Chapter Eighteen
Brooke
“You’re dressed,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.
“Hey,” Matthew answers, pouring coffee into his travel mug. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s alright,” I shrug. “I had to change the pad anyway.”
He glances over. “Want me to put ointment on the stitches before I go?”
I shake my head, tugging the refrigerator door open. “Nope. I got it.”
He smirks. “You do realize I’ve seen your body. Licked your body. From top to bottom, literally.”
I make a face. “I’m not shy.”
His arm slides around my waist, warm and familiar. “Really? Then why can’t you look at me?”
Still staring into the fridge, I answer flatly, “I’m looking for food.”
He chuckles, kisses my cheek, and reaches around me, plucking out the bowl of strawberries I’d been scanning for.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the bowl from him.
He doesn’t let go. My eyes flick to his, caught.
“You have those stitches because you brought our baby into the world,” he says softly. “The least I can do is-”
I tug the bowl free, sharper than I mean to. “Can we not?”
He exhales, long and heavy, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wants to argue but won’t.
“Fine. Only because I’m late.” He hesitates, studying me.
Then his voice drops lower. “But Brooke… don’t think for a second I don’t want you.
All of you. Stitches, pads, strawberries in your hand, you’re still the woman I fell in love with. ”
My throat tightens. I glance away, pretending to be focused on the bowl, but I appreciate his words, no matter how uncomfortable they make me.
And not the I love you part. That’s easy.
That’s safe. It’s the other stuff, the talk about pads and ointments and stitches, that makes me icky.
I know it’s not very modern of me, or even logical.
I grew up in a house full of women; conversations about periods and cramps and bodily functions were as normal as talking about the weather.
I can listen to other people talk about it just fine. I can even chime in sometimes.
But when it’s about me, when the body in question is my body, I seize up. I get weird and tongue-tied, and I hate it. I’ve tried to be more open, but the truth is, I’m just not someone who can speak so candidly about… women stuff.
God, I sound ridiculous.
To escape the sudden wave of vulnerability, I blurt, “Does your insurance cover day care?”
Matthew blinks at me, clearly thrown. “What?”
“Day care,” I repeat, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I was texting the girls earlier and Becks said some insurances help cover part of the cost. I was just wondering if yours does.”
He frowns slightly. “I’ll have to check. My workload’s kind of heavy today.”
“Even better,” I say quickly. “Just send me your policy thingy and I’ll read it.”
His lips twitch, somewhere between a smile and a smirk. He’s clearly trying not to laugh.
I roll my eyes. I’d like to act indignant here, but I probably won’t understand a word of it. I huff. “Fine. I’ll just ask ChatGPT to read it for me.”
That gets a proper grin out of him. “Whatever you say.” He leans in, kisses my cheek, and grabs his travel mug from the counter.
I stand there for a second, watching him pull on his coat and sling his bag over his shoulder. Just before he reaches the door, I call out, “Should I start packing you lunch, dear?”
He pauses mid-step, then lets out a laugh before disappearing out the door.
When the door clicks shut, the silence swells.
I glance around the apartment, then at the sofa, my sofa, my nest, where I spent most of my pregnancy doing exactly what everyone told me to: not worrying.
Matthew’s orders. Mine too. I let myself sink into it, this once-in-a-lifetime permission slip to slow down.
I pigged out on snacks. I lived in pyjamas.
I binge-watched shows like it was my job, not the limited series everyone raves about these days, but the classics.
How to Get Away with Murder. Scandal. One Tree Hill.
Desperate Housewives. Modern Family. Friends. You name it, I watched it.
I even somehow ended up watching a documentary about a “happy ending” massage parlour, don’t ask me how, because I genuinely don’t know. One minute I was watching reruns, the next I was knee-deep in a scandal about illegal message operations. It happened. Let’s move on.
I bite my lip as I stand there, the kitchen still smelling faintly of Matthew’s cologne.
I loved being a flight attendant, the movement, the airports, the boarding calls that felt like music.
But as much as I miss that life, I’m not ready to fly away from my baby.
