Chapter 23
The Stalemate
Robyn
I’m on video call with Julian, phone propped up on my nightstand while I sit on my bed, folding the mountain of laundry I’ve been neglecting all week.
It’s a queen-size bed in the center of the bedroom, parallel to floor-to-ceiling windows covered by curtains I keep drawn at night.
When the weather’s nice, I love sitting on the armchair on the balcony and staring into the woods.
It’s already pitch black even though it’s not even six, and my bedside lamp casts the whole room in a warm, golden glow.
On Julian’s end: chaos.
The unmistakable cry of a newborn cuts through the line—high-pitched, breathy, a fast, vibrating “Wah, wah, wah.” He’s holding his baby flush to his bare chest and swaying, but Milo’s not running out of air or energy anytime soon.
“He’s getting purple—what do I do?”
“Try holding him differently. Maybe that football hold we taught new moms?” I put the scrubs top I’m folding down and extend my arm.
“You know? Baby’s body on your forearm”—I slide my right palm up my left forearm—“head sideways on your hand?” Julian mirrors what I’m doing, but it doesn’t help.
“Or maybe feed him? Change him?” I pause, bunching up the shirt, trying to come up with something else. “Try any and all of those again?”
“Don’t stop!”
“What do you mean?” Now I’m trying to smooth out all the wrinkles I just created.
When I look back at the phone, Milo’s looking less purple and a more normal pissed-off red.
“Keep talking! I think he likes you!”
So I do. I ramble. Random quotes from research papers, medical-journal statistics, whatever my brain can grab. And slowly, surprisingly, the baby’s screams thin, wobble, and finally melt into soft, steady breaths.
“He’s out!” Julian whispers, and lets out an awe heavy sigh. “So, what’s new?”
“You didn’t tell me my ex was going to be my new neighbor. Didn’t think that deserved a heads-up?”
“Well, I asked if you were cool with Nate and I being friendly once you left, and you said you just didn’t want me telling you about him or telling him about you.”
“Then why is he here?”
Julian exhales, repositions the baby, and sits down. “You made me promise we wouldn’t talk about Nate. So, without breaking that promise, all I can tell you is that he figured out you weren’t coming back.”
My hand stills again, fingers pinching fabric that no longer lines up. “And how would he have known if you didn’t tell him?”
“Anyone can tell from a mile away I’m bummed out that my best friend isn’t here while I figure out how having a baby turns me into a father.
” His voice shifts—hurt edged with exhaustion.
“I support you and I’m proud of you. I do, I am.
But when you decided to stay longer … that was a bad day for me.
” He exhales and briefly points the phone away from his face.
When he points it back, there’s more of Milo’s head on the screen than Julian’s face.
I blink up at the ceiling, staring at a crack in the paint, a shadow that looks a lot like Lake Michigan from back home.
I don’t regret leaving Nate. I don’t regret the breakup or putting my career first when everything else went to hell.
This distance, beyond the miles, between Julian and I …
Our chats skirt around how I haven’t visited. And I do regret that.
“Julian …” My voice comes out tentative because I am not used to being at odds with him. I pick up another piece of clothing and find a loose wool thread on the sleeve of the sweater. “I do want to see you and meet Milo. You know that, right?”
On the screen, he shifts back in his chair. One hand drags over his jaw. “Yeah, I know that. But you don’t want it enough to push past your own hurt.”
Hurting Julian hurts me—he’s family. My hurt’s not more important than his.
If he saw me, though, he’d know. How I’m hanging by a thread.
I can change topics or hang up when he gets too close to seeing me on this phone.
I can’t in person. He already has too much on his plate, and doesn’t need me adding “Robyn.”
“I’m going to, Julian.” I unfold the part of the sweater I just folded. “I promise,” I say, folding it again.
The line goes quiet. On his side, he exhales through his nose, glancing away from the screen, and I focus on straightening a stack of clothing that doesn’t need straightened.
I wish I could tell him how many times I’ve browsed Chicago flights.
Every time, I chicken out at checkout, credit card information in and all, but I still can’t manage to click the purchase.
At first, it was going back to where everything had happened, maybe even seeing Nate now that he and Julian are friends.
Then, the reason shifted to how I’m barely holding on through sheer force of will and routine.
And even in the last forty-eight hours, since I found out that Nate’s in Bend …
I know I wouldn’t be able to Whac-A-Mole my way out of that one, not in front of Julian.
