Chapter 12 Apartment Searching
Apartment searching
Hildy
There is a light knock on my door before it opens, and he steps in, closing it behind him.
Furious, I continue tapping away on my keyboard and tell him, “I am actively looking for temporary housing to avoid this very situation.”
“And what situation is that, adulting?”
“I set a clear boundary and—”
“You said today,” he holds up his wrist. “It is now 12:01, a new day. It was important enough for me to discuss this with you, when I do not break routine, yet here I am.”
“Adulting,” I huff. “That’s the most childish move I—”
“You cannot move her from here after a week into another temporary housing situation for another few weeks until the apartment is ready.” He closes my computer, and I glare up at him, towering over my bed, looking… stupid.
That thought alone is like a rubber band snapping on bare skin, “I may be acting irrational, but it is not unwarranted.” I wave a hand up and down, outlining his frame. “This is not okay.”
“I’ve had a few hours to dissect the situation, and given the setting, it’s possible I didn’t configure the fragile emotional—”
“Don’t you dare.” I warn.
“Is it not? Are you not carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders by working several jobs, preparing to defend your thesis, and taking on custody of a child?” He looks at his watch.
“I am two hours past my bedtime, and I am adult enough to admit I am feeling a bit fragile; it’s not weakness.
To someone like you or me, Lucy, people who thrive on a schedule, it’s less than ideal.
So, I apologize for my delivery. Now, how do we make these next few weeks pleasant for all involved, because dinners like that, where you’re so cold I feel like I need to heat up my plate, will not go unnoticed by others if we do not decide otherwise. ”
I can feel heat burning behind my eyes, and I do not have the luxury of him seeing me as weak or unstable. “I am exhausted. Not weak, not irrational. I need a decent night’s sleep.”
He takes my laptop from me and sets it on the small desk, and plugs it in. “Good. Now, are you sleeping in here or in Lucy’s room?”
“I am going to sleep in there as I have been, so if she wakes, I hear her.” I move across the bed so that I can get out without being closer to this, this entitled man-child. “That way your routine isn’t further sullied.” Standing, I mock bow and curtsy, “Your heinous.”
“Perfect,” he waves his hand in front of him, clearly amused, which pisses me off, and motions for the door. “After you.”
When I get to the door, his arm crosses it, stopping me, “One more thing.”
Oh hell no, I think as I attempt to duck under it, but he catches me around the waist and pulls me tight against him.
“I’ve very recently discovered that I don’t only find highly intelligent women attractive, but am very possibly developing a brat kink, so do try your best not to feed the beast you’ve created by provoking me, because my situation has changed since that evening in late September. ”
I elbow him in the stomach… which is like marble, and he chuckles as he releases me. I step away hurriedly, but then remember who I have become, who I am. I straighten, square my shoulders, and take my damn time walking the distance to Lucy’s room.
Closing the door behind me, I lean into it, heart racing, and feel a tiny flutter that nearly takes my breath away. I hold my hands against the spot affected, my belly, my heart, and promise both, we’re going to be fine.
I wake with a pressing need to pee, but I keep my body still.
Instead, I focus on the gentle rhythm of Lucy's breathing beside me—soft and even. I cautiously turn my head, just enough to catch a glimpse of her without disturbing the mattress. She remains blissfully asleep, curled against the wall, one knee tucked up, her casted arm draped protectively over her midsection. My eyes flick to the clock. Eight a.m. She didn’t stir last night; that’s a first. I allow myself a quiet moment of recognition.
The bed is still dry, a small victory that came without my needing to rouse her.
I don’t touch the sheets, don’t test the waters.
I simply smile, aware that it was just the first night I’d messed up enough for her to be slightly affected.
Then, I hear movement down the hall—a door creaking open, footsteps padding softly on the floor.
Low, controlled sounds. He’s awake. My stomach churns as nausea washes over me.
I place my hand gently on my small bump, rubbing it tenderly while whispering in my head, good morning.
I remain where I am. If I get up now, the floor will creak, the hallway will echo with sound, and he’ll know I’m awake.
I have no desire to relive last night—not the debates, not the boundaries, not the dissection before coffee, decaffeinated, of course.
I fix my gaze on the ceiling, counting my breaths, letting the urgency fade into something manageable.
He should be leaving soon; he has to be at the arena by nine.
Routine. Predictable. The sooner, the better.
I strain to listen for cues: the rustle of a bag being lifted, the whisper of a zipper, the faint thud of shoes hitting the floor.
