18. Adrian
Chapter eighteen
Adrian
T he aroma of roasted chicken mingles with the laughter bubbling from the dining room. I sit at the head of the table, a king in a castle not my own, trying to navigate the domestic bliss of the King household. The table is an eclectic display of mismatched china and crystal glasses that somehow works, just like the family gathered around it.
“Isn’t Caleb just the sweetest?” Isabella’s mother coos, her eyes sparkling as she watches my son shovel brown rice into his mouth with the focus of a surgeon. She’s not wrong, but her gushing is enough to make any eight-year-old squirm.
“Careful,” Macie, my mother, drawls from beside me, “or I’ll start charging you for compliments.” Her eyes dance with mischief as she sips her wine, a perfect grandmother wrapped in a shawl of sarcasm.
Isabella’s mom throws back her head, laughing. “Oh, I wish I had a dozen grandsons just like him!”
“Trust me, one is plenty,” I quip, earning an eye roll from Caleb, who’s oblivious to the fact that he’s the center of a mild tug-of-war.
“Adrian here thinks marriage and more kids are off the table,” Mom chimes in, a hint of regret lacing her voice .
I roll my eyes. “Mom, not now–”
Then Mr. King leans back in his chair, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Don’t take him so seriously, Macie. Your husband was the same, you know. Marriage, kids—it was all on the ‘do not fly’ list.” He chuckles, his gaze flickering to Macie. “Then he met Macie. Stubborn, beautiful, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
My mother smirks at this. “I was quite the firecracker back in my day.”
Mrs. King winks at her. “Still are, Macie.”
“Despite his best efforts,” Mr. King continues, “He couldn’t shake her. He knew his fate was sealed the moment they met.”
I can’t help but sneak a glance at Isabella. Our smiles collide, two stars on a collision course, until she abruptly looks away.
What’s that about? Unless ... she doesn’t like the idea of our fate being sealed. Not together, at least.
Mrs. King, with a glint of mischief in her eyes that rivals her husband’s, leans forward, as if the next words are the secret to eternal youth. “Thomas sounds an awful lot like our Isabella. Always planning for tomorrow. But perhaps she’ll have a change of heart about starting a family sooner rather than later.”
I catch Isabella’s eye across the table, and we share a silent nod. It’s time. The air thickens with anticipation as I clear my throat. “Actually, there’s something we need to tell you all,” I start, my voice more steady than I feel.
Isabella picks up where I leave off, her fingers lightly trembling on the edge of the table. “We’re having a baby.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Then, like clockwork, Mr. King, his eyebrows doing a high-wire act above his glasses, asks, “You’re having a baby? With each other?”
“Yep, with each other,” I confirm, feeling my chest tighten a little less.
Caleb, who’s been shoveling chicken into his mouth as if he’s got a personal vendetta against it, drops his fork. “I’m gonna be a big brother?” His voice is laced with so much excitement it could power a small city.
“Absolutely, buddy.” I can’t help but grin as I watch his face light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “You’re going to be the best big brother ever.”
“Is it a boy or a girl? When’s it coming? Can I teach it to play soccer?” Caleb fires off questions faster than a speeding bullet, and I wonder if we’ve just unleashed a mini interroga—Nope, enthusiastic future big brother.
“Whoa, one question at a time, champ,” I say, trying to keep up.
“Go on, sport,” Mom intervenes, sensing the adults need their own time to process. “Why don’t you head upstairs and play for a bit? You can think up all your questions, and we’ll answer every single one later.”
“We set up a playroom for you,” Mrs. King adds. “Filled with all of Isabella’s old toys. Plus some new ones I picked out this morning. Upstairs in the first room on the right.”
“Okay!” Caleb agrees with an energy that suggests he’s about to launch from his chair and straight through the ceiling. He scurries off, leaving us in a suddenly too-quiet room.
The mood shifts, like the clouds covering the sun on a perfect beach day. Mr. King is the first to speak. “So, how is this going to work?”
“Look, we’re figuring things out,” I say, maybe a bit too defensively. “But Isabella and I plan to raise the baby as civil co-parents. No fighting, no drama.”
“Co-parents?” My mom questions. “As in, you won’t be together? ”
I clear my throat. “Isabella and I … we agreed to keep our relationship casual.”
Mr. King’s eyebrows furrow. “What exactly does casual mean? That you’re sleeping with my daughter without any plans to commit to her? Are you doing this with other women as well?”
Eyes widening, I shake my head. “No, no, Mr. King. It isn’t anything like that. Your daughter is the only woman I’m seeing.”
“Before I told Adrian about the baby, we agreed that we would see one another while keeping commitment off the table,” Isabella finishes. And even I know it sounds bad. Suddenly, this is starting to feel like a teen pregnancy with the way our parents are grilling us.
“I believe the term the kids use these days is situationship ,” Mrs. King informs her husband and my mother.