Not yet. Maybe when Penny’s older. Maybe when I’ve figured out how to be both me and mom at the same time.
For now, I want something local. Something small.
Something that lets me contribute to this family in a way that’s more than just emotional support and diaper duty.
The problem is, I have no idea what that is.
All the women in my group are first-time moms too, except Sheera, but since hers is a later-in-life baby, even she’s starting from scratch when it comes to childcare.
Zara has her ex’s mom lined up to watch her son when she goes back to work.
Sheera’s in limbo. Becks is still figuring things out.
And Ursula… well, she’s made peace with her decision, but that’s a whole different situation.
I can’t exactly ask any of them for advice. We’re all just guessing here.
Feeling suddenly faint, maybe from standing too long, maybe from the thought spiral, I grab my bowl of strawberries and shuffle toward the bedroom.
Matthew’s already set it up like a little recovery nest. There’s a mini cooler stocked with water bottles and juice, a stack of clean burp cloths, and even a tray table tucked against the wall.
He wanted to buy me one of those little bedside cooking gadgets people use to make grilled cheese in bed, but I told him to calm down, I’m one week postpartum, not bedridden. I can manage the stove.
Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: He left his one-week postpartum wife alone? But the truth is, he doesn’t really have a choice. His job might be on the line, and as much as I want to tell him to stay, I can’t. We need his income. We need the insurance. We need the stability.
I did ask him how much we paid out of pocket for the hospital stay, but he brushed it off with a “don’t worry about it.
” I was too exhausted at the time to press, but now…
now I want answers. I want to know why he’s rushing back to work instead of taking the paternity leave he’s legally entitled to.
I want to know why he’s more stressed than usual, why he’s distracted even when he’s home.
I have this gnawing feeling he’s hiding something. But when, exactly, am I supposed to ask?
He leaves for work early. Comes home late.
Then spends the entire evening taking care of Penny and the house alone.
He tries so hard, God, he tries, but Penny’s been fussy lately.
She refuses to drink from bottles of pumped milk, which means he can’t help with the nighttime feeds.
I’m not pushing it, she’s only been alive for a week, but come on, kid. Give your dad a break.
Matthew’s been cooking all the meals, prepping my breakfast and lunch, and doing all the housework, laundry, dishes, vacuuming, everything. It’s kind of hard to interrogate someone about financial secrets when they collapse face-first into the pillow the second they sit down.
So, I sit there, back against the headboard, strawberries forgotten in the bowl, and stare at the ceiling. The apartment is quiet. Penny is napping. My body still aches.
Something’s going on with Matthew. And I don’t know what it is.
Matthew
Every time Donald Duck cuts me off, I bite my tongue and remind myself, I have a wife and a child at home. I remember my childhood, how hard my mom worked for me, and I’ll be damned if Brooke has to do the same.
“I can take the meeting with Boeing next week,” Duck says.
“Ms. Sterling and I have a working relationship,” I answer evenly. “I’m afraid changing representation now will-”
“It’ll be fine,” he interrupts, waving me off. “She’ll understand how important her account is once we bring in the big guns.” He actually makes finger guns at himself.
I just stare at him, while the other managers exchange uneasy looks. We’re already carrying Hughes and Knore, and now we have to carry this clown too.
Fuck it. “Sure,” I say flatly.
Duck beams, proud of himself.
When the meeting adjourns, I grab my notes to leave, but Duck calls after me. “Hey, no hard feelings, right? I just want everyone to realize I’m the head now.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “now that I’m taking your meeting, I had my assistant put the Dallas paperwork in your desk. I’ll need it by the end of the day.”
My jaw slackens. “That’s impossible.”
He pats my shoulder like we’re pals. “You got it, buddy.” Then he strolls off.
By the time I reach my office, my hands are clenched tight enough to ache. A stack of paperwork waits on my desk like a punishment.
Trudy appears behind me, shaking her head. “It was here when I came back from the bathroom. Probably waited until I left.”