Each sound registers like a checkpoint I need to pass before I can finally relax.
Lucy shifts beside me, sighs, and then settles back into her peaceful slumber.
I hold my breath until the moment she does.
Eventually, I hear the front door open and close softly behind him.
Silence envelops the house. I count to thirty, then sixty, allowing myself to wait longer than necessary.
Patience is indeed a virtue I possess, unlike some people.
The pediatrician’s office is a blend of disinfectant and the sweet scent of fruit snacks, an oddly tolerable combination.
The pastel walls are adorned with laminated posters that explain concepts no child has ever needed to grasp, their language far beyond their years.
Lucy sits beside me on the crinkly paper-covered exam table, her legs swinging playfully, shoes tapping lightly against the metal frame as she clutches my hand.
She radiates calmness, curiosity, and alertness.
Dr. Kaplan enters, a tablet tucked under her arm, her smile warm yet rehearsed. She immediately crouches down to meet Lucy's gaze. “Well,” she says, extending her hand, “you must be Lucy.”
Lucy nods gravely and shakes it. “I’m three.”
“Excellent age,” Dr. Kaplan responds, her tone brightening. “I’m so glad you could make time for me today,” I observe closely, noting Lucy’s careful assessment of this new adult in her life.
“Wow, that’s a lot of signatures on your cast,” Dr. Kaplan continues.
“My friends signed it,” Lucy replies, pointing to Lenzin’s name. “He talks fancy, just like he colors.”
It’s adorable how she says “colors” instead of “writes.” I know one day I’ll need to correct her, but for now, I want her to revel in being a child, embraced by someone who loves her unconditionally—not someone who nitpicks her every word.
When the time comes, my corrections will be meaningful and nurturing, unlike those that seek to belittle.
“That’s very fancy,” Dr. Kaplan laughs softly.
“This is Hank; he broke his arm once in an accident. He said it makes it hurt less when your friends color their names on it.”
Dr. Kaplan pulls up a wheeled stool and sits down. “Did that help?”
Lucy’s lips twist thoughtfully as she glances between Dr. Kaplan and me. “I like to think so.”
Dr. Kaplan turns to me, her brow raised. “Wow, Lucy reasons at a very high level.”
“Does that mean I’m smart like Hildy?” Lucy asks, her eyes wide with hope.
“It means you’re intelligent beyond your years, and if Hildy is too, then yes.” Dr. Kaplan glances down at her tablet, her expression shifting for a moment before she swallows hard. “Now that we see how strong your brain is, let’s see how strong your body is.”
The exam proceeds with the routine motions: height, weight, reflexes. Dr. Kaplan instructs Lucy to walk across the room and back, which she does, arms slightly spread for balance, her concentration palpable.
“Good,” Dr. Kaplan murmurs to herself.
Next, she asks Lucy to bend and to stand on one foot. Lucy complies, seriousness etched on her face as if this is vital work. Once she finishes, Dr. Kaplan straightens and addresses me directly.
“So,” she begins, “I’ve reviewed Lucy’s history.”
Here we go.
She details it carefully, unhurried. Early instability, orthopedic concerns flagged at eighteen months, missed follow-ups, and notes trailing off where consistency should have been.
“None of this is uncommon,” she says, gauging my reaction. “But it does mean we should pick things back up properly.”
She recommends a follow-up with pediatric orthopedics—imaging, updated assessments, a long-term plan instead of mere stopgaps.
I nod, absorbing the information, mentally filing it away. “We can do that.”
“We should,” she corrects gently. “I’ll have my office schedule it before you leave.”
Her fingers fly over the tablet, then she looks back at Lucy. “You did a great job today.”
Lucy beams proudly. “I didn’t cry!”
“That’s impressive,” Dr. Kaplan agrees, her smile genuine.
While Lucy is distracted by a sticker being offered, I reach into my bag and pull out a folded piece of paper, my heart rate quickening.
When Dr. Kaplan’s attention returns to me, I slide the note across the counter, careful and discreet, like we’re sharing secrets.
She unfolds it without a word.
I may be pregnant and need confirmation. Could you recommend an OBGYN?
Her expression remains steady, not a flicker of surprise. She folds the note once, grabs her pen, and jots something down quickly, shielding it with her hand before sliding it back to me.
I can order blood work now and have it done today if you’d like. Do you have a plan? We’re a family practice here, and I could book you an appointment.