CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE LUCY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LUCY
I’ve gotten into the habit of napping—when Theo does before games, and on days when he doesn’t have games. I’m not tired like I was during the first trimester, but the strain on my body from the pregnancy has me feeling like I’m running ragged some days.
The days I can nap, I take full advantage of it. And most times Theo does too, but as I roll over and find his spot empty, my heart races. He was here when I fell asleep, although judging by the cool sheets, he must not have stayed here long.
I glance at the clock as I get out of bed.
Somehow, I managed to sleep for three solid hours without waking up.
My feet hit the hardwood floor and my footsteps are quiet as I slip out into the hall, looking for Theo.
The house is quiet, except there’s a distant hum of music coming from the room that’s going to be the baby’s nursery.
The baby moves in my stomach, kicking against my ribs and I wince, the pain piercing my chest as I instinctively grab my stomach. The bigger she’s getting, the stronger she is—which is a good thing, it just hurts when she kicks my internal organs.
The music grows louder as I get closer to the nursery and the door is ajar.
I pause, just outside, peering through the crack when I see Theo sitting in the room.
He painted the walls pale, butter yellow last week and we haven’t gotten anything else to furnish the space yet since my mother said to wait to see what friends and family bring to the baby shower.
Well, assuming I’m having one. My mother and Elena insisted they would handle everything, but I haven’t heard a single word about it since.
Theo is sitting shirtless on the floor, his hat backward, back against the wall and one knee bent with his sketchpad balanced on his thigh. The late afternoon sunlight casts its glow across the room, catching on the edges of his dark hair. It’s almost a halo effect around the top of his head.
He always has that damn sketchpad, although I have yet to see what he’s been hiding inside.
My chest tightens as he pauses, a slow smile curving his lips as he rubs his finger against the paper.
When Theo’s on the ice, he always looks like he’s exactly where he needs to be, but this image of him here, sitting in the baby’s room, immersed in his sketchpad…
His entire body is relaxed, and his expression holds no torment, only peace.
He looks like this is exactly where he belongs.
I immediately push the thought away, although it’s becoming harder to remind myself everything is fake. Especially when he keeps saying the things he has and looking at me the way he does.
My eyes shift down the lengths of his arms, taking in the tattoos of drawings he did. During our senior year of high school, he had a sketchpad he carried around and always asked me what he should draw. None of them had any significance, but one by one, he got them tattooed on his skin.
I push the door open with my foot, the hinges creaking as I lean against the doorframe. Theo startles, his eyes lifting from the sketchbook as his gaze collides with mine. “Hi,” I say softly, a smile tugging on the corners of my lips.
His eyes shimmer. “Hi.” He rests his forearm on his knee. “How was your nap?”
“It was good.” I walk into the room, sitting down on the floor in front of him. “You didn’t wake me up.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “You were knocked out. You needed it.”
“Growing a person is exhausting.” I laugh, shaking my head as I cross my legs and lean back with my hands on the floor, my belly protruding out in front of me. I can’t believe we only have eight weeks until she’s here.
His eyes search mine, hues of green glimmering in his irises. “Well, you’re doing a great job.”
My heart pitter-patters in my chest. I wonder if I should tell my doctor about it. That traitorous organ in my chest mustn’t have gotten the memo that things between us are only for show.
“Whatcha got there?” I ask, nodding my head toward the pad on his lap.
He tucks his pencil behind his ear. “Just a sketchbook.”
“Can I see it?”
He shifts, nervously adjusting the chain around his neck. “It’s nothing.”
I lift my brows as his eyes meet mine again. “Come on, you don’t have to hide it from me.” I sit up straighter, my hands moving to my lap. “It’s just me.”
He lets out a sigh, lifting his hat, pushing his hair back and setting it on the floor. “It’s just some random drawings.”
Suspicion washes over me and I narrow my eyes. “Then why won’t you show me?”
He presses his lips together, closing the sketchbook and holding it against my chest. “I just started drawing again a few months ago. They’re not good.”
“You’re a liar.” I chuckle, scooting closer to him. “You’ve always been good at drawing. I don’t think it’s a talent you lose.”
His cheeks turn pink and he shakes his head. “They’re not good,” he repeats.
“Are you embarrassed?”