“You need to soon, Robyn.” He clears his throat, and Milo stirs, but Julian’s palm on his back helps him settle.
My breath catches, and I look down at my hands bunching a pair of shorts. What he doesn’t say is what hits. I smooth them in my lap, then fold them tighter than necessary.
“I can tell you’re anxious about Nate. He’s changed, though.” His eyes flick back up to the camera, hard and challenging. “And that’s as much as I can tell you without breaking the promise you wanted me to make.”
“I’m going to figure out how to do better, Kells.”
“I know you will. Nothing you can say will make this distance better. I’ll get over it, and I’m here for you, Dr. Sunshine, I just … I need you to be here for me too.”
My throat pinches; he shouldn’t get over it. I shift on the bed, curling onto my side and sliding closer to the propped-up phone as if distance could be undone this way. So many feelings trickle from where I shoved them away, there’s no way to whack them all down.
“I should let you get ready …” He tries for light, normal, a change of topic to vanish this cloud that’s settled over us. “You’re meeting your guy.”
“Julian—” I try to hold onto this moment of realness between us.
“I mean it, Robyn. It’s good.” He’s done, though. “You had a crisis to survive and a career to protect.” A softer shuffle. “Now I have a son.”
“You’re doing great—”
And I’m sure he is, I can see it, but he’ll only believe it when my words hold weight again—once I get my butt back to Chicago. I just need to do it.
“Only time will tell.” He lowers his voice again. “I gotta put him in the bassinet. Good luck tonight. Maybe your guy will finally figure out how to … pay attention.” He covers the baby’s ears before adding, “Not just rub your clit like it’s a panic button when he’s running out of time.”
“Jeez, Kells.” I pause mid-massage, smoothing lotion over my shin. “You’re holding your baby.”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes dipping toward the baby.
“What? It’s a pretty nuanced skill, showing up for someone.
Not just do the perfunctory stuff and call it intimacy.
” Julian huffs a breath against his son’s forehead.
“When it’s real, you feel it in places hands can’t touch.
And when it’s gone, you realize how rare it was. Believe me, I know.”
“You do?”
He looks down at his son and strokes his tiny shoulder, then nods. The phone’s shifted again so I can see his face better. He tilts his chin and nuzzles his son without waking him up.
“For what it’s worth,” I murmur as my chest squeezes, “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” He rubs his son’s back, under the blanket, and Julian’s eyes flutter closed. “Being a dad is really fucking hard.”
“Kells …”
“I really gotta go. Talk soon, okay?” He shifts, then stands, making sure the baby’s neck is supported.
Before I can respond, the line clicks dead.
I rub the leftover lotion into the back of my hand, grounding myself.
My bedroom suddenly feels too quiet, and as much as I still think this was the right move, I wonder, as something hollows out that lower part of my belly, if maybe coming here cost me something I didn’t foresee.
Zac opens the door to his apartment almost before I knock. Garlic and roasted homemade tomato sauce waft out when I step inside. He’s a good cook, even if his recipes are a bit repetitive and everything he does seems somewhat backward to me—why do you add salt after you’ve plated the pasta?
It’s strange that Zac covering for Lara one day led us here.
He yelled, “Who else is in the mood for a damn fine cup of coffee?” while I stood in line at Loam & Latte, and I couldn’t resist calling him out on the quote.
Soon after, we were just rewatching the show together, but it wasn’t until recently that we started to do more than quiz each other on pop-culture one-liners.
“Perfect timing,” he says, grinning as he gets the pan out of the oven, biceps flexing, forearms roped with veins as he steadies the hefty tray.
His blond hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends.
The thermostat reads seventy-two degrees, which explains the black tank top he’s wearing.
Threads of ink peek from under the fabric on his back, at the top and sides.
It’s the giant forest landscape—lake, mountains, all of it—inked across his skin.
I’ve wanted to trace it with my fingers in tenderness, but so far, I’ve only managed to grab at it in lulled passion.
My ability for tenderness has atrophied. A bit like my ability to trust.
I take a sip of wine, letting the bitter red sit on my tongue. My mind drifts and lands, uninvited, on the image of Nate from an hour ago—him on the balcony, hands braced on the railing, watching me unlock my car. I picture the way his shoulders straightened when he realized I saw him.
“So … I had a surprise waiting for me a couple of nights ago.”