oversized shirt and yoga pants that look like they've been washed one too many times.
“You’re here,” she says, as if she is not sure I am real.
“I brought a few things,” I answer, holding up the bags. “How is he?”
Her mouth opens and closes once. She swallows hard.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
Her shoulders rise, then fall.
“Constance,” I say more quietly. “Breathe.”
She inhales too fast, like her body forgot how to regulate itself.
“I was worried,” I tell her. “About both of you.”
Something in her expression shifts, not gentle, just less guarded, like she’s lowering a shield by an inch instead of dropping it entirely.
She steps back and lets me in.
The house smells homey the second I step inside, clean in that quiet, lived-in way that comes from someone trying to hold their world together.
There’s a faint hint of tomato sauce hanging in the air, like dinner has been started, and then forgotten when something more important took over.
It doesn’t smell staged or polished. It smells real.
Chance is curled on the couch under a blanket, cheeks flushed pink, curls damp and sticking to his forehead.
He looks smaller here than he did in my office, less like a problem to be managed and more like a kid who just feels awful.
Fragile in a way that settles low in my chest. I set the bags on the coffee table and force myself to move slower than I ever do in spaces that aren’t mine, careful not to bring the sharp edges of my world into hers.
“What has he kept down?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says quietly. “He’s been throwing up every hour.”
I twist open the Gatorade. “We’ll try small sips.”
She nods and kneels beside him, and the change in her is immediate.
The tightness she carries everywhere else drains out of her shoulders, her voice dropping into something softer, warmer, meant only for him.
Even the way she moves slowly, carefully, and patiently, like the rest of the world has stopped existing outside the space between her and her son.
“Hey Baby,” she murmurs, brushing his curls back with her fingertips. “Can you try a little drink for me?”
His eyes open halfway. He looks at me, then back at her.
“Okay.”
He takes two small sips before turning his head away.
“That’s enough,” she whispers. “Good job.”
I hand her the saltines. “Later. When his stomach settles.”
She nods again, and I stay where I am on purpose, leaning back against the wall instead of stepping in and crowding the space they’ve created between them.
I watch the way her thumb moves in slow, absent circles over his shoulder, the motion so automatic she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, most likely.
Every small shift in his breathing pulls her attention instantly, like her body is wired to catch changes before they happen.
It’s precise in a way I recognize. Systems always have tells, pressure points that reveal where the real priorities live, and people are no different.
Her tell is obvious once I know where to look.
Everything else in the room stops existing the second he needs her.
When he finally drifts back to sleep, we move quietly toward the kitchen, careful not to wake him.
The table is small, with two matching chairs and a third mismatched one pushed against the wall like it was added later, out of necessity.
I set the bags down and start unpacking the barbecue, the smell of smoked meat and warm sauce filling the space.
“I didn’t know if you’d eaten,” I say.
“I forgot,” she admits.
Of course she did.
We sit across from each other with paper plates between us, the refrigerator humming steadily in the background while a clock ticks somewhere behind me, each quiet sound filling the space between us.
The moment feels almost surreal in its simplicity, painfully normal in a way I’m not used to, like I’ve stepped into a life that runs on a schedule and small comforts instead of control and calculated decisions.
After a few minutes, I ask carefully, “Where’s his father?”
She goes still, and instead of snapping back like I expect, she takes a long, controlled breath that tells me she’s choosing her response carefully.
“One-night stand,” she says plainly. “We stayed friends, and he was a really good dad.”
I wait.
“He died when Chance was three. In a motorcycle accident.”
The words land heavier than they should.
I picture her younger. Alone. Holding a toddler and a grief that technically doesn’t belong to her, but still becomes her responsibility.
“You’ve raised him alone,” I say.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
There’s no self-pity or dramatics, just fact and that has undeniable respect settling in my bones.
She studies me for a second longer than is comfortable, then tilts her head slightly. “What about you?”
I frown. “What about me?”
“You run on routine and you’re very concise in the things you say and ask,” she says, gathering her fork but not looking away. “People usually learn that somewhere.”
I almost deflect but decide to give her something since she’s telling me about herself.
“My father was a military captain,” I say finally. “Structure wasn’t a suggestion in our house, it was survival.”
She waits, quiet enough that I keep going.
“He believed discipline fixed everything. Perfect was expected and he had high expectations.” A faint breath leaves me. “If you couldn’t bounce a quarter off my bed at 0700, there were consequences.”
Her expression shifts, softer now.
“I learned quickly,” I add, voice even, “to run my life like a well-oiled machine. Order meant safety and mistakes meant punishment.”
She nods slowly, like that explains more than I meant to say aloud.
We finish the meal slowly, conversation coming in short pieces that don’t need to fill the space, the quiet between us steady and surprisingly comfortable.
When the last bites are gone, she gathers the plates without comment, moving around the small kitchen with quiet efficiency while I cap the containers and tie off the trash.
The normalcy of it sits strangely on my shoulders.
I’ve stepped into a world that doesn’t belong to me but doesn’t push me out either.
She pauses at the doorway, glancing toward the living room where Chance is still curled under the blanket. “He’s still asleep,” she says softly. “I should get him into his bed before he wakes up sick again.”
I nod and follow at a distance, watching as she bends beside the couch and slides her arms under him with practiced care.
For a second it hits me just how close they’re in size, his long limbs folding into her as she lifts him, his head dropping against her shoulder like it’s the safest place he knows.
She carries him down the hall without rushing, easing him onto the mattress and pulling the blanket up around him before setting a small bucket beside the bed.
A sleeve of saltines and a bottle of Gatorade land on the nightstand within easy reach, everything placed exactly where a sick kid would need it if he woke in the dark.
When she’s done, the exhaustion is impossible to miss, settling into her shoulders and the slow way she moves like she’s running on whatever’s left in the tank.