31. Addy
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Addy
I wake up with the distinct sensation that my stomach has filed a formal complaint against the rest of my body.
This isn't a Dear Management, I have several concerns situation.
This is a full riot.
For about three seconds, I lie perfectly still, eyes closed, one hand pressed to my middle, bargaining with the universe like a woman who’s absolutely learned nothing from her own life choices.
Please don’t be real.
Please be punishment for eating half a sleeve of crackers at midnight while processing the fact that my ex-boyfriend is apparently Ethan’s former business partner, because sure, why wouldn’t my life turn into a soap opera?
My stomach rolls hard enough that I freeze.
“Oh, no.”
I bolt upright immediately, which turns out to be a bad decision because the room tilts so violently that my mouth floods with saliva before I even reach the bathroom.
Fantastic. Beautiful.
Too much.
By the time I’m done, I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, forehead resting against the side of the tub, trying to decide whether this is food poisoning, stress, or my body finally realizing it has been operating on spite, sexual tension, and takeout for several weeks.
Probably all three.
“Love this journey for me,” I whisper hoarsely.
The bathroom door creaks. A golden snout appears first. Then Captain pushes his way in like a concerned nurse with boundary issues.
“Oh, good,” I mutter. “An audience.”
He pads over, tail swishing uncertainly, and nudges my knee with his nose.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
He sits down heavily in front of me, head tilted, watching with those big brown eyes that make him look wise, when I know for a fact he tried to eat one of Oliver’s crayons yesterday.
“I said I’m fine.” Captain huffs. “You're not my doctor.” Another huff. “Okay, honestly, your bedside manner needs work.”
He puts one massive paw on my thigh.
That nearly does me in.
It has absolutely nothing to do with fragility.
I can survive emotional support from a golden retriever. I'm a strong, independent woman who’s survived public humiliation, budget motels, Bryce Biggs, and Ethan Strong’s mouth.
But there’s something about a dog silently deciding you need supervision that goes directly for the weak points.
I scratch behind his ear. “It’s just stress.”
That sounds convincing.
Almost.
The last few days have been a circus with knives.
The dinner. Bryce walking into Ethan’s penthouse.
The shock of seeing him there with her. The argument.
The crying. The way Ethan followed me. The way he held me.
The way he looked at me afterward, like everything between us had shifted and neither of us knew whether to be terrified or grateful.
And then yesterday he went to work before I woke up, because of course he did, because men like Ethan Strong wake up and go command glass towers while women like me sit on bathroom floors explaining nausea to golden retrievers.
Normal, healthy, and extremely sexy, unfortunately.
My stomach flips again, but this time it doesn’t turn into a disaster. I breathe through it, slow and careful.
Stress.
Definitely stress.
Maybe a bug.
Mystery solved. No need to spiral.
I push myself up, rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, and stare at my reflection.
Wow.
If Victorian ghosts had messy buns, one of them would be staring back at me. My eyes look too bright. My heart is doing skips that feel legally complicated.
“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “We’re going to shower. We are going to dress. We’re going to take care of a small child and a large dog. We aren’t going to collapse dramatically, because that’s embarrassing, and also I have things to do.” My reflection looks unconvinced. “Don’t start.”
The shower helps a little.
By the time I’m dressed in leggings, a soft sweater, and boots, I feel less like an emergency and more like a woman who can fake competence for at least six hours.
Which, honestly, is most adulthood.
The penthouse is bright with morning light, all clean lines and expensive surfaces, and one small boy in space pajamas attempting to build what appears to be an airport out of blocks, cereal boxes, and one of Ethan’s coasters.
“Sunshine!” Oliver announces, like I’ve just returned from war.
My heart flutters. “Sunshine?”
“That’s your airport name.”
I laugh. “Good morning, Captain Airport Authority.”
He beams. “This is Terminal One.”
“Where’s Terminal Two?”
He points to the coffee table. “That’s for private planes.”
“Obviously. Very exclusive.”
Captain trots past me with a sock in his mouth.
I narrow my eyes. “Is that mine?” He accelerates. “Coward.”
Oliver giggles, which makes the room feel softer. Safer. Then he studies my face with an unsettling amount of focus for someone who still occasionally puts his shirt on backward. “You look weird.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly the affirmation I needed today.”
“Are you sick?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He squints.
Children shouldn't be allowed to observe people this closely. It’s invasive.
“I’m just tired,” I say, moving toward the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Pancakes.”
I smile. “Ambitious.”
“With chocolate chips.”
“Negotiator.”
“And airplane shape.”
I stop and look at him. He looks back, completely serious.
“Oliver Strong,” I say, “do I look like a woman who can freehand aircraft pancakes before coffee?”
He considers this. “Maybe after coffee.”
“Smart answer.”
I make regular pancakes because there are limits to my emotional generosity, but I do arrange the chocolate chips into something that might be wings if viewed from the correct angle with a forgiving heart.
Oliver declares them “medium airplane,” which I accept as a professional review.
While sipping my coffee, I spot a note on the counter written in his precise, absurdly attractive handwriting.
Early meeting. Call if you need anything. —E
I trace the edge of the note with my thumb like an idiot. Then immediately stop.
“Gross,” I mutter to myself.
“What’s gross?” Oliver asks around a mouthful of pancake.
“Feelings.”
He nods wisely. “Dad doesn’t like those either.”
That catches me off guard badly enough that I nearly inhale my own oxygen wrong.
“Well,” I say, turning toward the sink, “your dad and I have that in common.”
Which is a lie.
I have feelings. An unreasonable amount of feelings.
Ethan, meanwhile, treats emotions like restricted airspace.
Very different systems.
