Chapter 8 #2
“Pretty much,” I say, grinning back. “My mom still lives in Connecticut. My dad passed away a few years ago.”
Her expression softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I feel that familiar ache in my chest—dull, not as sharp as it used to be, but still there.
She reaches out without seeming to think about it and lays her hand on my forearm. Her fingers are light, but the contact sends a jolt up my arm that sends electricity through my body and makes me want her hands on more of me.
“Do you have any siblings?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say. “Only child.”
“Explains a lot,” she says, pulling her hand back, a hint of a smile on her lips. “And you were married, right? To Lauren?”
“See,” I say. “You know more than you think.”
“What happened?” she asks. The question is gentle, no prying edge, just curiosity.
I take a breath. I could tell her about the tabloid stories, about the betrayal, about waking up one day and realizing the person you built your life with has been using you as a stepping stone to better things. But that is not why I am here tonight.
“I’ll tell you every detail of my marriage and divorce if you want,” I say, “but not tonight. Tonight I want to talk about us.”
She looks back down at her plate, jaw tight. The jokes and casual questions fall away. I can almost see her steel herself.
“I’m keeping the baby,” she says, voice steady, like she practiced that sentence in the mirror. “I need you to know that.”
The relief is immediate. “Okay,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m glad.”
Her head snaps up, eyes searching my face. “You are?”
“Yeah,” I say. “This is not what either of us planned, I get that. But I’ve always wanted kids. And I want to be involved. If you’ll let me.”
She studies me like she’s suspicious of my intentions. “I can do this alone,” she says finally.
“I know you can,” I say. “You seem like the most capable person in any room you walk into. I have no doubt you could do it alone.”
Her gaze flickers, then drops to her hands. She twists her napkin again, the paper already soft from how many times she’s done it. “Why?” she asks quietly. “Why are you so…sure? About being involved? About this? You barely know me.”
“Because I like you, Natalie. There was a connection between us, and I think you felt it too. And I know you said that night was supposed to be one time only, but now we have a reason to actually get to know each other. I’m not going to waste that.”
She looks away. “I’m not interested in a relationship.”
“Okay.” I won’t push her any more on the topic tonight.
“So what does co-parenting look like to you,” she asks.
“I’ve never done this before,” I confirm. “But in my head, it looks like doctor’s appointments together. Both of us at the big stuff. Being in the room when the baby is born, if you’re okay with that. A schedule we build together.’”
She nods slowly, like she’s turning the idea over, checking it for cracks. “I have to tell my dad,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I say.
“Are you worried about your job?” she asks, looking up.
“A little,” I say. “But I’m more worried about him being hurt that we didn’t tell him sooner. “
“Me too,” she says softly.
Silence settles between us for a moment.
“Okay,” she says finally, like she’s making a decision with herself as much as with me. “Co-parents. Doctor’s appointments together. We figure everything else out as we go.”
“That works for me,” I say.
We clear the table together, moving in that careful dance people do when they’re hyper-aware of each other’s proximity. My hand brushes hers as we both reach for the same plate. I don’t pull away immediately. Neither does she.
The contact lasts maybe two seconds, but I feel it everywhere. The warmth of her skin against mine. The way her breath catches, so quiet I almost miss it.
She pulls back first, fingers curling into her palm like she’s trying to hold onto the feeling or push it away. I can’t tell which.
We finish in silence, moving around each other in her small kitchen. Every time I pass behind her, I’m aware of how close I am. Close enough to catch her scent. Close enough to see the way her shoulders tense when I reach past her for a dish towel.
She’s not unaffected. That much is clear.
When the last dish is put away, I walk over to the chair where my jacket hangs and shrug it on, taking my time. Letting the sleeves settle over my arms, the fabric stretching across my shoulders and chest.
I don’t miss the way her eyes track the movement. The way they linger on my biceps, on the line of my shoulders, before she catches herself and looks away.
I straighten, letting the jacket fall into place, then meet her gaze and hold it for a beat longer than necessary. The air between us feels thick. Charged. Like we’re both pretending this is just a normal visit.
She wraps her arms around herself. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For the groceries. For dinner. For being decent about all of this.”
I take a step closer. Not crowding her, just closing some of the distance she’s trying to maintain.
“You don’t have to thank me for being decent,” I say, my voice dropping lower.
Calmer. The same tone I use in negotiations when I need someone to actually hear me.
“And you don’t have to do any of this alone. ”
Her lips part slightly, like she’s going to argue, but nothing comes out.
“I meant what I said,” I continue, holding her gaze. “I’m here. Whatever this looks like, I’m in. You don’t have to trust me right away, but I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not leaving you to handle this by yourself.”
Something flickers across her face. Relief, maybe. Or surprise. For just a second, the walls come down and I see her. Really see her. The fear underneath all that armor. The exhaustion. The small, stubborn hope she won’t let herself name.
Then she gathers herself again, shoulders straightening, chin lifting just slightly.
But her eyes linger on mine a heartbeat too long. And when she finally looks away, there’s color in her cheeks that wasn’t there before.
“Okay,” she says softly.
I let myself smile, just a little. “Okay.”