15. Finding Equilibrium 2 Too long #2
The image sticks with me more than it should—Reid pushing a cart, our kid banging a spoon, my hand brushing shelves and comparing prices.
It’s so ordinary it almost hurts. By the time we get home, unpack groceries, and wrestle Liam through lunch and a nap, the day has blurred.
We end up on opposite ends of the couch for a few minutes, both staring at the ceiling like we’re afraid to move and disrupt the quiet.
“You have your work thing tomorrow, right?” Reid asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Client meet and greet. Nothing major, just a lot of small talk and pretending I’m not exhausted.”
“I’m still coming,” he says.
“It’s boring,” I say. “And mostly coworkers and middle management.”
“I said I’m still coming,” he says. “I want to see this part of your life. Even if it’s awkward corporate appetizers.”
I study him for a second.
“You’re serious,” I say.
“Very serious,” he says. “I packed a decent shirt and everything.”
I laugh, and the sound feels easy.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll see how long you last before you fake an emergency.”
He puts a hand over his heart.
“I would never,” he says.
I squint at him.
“You absolutely would,” I say.
He smirks.
“Not tomorrow,” he says.
He says it like a promise, so I let it stand. As the afternoon slides into evening, Mom texts that she’s happy to take Liam for the night if we want time alone. I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, then show Reid.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think your mom is a saint,” he says. “And I think you should say yes.”
“You just got here,” I say. “You’re okay being without him tonight?”
“I’ll see him all day tomorrow and all weekend,” he says. “He’s not going to forget me in twelve hours. And I…” He meets my eyes. “I want time with you, too. Just you.”
The admission hits me in a place I’ve been ignoring. We’ve been parents long enough that I almost forgot we were a couple first.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll pack his stuff.”
Mom swings by and collects a sleepy, overexcited Liam along with his favorite stuffed dinosaur, two backup pajamas, and enough diapers to supply a daycare. After they leave, the apartment feels quieter, bigger, and strangely unfamiliar. I turn to Reid.
“So,” I say. “You and your ‘don’t make plans for Thursday night.’”
He grins like he’s been waiting for that.
“Go get dressed,” he says.
“I am dressed,” I say.
“Go get dressed in something that makes you feel good,” he says. “Not leggings.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Are you saying my leggings don’t make me feel good?” I ask.
“I’m saying I know your ‘I’m going to a work thing’ dresses,” he says. “Pick one of those. You’re not going to work, but I’m stealing the vibe.”
“You’re being very bossy,” I say.
He steps closer and lowers his voice.
“Please go get dressed, Amelia,” he says.
The way he says my full name does something to my spine. I roll my eyes and back away.
“Fine,” I say. “But if this surprise is you ordering pizza and making me watch a game, I’m walking out.”
“It’s not,” he says. “Trust me.”
I change into a simple black dress that fits well and doesn’t require extra effort, pull my hair back, and add a swipe of lipstick.
Not trying too hard. Just showing up. When I step back into the living room, Reid’s waiting by the door.
He’s in dark jeans and a button-down that makes his shoulders look broader. His gaze sweeps over me and slows.
“You look amazing,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
He offers his hand.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Apparently,” I say as I take it.
We drive without music, just low conversation and the hum of the engine. I try to piece together where we’re going based on turns, but it doesn’t click until we hit the familiar intersection and the streetlight that always used to buzz at night. My breath catches.
“Reid,” I say.
He glances at me, then back at the road.
“Yeah,” he says.
“You didn’t,” I say.
He pulls into the small parking lot, and there it is—the little restaurant from our first real date. The one with string lights and too-loud heaters and mismatched chairs. The one where I realized I was in real trouble with him.
“I called them last week,” he says. “Asked if they still had our table.”
“Our table?” I ask, even though my voice is softer now.
“They remembered you,” he says. “You sent them a long email once about how good their dessert was. The manager thought it was hilarious.”
I put my hands over my face for a second and groan.
“Of course he did,” I say.
“Come on,” Reid says. “You can be embarrassed inside.”
The hostess greets us by name—by my name, which is somehow worse—and leads us straight to the back corner. Same table. Same view of the patio. Same scuffed floor. The string lights glow overhead, and there’s a small vase with a single flower on the table.
