Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Keeps growing no matter what
Reid
Carina shifts in the passenger seat, one hand resting low on her belly. Her fingertips press lightly, like she’s tracking something only she can feel.
“That a kick?”
She doesn’t look up, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Or indigestion. Take your pick.”
I huff, turning onto the road that leads to Harry’s street. The wind carries the scent of cut grass and sun-warmed stone through the open window. We’re still a few minutes out, enough time for the nerves to kick in, if they’re going to. I keep my hands on the wheel.
Carina hasn’t said she’s nervous, but I know her now. I know the subtle tells. The way her foot taps lightly, the way she pulls her sleeve down over her wrist, then smooths it back up again.
She’s nervous.
“Almost there,” I say, more for me than her.
There’s no answer, but her hand moves to rest palm-down on my thigh, fingertips brushing a rhythm like she’s counting something invisible. Maybe she is. I don’t mind. I like the quiet. And I like watching her—especially now, when I glance over, and she’s watching the trees roll past.
She’s got one leg tucked up, her green oversized cardigan bunched at her hips. Hair clipped back and smelling like my shampoo. Bergamot and warm skin and the cream she uses on her calves when they cramp at night.
“You’re staring,” she says, eyes still out the window.
“You’re twitching,” I counter, nodding toward her stomach. “That’s new. Being able to see it.”
She huffs a breath. “You just miss it most of the time because you’re asleep.”
“Correction: I miss it because you like to wake up at five in the morning even when you’re not on shift.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t look over. “I had to reorganize my linen closet. The pillowcases were in the fitted sheet section.”
“Tragic.”
She pinches my thigh, just enough to make me flinch. I grab her hand and don’t let go.
We fall back into silence, but her fingers stay curled in mine, and the baby keeps kicking—rhythmic, almost like it’s part of the conversation. I slide a glance her way.
“Nervous?”
“A little,” she admits, and I don’t miss the way her voice softens around it. “You sure he’s up for visitors?”
I nod. “He’s been asking.”
“About me?”
“Yeah, about why the hell I haven’t brought you around yet.”
“And what’d you say?”
I shrug. “Told him you were busy saving lives and keeping pro athletes from sabotaging their own stitches.”
That earns me a full laugh. It curls in my chest and settles behind my ribs, and I tighten my grip on the wheel, the other tightening around her hand.
“I told him last week,” I admit. “After I’d asked you.”
She glances over.
“That you’d be coming with me to meet him,” I clarify. “He lit up. Hasn’t stopped reminding me since.”
Her expression shifts into part surprise, before she nods once and turns to look back out the window.
The sun’s soft when we pull into the driveway. Low enough to catch the dew still clinging to the grass, to turn the ivy on the side of the house into a glimmering patchwork of green and gold.
“You never told me he was the reason you started the hives,” she says quietly.
I pause with my hand on the gearshift. “I guess I didn’t.”
“You talk about him like he’s background, but it’s clear he’s everything.”
And you are, too.
The front door creaks before I can knock, and there he is. Wearing his battered old straw hat and a flannel shirt that hasn’t fit properly since the Bush administration.
“Took you long enough,” Harry says, eyeing me first, then sliding his gaze to Carina. He takes her in, then breaks into a crooked smile. “You’re prettier than he deserves. And probably smarter too.”
Carina blinks. “I’d argue, but… I won’t.”
Grandpa barks out a laugh. “Oh, I like you. Come on, I’ve got tea. Or whiskey. Or prune juice if you’re into that kinda punishment.”
She glances at me. “You didn’t say he was charming.”
“That was strategic.”
“Mm.”
We follow him into the house, the scent of rosemary immediately hitting us from the kitchen. He must’ve baked bread. Everything’s cluttered but clean. Carina takes it all in—the hanging plants, the mismatched cushions, the faint hum of bees from the garden beyond the kitchen window.
Harry chats as he pours drinks, talking about the tomatoes and the squirrel war currently waging in his front yard.
Then, he points her to his favorite armchair, demands to know how she likes her tea, and interrogates her about everything from her birth order to whether she likes bees or finds them “a bit rude.”
Carina, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. She leans into every question with that composed, razor-sharp poise she keeps for strangers. But I can see the corners of her mouth twitching, the effort it takes not to laugh.