I strip off my coat, toss it over the chair, and glare at the mountain of files. “Figures.”
She lingers in the doorway. “How can I help?”
I glance at her, then slide a stack across the desk. “Sort these by month.”
She nods immediately. “Of course. I’ll get it to you before the end of the day.”
I hold up the file in my hand. “He needs it by today.”
Trudy leans over to look, scanning the sheer volume of pages. Her eyes widen. “How the fuck is that possible, pardon my language.”
I shrug, the weight of it pressing on my shoulders.
She drops into the chair across from me with a groan. “Asshole.”
We work in silence, the scratch of papers the only sound, until Trudy breaks it. “How’s Penny doing?”
The thought of her little face pulls a smile out of me before I can stop it. “Great. She’s… so perfect.”
Trudy chuckles. “Enjoy that. Once the newborn haze wears off, she’s gonna turn into the opposite of the angel she is now.”
I glance down at the stack of files, the smile fading. Not like I’ll have time to deal with that either.
“You know,” Trudy says, lowering her voice, “you could make a fuss. They can’t just cancel paternity leave.”
“That’s true in theory,” I mutter. “But they didn’t cancel it. They just hired my replacement without firing me.”
“Still,” Trudy says, shuffling papers, “it’s not right. You do all the work and he gets the office.”
I shrug. Normally I’d call my union rep so fast their head would spin. But that shit takes forever, and I can’t afford to be without a pay check. Not now.
My chest tightens. Not after the stupid mistake I made.
We’re deep in the red.
Brooke has no idea just how bad it is. I know I should tell her, God knows I should, but when it happened, she was about to go into labour. And now?
Now it feels like if I admit it, the question will hang in the air: Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
I didn’t tell her because I thought I could fix it.
But I can’t. Not without breaking her trust and her relationship with her sister.
I bite my lip, staring at the papers. I need to find another job. A better one.
I stayed here even with the low pay, because Brooke worked for Marx United too. I liked us being together, liked feeling like we were building something side by side. And I had seniority.
Now I have neither.
So, it’s time to start over.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not without another sure job lined up. Not without something with at least the same benefits, preferably better. The rent, the baby, the hospital bills, everything we’re standing on right now is balanced on a foundation that’s starting to crack.
And speaking of benefits… I should get that insurance policy to Brooke. She asked to read it this morning. I played it off like I had it all figured out, like I’d negotiated the childcare coverage myself, but the truth?
I have no idea what’s in that damn policy.
When I was hired, I didn’t care about daycare or paternity leave. I wasn’t planning on a kid. I wasn’t planning on needing any of this. I was too busy thinking about where I’d live in Paris, how many hours I’d get, when I’d leave and how I’d tell my friends or Brooke goodbye.
Back then, the future felt like an open door.
Now it feels like a locked one, and I’m standing on the wrong side without a key.
I exhale slowly and rub my palms over my face. I have to tell Brooke. I should tell Brooke. She’s my wife. My partner. The person I promised I’d share everything with.
But how the hell am I supposed to ask her to choose between our future and her sister?
As if reading my thoughts, my phone buzzes.
‘First payment fo…’
I don’t open the message. I don’t need to. I already know what it says. They want money I don’t have.
I’ve been turning this mess over and over in my head for weeks, and honestly, the only plan that ever surfaces is the stupid one. Divorce. If Brooke and I split, our expenses would too. I could transfer everything I’ve got into her account, keep her and Penny safe.
It’s not just reckless, it’s illegal. Fraud, or close enough. And yeah, I could get arrested. Not to mention it’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever had.
The second option’s no better, but at least it’s real: go to Stella directly. Tell her the truth before Brooke finds out. She’ll hate me for going behind her back. She’ll be hurt. But at least it won’t destroy her relationship with her sister.
Because one way or another, I have to press charges against Zeke. There’s no other choice anymore.
I nod to myself.
Next week I have Wednesday off. I’ll go to New Jersey, talk to Stella, warn her. Then I’ll come home, tell Brooke everything, and hope to God, she’s not too pissed.