By late morning, I decide we’re all leaving the penthouse before I start obsessively checking whether Ethan has texted. Oliver has energy to burn, Captain has stolen two additional household items, and I need caffeine made by someone else.
So we head to Brewed Awakening.
Outside is crisp, the kind of Chicago morning that slides under your cardigan and reminds you the lake has opinions. Oliver skips beside me, one hand in mine, the other clutching his plane, narrating a detailed story about an emergency landing caused by “too much broccoli in the cockpit.”
“Was the broccoli the pilot?” I ask.
“No. It was cargo.”
“Of course. My mistake.”
We pass Diane in the lobby, naturally, because Diane has the supernatural ability to appear whenever anyone in the building has unresolved personal drama.
“Oh, Addy,” she says, eyes bright. “Heading out?”
“No, I’m sleepwalking with a child.”
She blinks. Then laughs like I’m charming instead of barely functional. “You look a little pale, dear.”
Amazing.
A community announcement.
“I’m fine,” I say brightly.
Diane’s gaze drops to Oliver, then back to me, then does something suspiciously speculative.
Absolutely not.
No.
We are not doing whatever that facial expression was.
“Just tired,” I add quickly.
“Of course,” she says, in a tone that suggests she has already decided I'm either ill, pregnant, or involved in a scandal.
Two out of three feels excessive, so I refuse to participate.
Oliver waves. “We’re getting muffins.”
“How lovely.”
“To stop Sunshine looking weird.”
“Thank you, Oliver. I guess I’m adopting that name permanently.”
Diane presses her lips together like she’s trying not to smile. “Children are so honest.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I escape before she can ask whether Ethan knows I look like death.
Brewed Awakening is warm when we step inside, smelling of coffee, sugar, toasted bread, and the exact kind of emotional stability I cannot totally afford but will absolutely purchase in beverage form.
Sophie looks up from behind the counter and immediately narrows her eyes. “Oh, babe.”
I stop. “No.”
“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”
“You made a face.”
She scoffs. “It was a concerned face. You look like a haunted child who got left outside in the rain.”
I stare at her. “Rude.”
Oliver climbs onto the stool beside me before Sophie can defend herself. “She threw up.”
Betrayal flashes through me instantly. “Oliver.”
Sophie’s eyebrows shoot up.
He looks at me, confused. “You did.”
“Yes, but we don’t announce people’s bathroom crimes in public.”
Sophie presses a hand to her mouth.
I point at her. “Don’t.”
“I’m not laughing.”
I smirk and shake my head. “You're vibrating.”
“I’m experiencing joy internally.”
“Monster.”
She looks at Oliver. “What can I get you, tiny whistleblower?”
He beams. “Blueberry muffin.”
“Excellent choice. And for your emotionally compromised adult?”
“Coffee,” I say. “Large. Aggressive. Something that can legally count as intervention.”
Sophie eyes me. “Maybe tea.”
I gasp. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”
“You’re pale, nauseous, and look one breeze away from lying down in traffic. I’m not giving you enough espresso to meet God.”
“I don’t like this version of friendship.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ll survive.”
“Unclear.”
She pours me ginger tea. Like I’m someone’s elderly aunt recovering from a carriage ride.
I take it because my stomach gives another threatening little roll and, annoyingly, the smell actually helps.
We settle at a small table near the window while Oliver heads to the toy corner with his muffin and plane, immediately becoming the air traffic controller of three stuffed animals and a wooden truck.
Sophie slides into the seat across from me during a lull, arms folded. “Talk.”
“About what?”
“Your face.”
A heat burns in my cheeks. “My face is private.”
“Your face is currently public property because it looks like it’s about to collapse.”
I sip the tea and hate that it’s soothing. “It’s stress.”
“Mmm.”
“Don’t ‘mmm’ me.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
She really does make me laugh. “You’re saying a lot with your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are journalists.”
I groan and sink lower in the chair. “Fine. Remember my ex?”
“The airport trash fire?”
“Yes. Bryce. Human LinkedIn post.”
She nods. “I remember wanting to punch him, and I’ve never even met him.”
“Well, great news. You may get the chance.”
Sophie sits up. “Excuse me?”
“So, apparently, because the universe has fully committed to humiliating me for sport, Bryce is Ethan’s old friend. Former business partner. Something with software and planes and men being too rich to have normal interpersonal boundaries.”
Sophie stares at me.
I nod. “Correct reaction.”
“Wait. Wait.” She holds up both hands. “The guy who dumped you at the airport—”
“Publicly.”
“…after cheating—”
I roll my eyes. “Dramatically.”
“…then lied about the Chicago move—”
I nod along. “Comprehensively.”
“…is connected to your hot boss?”
“Intimately, professionally, and apparently satanically.”
Her mouth falls open. “No.”
“I know.”
Her eyes damn near pop out of her head. “No, because that’s insane.”
“Thank you. I feel validated.”
She leans back, laughing once in disbelief. “How did you find out?”
I close my eyes briefly. “At Ethan’s dinner party.”
Sophie freezes. “Oh, Addy. I’m going to pass away.”
“I almost did.”
Sophie lowers her hands slowly. “What did you do?”
“I handled it with dignity and grace.” She gives me a disbelieving look. “Okay, I ran.”
“Respect.”
“I may have yelled first.” I take another sip of tea, letting the warmth settle in my stomach.
“It was awful. I thought for half a second that Ethan knew. That it was some horrible setup. Which makes no sense, obviously, but my brain was not operating with full Wi Fi. But he didn’t know, and in Ethan’s defense, he kicked Bryce out. ”
By the time we leave, my stomach has settled, my head feels clearer, and Sophie has made me promise to hang out again soon, which is nice.
She always makes me feel wanted and included here.
She helps Chicago feel like home.