“You two a thing yet?” Harry asks at one point, entirely straight-faced as Carina chokes on her tea. “Or just playing house without the furniture?”
“Jesus,” I hiss
Harry winks at her. “I only ask because I’ve got a story locked and loaded for whoever finally takes him down. Needs the right audience.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Takes him down?”
“That boy came out of the womb with a scowl. Refused to cry unless he thought no one was looking,” Harry says, leaning back and pointing out the window. “But he built that treehouse at nine and said it was for ‘someday.’”
“Someday?”
“Someday, when he had someone to share it with.”
My throat tightens as Carina looks over at me, her expression unreadable.
Harry doesn’t notice; he’s already wandered to the shelf and returned with a tiny terracotta pot. Something green and wild curling out the side.
“Here,” he says, placing it in Carina’s hands. “Delly rooted this from a cutting off the east fence. Said ivy was the tough stuff—keeps growing no matter what.”
She looks down at it, thumb brushing over one of the glossy leaves. “Delly?”
“My wife, Adele.” His voice softens. “She passed a few years back.”
Carina’s gaze flicks to me, then to Grandpa’s. Her fingers curl gently around the pot.
“Thank you.”
Harry watches her for a second longer, then shrugs. “Figured it oughta go to someone who might understand that kind of growing.”
I don’t say a thing, because this woman has killed every plant she’s ever owned. Overwatered them, forgot the sun, left them to wilt on windowsills between night shifts.
But she’s holding this little pot of Adele’s ivy differently, like she’s taken Harry’s words seriously.
It’s the tough stuff that keeps growing no matter what.
That’s Carina, too.
She doesn’t say much on the walk back to the truck, just climbs in, sets the ivy pot on her lap, and rests her palm over the curve of her stomach.
I let the silence stretch, but as I pull onto the road, she fills it.
“You built that treehouse.”
It’s not a question.
“Yeah.”
“At nine.”
“Yep.”
She’s quiet again. “For someday.”
My jaw ticks. “Didn’t realize he remembered that part—was just a kid thing.”
“It’s sweet.” Her voice is soft, barely audible over the hum of the tires. “I just didn’t take you for that kinda kid.”
“What kind’s that?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “The kind who hopes.”
That silences me good and proper, but my hand finds hers across the console, and she doesn’t let go. We drive for a few more blocks before she shifts in her seat.
“I need a burger.”
My brows lift. “That was abrupt.”
“Your grandfather emotionally destabilized me. I need something greasy and unreasonable.”
I try not to smile. “You sure the baby doesn’t want a kale smoothie?”
She turns slowly. “Do I look like I want a kale smoothie?”
“No, you look like you’re about to commit a felony if I don’t pull into that diner on the corner.”
“That’s the one.”
We order at the counter. She wants pickles, but not touching the tomato, and the bun has to be toasted but not “annoyingly crunchy,” whatever the hell that means, and by the time we sit down, she’s already unwrapping the ketchup packets like she’s in surgery.
“Careful,” I warn. “That form’s a little too familiar. You’re gonna start talking in abbreviations.”
“I’ll page you a trauma consult if you keep chirping me.”
I smirk and watch her squeeze a wobbly line of ketchup across the inside of the top bun.
Then, carefully, she uses the tip of a fry to scrawl something in the red.
Grow
It’s crooked and messy and a little absurd, but it guts me all the same.
Because fuck, she owns every inch of soil I’ve got.
And I know she’s bad with plants, I know she leaves them behind or forgets about them when life gets loud or busy or stressful. She’s always choosing survival over tending, and here I am, handing her something that needs both.
I don’t know if she’s ready for it, and I don’t know if she’ll stay long enough to see what grows, but I want her to have it. My roots. The dirt under my nails and the parts of me that were planted by Harry’s steadiness and Adele’s laughter, the kind that only grew because someone stayed.
She’s planted herself so deeply in me, I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else.
So I’ll keep standing here, letting her dig her hands into me. Letting myself hope she’ll stay.
Her eyes meet mine across the table as she brings the burger to her mouth, slowly takes a bite, and smiles.
I smile back, taking her in. The swell of her belly. Her gentle hands.
And the pot of ivy, perched on the table beside her.