The word dangles awkwardly between us, like a pinata nobody signed up to hit. I shoot Isabella a look, eyebrows raised. She mutters under her breath, disbelief and amusement mingling on her tongue, “How do you even know what that means?”
I clamp down on a chuckle. Wrong time for laughs, but damn, if humor isn’t a life raft in this sea of tension. “Mr. and Mrs. King, Mom. Isabella and I simply agreed to take things slow and see where it goes.”
That opens the floodgates. Concerns rain down like we just announced we’re starting an alpaca farm. “How will you raise a child if you’re not committed?” Mr. King probes. “What if things go wrong between you?” Mom chimes in. “This isn’t exactly traditional, you know.” A chorus of tradition and commitment and every expectation under the sun.
Glancing around, I notice Isabella’s mother is conspicuously silent, sitting back with an expression that’s half Mona Lisa, half poker champion. It’s just Mr. King and my own mom lobbing the questions like grenades.
As the interrogation intensifies, Isabella’s resolve starts to crumble. She stands suddenly, a silent white flag raised, and exits stage left to her childhood room.
With her gone, guilt gnaws at me like a dog on a bone. I square my shoulders, facing our parents like I’m about to enter the courtroom. “Listen, I get it, your concerns are valid, but you should know something—I’d marry Isabella in a heartbeat, right here in this dining room, if she said the word. But it’s her call.”
Just then, I hear what I can only assume is Isabella’s door slamming shut upstairs. I wince, then turn back to our parents.
Silence blankets the room, thick enough to suffocate. I press on, “With that being said, my feelings for her are legit. This isn’t a ‘situationship’ to me,” I say, my voice unwavering. “We’re just navigating one day at a time. And I’ll be by her side through it all. It’s a shame all of you can’t do the same.”
I rise and trudge up the stairs, each step heavy with the kind of dread that usually precedes a root canal. At the top, I pause, pressing my palms against the cool wood of Isabella’s childhood bedroom door before pushing it open.
She’s there, a small, tight coil of despair under floral bedspread. Her body rises and falls with silent sobs, and it’s like watching Superman get taken down by a piece of kryptonite.
“You okay?” I ask, knowing the answer is a universe away from yes.
A sharp shake of her head sends waves through her long hair, and the dam breaks. Tears stream down her cheeks, painting paths of vulnerability she’d rather die than show to anyone. “Why can’t they just be supportive? We’re both adults.”
“Isabella,” I start, my voice a sigh of resignation, “parents have this built-in worry chip. It’s like they get a software update the second you’re born—‘Congrats, here’s your bundle of joy, now commence lifelong anxiety.’”
She props herself up on one elbow, swiping at her eyes. “I knew this would happen—the judgement. That was always my biggest fear.”
Instinctively, I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. She leans into me, a rare moment of surrender. “Listen, they’ll come around. What matters is we’re committed to this tiny human we’ve created. And hey, if nothing else, we’ve managed to unite our parents in confusion and concern. That’s got to count for something, right?”
Her laugh is watery, but it’s there, a testament to the resilience I admire so damn much.
“Ready to make our escape?” I ask, voice low, as if we’re plotting a jailbreak.
She nods, her eyes still red-rimmed but fierce—like she’s ready to take on the world if it means getting out of this awkward family dinner turned interrogation session. I help her up, keeping my arm around her waist longer than necessary. It’s both a comfort and a shield, because right now, she needs both.
We shuffle into the makeshift playroom where Caleb is engrossed in building some sort of Lego fortress that defies the laws of physics and good taste. He looks up, his little brow furrowing when he sees Isabella’s puffy eyes.
“Isabella?” he breathes, and I can hear the concern in his little voice.
I gesture toward the hallway with my chin. “We’re going to cut out early, buddy. Let’s say goodnight and thank Mr. and Mrs. King first.”
The kid doesn’t say a word, just rises and slides his hand into Isabella’s like he’s the protector here. It’s a gesture so full of empathy, it almost makes my chest tight. I ruffle his hair, proud as hell of the little guy .
The descent down the stairs is quiet, too quiet, like someone hit the mute button on a remote. When I announce we’re heading out, there’s an almost palpable collective exhale.
Mrs. King materializes from nowhere, pulling me into an unexpected hug that smells like vanilla and concern. She whispers close, “Take care of her, Adrian. She’s tougher than she looks but softer than she seems.”
“Cross my heart,” I whisper back.
As she lets go, her eyes lock with mine—a silent pact between us. It’s a look that says, “I know you’ve got this,” and for a second, I feel like maybe I do.
“Let’s go,” I tell them, scooping up jackets and keys with more finesse than a Vegas card dealer on a hot streak.
We step out into the evening air, the door closing behind us with a click that sounds like a period at the end of one very long, run-on sentence. And just like that, we leave the chaos inside, our own little unit—imperfect, untraditional, but somehow exactly right.