Chapter 11 Katherine
KATHERINE
The office is loud in all the ways that don’t matter.
Phones ring, chairs scrape, someone laughs too hard near the printers, and my inbox pings every thirty seconds like it’s personally invested in my productivity.
The newsroom hums with that familiar, caffeinated urgency that usually makes me feel alive.
But today, it feels like I’m underwater.
I sit at my desk, eyes on my screen, cursor blinking at the end of a sentence I’ve rewritten three times without changing a single word.
The noise around me blurs into a dull, distant static, like my brain has turned down the volume on the world without asking permission.
I can hear it all, technically. I just can’t feel any of it.
Three months.
That’s how long it’s been since Somalia. Since the smoke, the gunfire, and the moment James Smith stopped being a man and became something else entirely. A ghost, just like he said.
I tried to find him. God knows I tried.
I pulled every favor I have at the media house. Called in markers from editors, analysts, and people who owe Addison and me. I followed leads that went nowhere, names that dissolved into static, paper trails that ended abruptly like they’d been deliberately burned.
There was no James Smith. No photographer with that face, no musician who smelled like cinnamon and danger, and no record that survived even the lightest scrutiny. It was like he never existed at all.
If not for the life growing quietly inside me, I would’ve believed I made him up.
I shift in my chair, one hand instinctively dropping to my stomach, fingers splaying over fabric that’s only just beginning to feel tighter than it used to.
The bump isn’t visible yet, not really, but I know it’s there.
I feel it in the way my body has rewritten its priorities without consulting me.
In the nausea that still sneaks up on me mid-morning, and the bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of coffee touches.
“Hey,” I murmur under my breath, more habit than intention. “You still with me?”
I rub slow circles, a grounding motion I’ve come to rely on. A ridiculous smile tugs at my mouth despite myself.
“Your dad,” I whisper, voice barely audible over the clatter of keyboards nearby, “is a ghost. Which feels… on brand, honestly.”
There’s a flicker of memory—James in motion, efficient and lethal in the way he moved through chaos like it was something he spoke fluently, like violence was just another language he’d mastered and then grown tired of.
I see him again in my mind, standing amid wreckage, blood on his sleeve, those dark, bottomless eyes locking onto mine for one brief, unbearable moment.
The image fades, leaving behind that familiar ache—not sharp enough to cripple me, nor dull enough to ignore. I’ve learned to live with it, this quiet awareness that something enormous passed through my life and left me permanently altered in its wake.
A familiar presence settles at the edge of my desk before I hear her voice.
“You’ve been staring at that sentence for ten minutes,” Addison notes mildly. “Either it’s the worst line you’ve ever written, or you’re not actually here.”
I don’t look up right away. I already know what I’ll see: perfect posture, tailored blazer, hair smooth and intentional, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. She looks like someone who just won a Pulitzer and knows exactly why she deserved it.
“Can it be both?” I murmur.
She hums, noncommittal, and leans in closer. “The office is still riding the high, by the way. Marianne just got off a call with the main branch in New York. They’re still buzzing about the awards.”
Oh yes, the awards. Pulitzer winners. Plural. Said so casually now, it almost feels unreal, like it happened to other people wearing our faces.
“I know,” I reply softly. “It just hasn’t… landed.”
Addison watches me, really watches me, the way she always has, giving me her full attention. “It doesn’t have to. Not yet, at least.”
I finally glance up at her, and something in my expression must shift, because her tone becomes gentler. “You okay?”
I nod, then shrug, then nod again. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’t call me on the lie. She never does unless it matters. A beat passes. The newsroom hums around us, muted by the bubble we’ve always occupied so easily together.
“You know,” she smiles after a moment, “three months ago, if someone had told me we’d come back from Somalia with a Pulitzer and a crisis-level caffeine dependency, I’d have believed the caffeine part first.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It surprises both of us.
“There she is,” Addison grins.
I exhale, shoulders dropping. “I still half-expect him to walk in here,” I admit. “Looking for me because what we had meant something to him. Walk back into my life like he just… stepped out for a bit.”
Her jaw tightens, not with anger, but understanding. “You’re still looking,” she says, because it’s not a question.
“I am,” I admit. “Everywhere I can without crossing lines I can’t uncross.”
“And?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. He meant it. He really is a ghost.”
Addison nods once. “Some people are built that way.”
My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking, and Addison notices immediately. She always does.
“We talked about this already,” she starts gently. “But I’m going to ask again because it’s my job as your best friend.”
I meet her gaze as she asks, “You’re sure you want to keep it?”
No judgment. No pressure. Just truth.
There it is. The question that’s been circling my life like a patient predator. I look down at my hands, at the faint tremor I haven’t quite mastered yet.
“The window closes soon,” she reminds me.
“I know.”
Silence stretches between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Addison doesn’t fill it. She waits because she’s always respected silence when it matters.
“I don’t want to make this decision because I’m scared,” I admit. “Or because I’m alone. Or because part of me is still stuck on a man who disappeared.”
She studies me carefully. “And are you?”
“Scared?” I huff a quiet laugh. “Terrified.”
“Stuck on him?”
I hesitate. Just for a moment. “I think… he’s part of the story, not the reason.”
Addison exhales, slow and measured. “And the baby?”
I press my palm flat against my stomach, the gesture unconscious now, ingrained. “The baby is real, present, and definitely not going anywhere.”
She leans back, eyes never leaving mine. “Do you want this, Kate?”
“Yes,” I confess, the answer immediate and unshakable. “I do.”