“Welcome back,” she says. “We tried to match the menu to what you ordered last time. Your server will go over it with you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
When she leaves, I sit down slowly.
“You did all this?” I ask.
Reid sits across from me.
“I had help,” he says. “They were weirdly excited about it.”
My chest feels full in a way that isn’t painful for once.
“Reid… why?” I ask.
He props his forearms on the table.
“Because the last few months have felt like we’re stuck in the middle of the story,” he says. “And I wanted to remind us how it started.”
The server comes by, and it turns out he’s not kidding—the specials list is almost identical to what we ordered on that first night.
We pick the same dishes without even trying.
A live duo in the corner is playing soft covers, and halfway through the salad they slide into a song I remember from that date.
I lean back and let it settle. The heaters hum.
The silverware clinks around us. It’s the same and not the same.
“Remember when you spilled water on yourself here?” Reid asks.
I groan.
“We don’t need to revisit that,” I say.
He laughs.
“You got so flustered,” he says. “Kept apologizing like I’d never seen a stain before.”
“I was nervous,” I say. “I liked you too much.”
He goes quiet for a second.
“Same,” he says.
We talk about that night and everything that followed. How fast things escalated. How we went from flirting over dessert to sneaking around my mother’s house to two pink lines on a stick and a life that flipped.
“It all felt easier then,” I say. “Not lighter. Just… simpler.”
“You didn’t have daycare forms and corporate meetings,” he says. “I didn’t have exams and travel costs.”
“We didn’t have a person depending on us for literally everything,” I say.
He twists his napkin between his fingers.
“We just had each other,” he says.
“We still do,” I say, even though the words feel fragile.
He reaches down beside his chair, pulls out a folded envelope, and sets it on the table between us. My heart stutters.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A thing I did instead of studying one night,” he says. “I was going to mail it if this trip didn’t work out.”
“You wrote me a letter?” I ask.
“Don’t make it sound embarrassing,” he says, even though his mouth twitches. “Just… read it.”
I open the envelope carefully. His handwriting slants across the page, familiar and messy. He doesn’t try to be poetic. It’s just him. He writes about how scared he was when I first told him about Liam and how sure he was that he didn’t deserve either of us.
He admits he checked out when things got hard—not because he stopped loving me, but because he didn’t know how to be what I needed and felt like he was failing every time he tried. He thanks me for not giving up. For picking up slack he didn’t see.
For taking care of Liam and building a life while he was still figuring out how to be a grown man on a different campus.
He apologizes for the distance and the jealousy and the stupid comments that made everything heavier.
He promises he’s not done learning, and he doesn’t want me to feel alone in something that’s supposed to be a partnership. By the time I finish, my eyes are wet.
“I didn’t write it because I thought a letter could fix everything,” he says. “I just… I wanted you to have something from me that wasn’t rushed or defensive or mid-argument. I wanted you to see that I’m paying attention. That I know I haven’t been the guy you needed.”
“You’ve been trying,” I say, my voice thick.
“Not enough,” he says. “Not consistently. Not in the right ways. I want to change that. I want to be better for you. For him.”
He doesn’t reach for my hand, but his gaze stays steady on mine.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he adds. “I just wanted you to know where my head is at.”
I set the letter down carefully, smoothing the crease.
“I don’t want perfect,” I say. “I want effort that keeps showing up. I want honesty, even when it’s ugly. I want you in this with me. Not just when it’s convenient or fun.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m trying to make my actions match my mouth.”
“This,” I say as I gesture around us, “is a good start.”
He exhales like I just handed him something back.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You remembered our table.”
“Hard to forget,” he says. “I watched you tell three separate stories with your hands right here.”
I snort.
“I still talk with my hands,” I say.
“That’s one of my favorite things,” he says.
We eat, and we talk. There are still moments of sadness—for everything we’ve lost, for how tired we both are—but there’s also laughter.
Inside jokes. A sense that we’re not just surviving the mess; there’s still an us under it.
By the time we leave, my chest feels raw in a clean way.
In the car, he rests his hand on my thigh and squeezes gently.
“Where do you want to go now?” he asks.
“Home,” I say.
He looks over at me, and something in my tone must land because his gaze darkens, slow and deliberate.
“Okay,” he says. “Home.”