16. A Place in the Family #2
Riley's fingers slipped from Ava's hair and found my wrist.
I turned my hand beneath the blanket and caught hers.
Her eyes shone in the television light. "She's heavy."
"You want me to move her?"
Riley looked down at Ava, then tightened her fingers around mine.
"No."
Neither did I.
So we stayed there, pinned beneath the small weight of my daughter and the much larger weight of everything I was beginning to want.
I carried Ava to bed after the credits rolled, her cheek warm against my shoulder and one fist curled into my shirt.
By the time I returned, Riley stood alone on the balcony.
The door was open, letting in a damp night breeze that smelled faintly of rain. She had one hand wrapped around the railing and the other pressed to the back of her neck, looking out at the city like she was trying to see past it.
I stepped outside. "You okay?"
She glanced over. "Yeah."
"That answer usually means no."
Her mouth curved, but only briefly. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Very."
I moved beside her, close enough for our shoulders to touch. For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, "I got an email from Bianca today."
My attention sharpened. "About work?"
"She wants me to help with a resort launch next month. A real event. Vendor coordination, timeline, guest experience. Not just assisting."
"That's good."
"It is." She rubbed her thumb against the railing. "It's what I've been working toward."
The hesitation in her voice tightened something in me. "What aren't you saying?"
Riley looked back through the glass toward the hallway leading to Ava's room.
"It would mean longer days. Maybe a few late nights. Less time here."
Here.
Not the job. Not the house.
Us.
I had been imagining Riley woven permanently into every part of our lives without once asking what permanent might cost her. Her ambition. Her independence. The future she had been building before Ava and I took up so much space.
"You should do it," I said.
Her eyes searched mine. "Just like that?"
"No. Not just like that." I turned toward her. "We figure out Ava's schedule. I adjust mine. We bring in help where we need it."
"Luca—"
"I'm not asking you to shrink your life to fit inside mine."
The words came rougher than I intended.
Riley went still.
I thought of her notebook beside the fruit bowl, pages crowded with venues, budgets, names, plans. A future of her own.
I wanted a place in it. Not ownership of it.
"You make room for me and Ava every day," I said. "Let me make room for you."
Her expression softened, but her eyes went bright.
"You already do."
"Then let me do it better."
She stepped closer and rested her forehead against my chest.
I held her beneath the city lights, understanding at last that loving her couldn't mean keeping her close enough to calm my fears.
It had to mean making room for everything she already was—and everything she still wanted.
Even when the shape of that future required me to open my hand instead of closing it around her.
Riley found me at the kitchen island after midnight with my laptop open and three tabs I had no business browsing.
She had changed into one of my T-shirts, her hair loose around her shoulders and her expression softer than it had been on the balcony. "You disappeared."
"I was getting water."
Her gaze dropped to the untouched glass beside my elbow. "For twenty minutes?"
I closed one tab before she could see it.
"Research."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It usually is."
She stepped between my knees, and I rested my hands on her hips. Our conversation still sat under my ribs. Her ambitions. Her future. The danger of assuming love gave me permission to redraw either one.
"You really meant what I said out there?" she asked.
"About making room for you?"
She nodded.
"I meant it."
Her mouth softened. "Good."
The certainty of her answer should have settled me. Instead, it made me want things I still didn't know how to ask for. Not only adjusted schedules or more nights beneath the same roof—something quieter. A life where her work had a place here because she did.
I pressed my face against her stomach and held her there.
For years, I had treated the future like a door best left locked. Tonight, I kept picturing it in ordinary pieces: Riley on calls at the kitchen island, Ava doing homework beside her, me learning not to interrupt every time I wanted her attention.
Riley combed her fingers through my hair. "What were you researching?"
I looked at the laptop.
The open page showed a bright workspace with built-in shelves, a wide table for floor plans, sample drawers, and a wall-sized calendar. Another tab listed compact printers and storage for event materials. The third was a contractor's estimate form for converting the unused sitting room beside my
office—a room I had barely entered in two years. A room that could be hers.
I had typed the search without thinking: "Home office ideas for an event planner." Then I had stared at the words for ten minutes.
"Nothing important," I said.
Her hand paused in my hair.
Coward.
Ava called for me from down the hall before Riley could press. I stood, kissed her forehead, and left the laptop open.
"I've got her."
Riley nodded, but her attention had shifted past me.
I didn't notice.
I was already halfway down the hall, unaware that the screen had brightened behind me and revealed the future I wasn't ready to name.
Unaware that Riley had seen exactly how much room I was already making for her.