It surprises me with its clarity. The way it settles in my chest instead of tightening it. Love may have failed me—romantic love, at least—but this feels different. It’s quieter and more honest.
“I don’t need a fairytale,” I continue, voice steadier now. “I just need to know I can give someone a safe, solid life. I can do that. I know I can.”
Addison smiles then, small and fierce. “You’re going to be an incredible mom.”
Emotion swells, sharp and sudden. I blink hard. “You don’t think I’m running from something?”
“I think,” she smiles gently, “you’re running toward something. And that’s not the same thing.”
The relief that floods me is physical. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, shoulders sagging as the weight of indecision finally lifts.
Addison reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand. “Whatever you need, I’m here. Every appointment. Every panic spiral. Every bad day.”
I smile at her, eyes burning. “You’re the godmother, by the way.”
She grins. “Obviously.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For not trying to save me,” I reply. “Just… standing with me.”
Addison straightens, taps my desk twice like punctuation. “Always.”
She starts to walk away, then pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. “Also, you’re leaving on time today. Doctor’s orders.”
I blink. “Since when are you my doctor?”
“Since you stopped sleeping and started pretending decaf is a personality trait.”
I smile despite myself as she disappears into the noise of the newsroom. The cursor on my screen still blinks, patient and waiting. I lift my hands to the keyboard, and this time, I type.
At five p.m. sharp, Addison sticks to her word and kicks me out of the office. I let her win because I don’t have much work anyway, and head home.
I step into my apartment, kick my heels off by the door, bag slipping from my shoulder as I take in the scene in front of me. There are shopping bags everywhere. On the couch. On the dining table. Lined up neatly along the hallway wall like they’re waiting for inspection. Oh no, not this again.
Pink. Yellow. Neutral tones pretending they’re not excited. I close the door slowly.
“Mom,” I call out, voice already edged with suspicion.
She pops her head out of the kitchen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, wearing the same cardigan she’s worn every winter since I was a teenager. “You’re home!”
“I am,” I reply dryly. “Why does it look like a baby store exploded in my living room?”
She beams. “I was restrained.”
I snort. “You call this restrained?”
“Yes.” She grins, bustling over, pulling me into a hug that smells like fabric softener and cinnamon tea. She’s warm and familiar and solid in a way that still surprises me sometimes, like I never quite adjusted to the idea that she stayed when my father didn’t.
“Come,” she says, already tugging me toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll show you everything.”
Everything turns out to be… a lot.
Tiny socks. Onesies folded with surgical precision. A mobile she insists is gender-neutral but is very clearly adorable. Books. So many books. Parenting books, baby books, books about what to expect when your expectations are completely unrealistic.
Ever since I told my mom I’m expecting, she’s been supportive in the best way. All marriage talk went out the window, and now more than ever, she’s excited to be a grandma, and it’s showing.
“I might’ve gone a little overboard,” she admits, arranging a stack of board books by color. “But it’s your first.”
“It’s also my apartment,” I point out gently.
She waves a hand. “Details.”
I sink onto the couch, exhaustion finally catching up to me, and watch her flit around the room with an energy I don’t currently possess. There’s something deeply comforting about her enthusiasm, even when it borders on overwhelming.
She stops in front of me, hands clasped, expression softening. “How was work?”
“Busy, but in a good way.”
“The award stuff?”
“Still unreal,” I admit. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”
She nods, then hesitates, her gaze dropping briefly to my midsection. “And… you?”
I rest my hand over my stomach again, the gesture no longer feeling strange. “I’m okay.”
She exhales, relief written plainly across her face. “I worry.”
“I know. You always have.”
She sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “I just want you to be happy, Katie.”
The nickname tugs at something deep and old. “I am,” I say, surprising us both with how true it feels. “Not in the way you probably imagined. But I am.”
She smiles, eyes shining. “I never imagined much beyond you being safe.”
The room falls quiet for a moment, filled with the soft hum of the city outside and the faint rustle of shopping bags settling into place.
“You know, when you were little, you used to make me read you gossip magazines before bed.”
I laugh. “More like you loved reading me those magazines before bed.”
“I did,” she admits. “They were ridiculous and dramatic and full of lives that weren’t ours. It was an escape.”
“And now I write them.”
She nudges my knee. “You made a career out of bedtime stories. I’m proud of you.”
Emotion wells up unexpectedly, thick and warm. “You did the best you could. I know that.”
She reaches for my hand, squeezing. “So will you.”
Mom asked about the father once, and I told her the truth. It was a one-night stand. I didn’t tell her about Somalia; she was mad enough that I went there without telling her. She accepted it without second thought, and I’m grateful for that.
Later, after she’s gone to bed and the apartment settles into its nighttime quiet, I wander through the living room, picking up tiny socks and placing them into a basket, straightening things that don’t need straightening.
I pause by the window, city lights reflecting at me, and press my palm to the glass, thinking about James. I’ve done everything I can to find him, and he’s determined not to be found. The realization isn’t bitter—it’s calm.
He didn’t stay. He didn’t promise. He didn’t soften the truth to spare my feelings. In his own brutal way, he was honest, and that honesty changed me in ways I’m still uncovering.
“This is going to be okay,” I whisper to myself as much as to the life growing inside me. “I’m going to do right by you. I don’t know how yet. But I will.”
Outside, a siren wails briefly before fading into the distance. Life continues. Always has. Always will.
James is out there somewhere, moving through the world like a shadow, doing things I don’t want to imagine. He exists beyond my reach, beyond my understanding, and for the first time since Somalia, that truth doesn’t feel like an open wound.
It feels like closure.