Theo Simmons is not one who embarrasses easily. He wore a tutu to school from a dare in high school and then proceeded to wear it for the entire week to prove a point.
“No way,” he argues, his eyebrows cinching closer. “I just… I don’t want it to be weird.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Why would it be weird?”
He stares at me, his eyes unreadable, the muscle in his jaw tightening. His chest rises as he inhales deeply, swallowing hard and releases a shaky breath. “Here.” He pulls the sketchbook away from his chest and carefully hands it to me.
My eyes linger on his, his fingertips brushing against mine, sending an electrical current up my arms. I open the cover, my gaze dropping to the pages in front of me.
And then I forget how to breathe.
It’s me, etched in graphite.
The portrait of me fills the entire first page. My eyes are crinkled, my lips parted, a smile lifting my cheeks. Wisps of hair drift across the front of my face and soft freckles pepper the bridge of my nose and tops of my cheeks.
I’m in awe, rendered speechless. The details are insane. I don’t know how he did it. How he captured a picture of me with his mind and transferred it onto paper. I’m silent, my heart hammering in my chest as I flip to the next page.
It’s a sketch of me lying on the couch, lost in the pages of a book.
Theo’s still beside me.
Slowly, I turn the page.
It’s another drawing of me, but in this one I’m outside, twirling in a circle, arms spread wide with rain pelting down.
The next page is me again, standing with my hands on my stomach, staring down at my swollen abdomen.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, my voice barely audible.
“I knew this would make things weird,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Can we just forget about it?”
I’m still flipping through the pages. There are at least two dozen drawings, just of me. Some are rough and unfinished, some quick sketches like he had to get the image on paper. Some are so detailed; they look like photographs.
“Theo, these are amazing.” I lift my head, my eyes meeting his. “You drew all of these?”
He arches a brow, his face red, eyes darting around. “No, I paid someone.”
He stares at the wall, his teeth clenched and I’m afraid they might crumble from the pressure. He looks like I’m torturing him. My chest aches as realization settles over me. He never intended for me to see any of these.
These are private. A collection of his memories. Snapshots of me from his point of view.
My throat tightens, the corners of my eyes burning as I flip through the pages again.
There’s a softness to the drawings. A tenderness that seeps into my heart.
I turn to one in the middle of the book.
I’m wearing one of his sweatshirts on the beach, caught mid-twirl as the rain falls from above.
My head is tipped back but turned toward him.
Lips spread wide and my eyes locked on his.
“We got soaked,” I murmur quietly, a soft laugh following as my eyes flick to his. “You remember it?”
He looks over, a slow smile creeping across his lips. “I do. It was in the middle of a thunderstorm, and I wanted to get you back in the house and you insisted.”
“Dancing in the rain is good for the soul,” I remind him, repeating the words I said when I convinced him to dance with me.
His eyes burn into mine. “Hmm.”
I flip to the most recent sketch, the one he was working on when I walked in and caught him. My stomach does a somersault, my heart pounding harder in my chest as I take in every bit of detail. I recognize the moment from the other night.
He’s been drawing me when I’m not looking. Storing every memory, every mental photograph in graphite and charcoal.
“You did all of these from memory?”
His gaze latches onto mine. “I remember everything about you.”
His words hit me in the chest. My breath catches and my heart involuntarily skips a beat. He says it so casually, yet it feels anything but.
Nothing with Theo feels casual anymore.
I slowly close the sketchbook, handing it back to him. “You’ve been drawing me for years.”
“Yeah,” he admits without hesitation, his voice gentle as he sets the book down on the floor beside him. “I guess I have been.”
“Why?” My heart is in my throat. “Why me?”
“Because you’re you.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips, reaching for me. He pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me, enveloping me with his warmth. “You’re the only thing my brain has stored every detail and every memory of.”
I settle against him, my ear against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating. There isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be, than wrapped up in him like this, with a sketchbook filled with drawings of me.
He presses his lips to my forehead. “You’re someone I never want to forget.”
“You’ll never have to,” I promise, as I breathe him in. The soft hum of the music plays in the background and we stay like this, arms around one another until we’re forced to move.
The line we drew in the sand years ago—it no longer exists. There’s nothing between us anymore, nothing keeping us apart.
And that promise he made me years ago?
I think we’ve both always known one day it would be broken.