Chapter 28
Hadley
The therapist’s office was smaller than I expected.
Not the soft beige and oversized comfort Cal had described from his individual sessions.
This one felt… heavier. More deliberate.
Dark wood paneling lined the walls, polished but slightly worn like it had absorbed years of other people’s secrets.
Two armchairs faced a low charcoal couch, positioned close enough to force intimacy but far enough to keep distance if someone needed it.
A single window sat behind the therapist’s chair, blinds half closed, letting in thin stripes of late-afternoon sunlight that cut across the rug like quiet interrogation lights.
The air smelled faintly of lavender and old books. Not fresh lavender. The kind that lingers from oils soaked into wood over time.
Cal walked in first, his hand briefly brushing the small of my back in silent guidance.
I followed, adjusting the hem of my loose sweater automatically, a habit I hadn’t broken since my bump started showing more prominently.
The room felt warmer than the hallway, and for a second I wondered if that was intentional. If warmth made people open up faster.
Dr. Patel stood when we entered. She was younger than I thought she would be. Early forties maybe. Soft curls pinned loosely at the back of her head, warm brown eyes that didn’t dart around the room searching for authority, they stayed steady. Observant without being invasive.
No giant legal pad. No obvious therapy stereotypes.
Just a small leather notebook resting on her knee when she sat back down, like it existed mostly to make clients comfortable, not to document them.
She smiled gently. “Thank you both for coming.”
Her voice was calm. Not overly soothing. Just… level.
“This is a co-parenting and relationship planning session,” she continued. “No medical updates. No pregnancy monitoring. Just the two of you talking about what happens after the baby arrives.”
Cal nodded once, already leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees.
His posture screamed controlled focus, the same stance he took before stepping on stage or negotiating contracts.
He wore a fitted black tee and dark jeans, tattoos peeking from his sleeves, fingers loosely interlocked like he was physically containing himself.
I sat beside him, hands clasped over my bump. The couch dipped under our weight, softer than it looked. Too soft. It felt like it wanted to swallow us, pull us deeper into the cushions so neither of us could escape quickly.
Dr. Patel leaned forward slightly. “Let’s start simple.”
Her gaze moved between us evenly.
“Why are you two actually together?”
Cal answered first.
Of course he did.
“We’re married,” he said, his tone measured and steady. “We have a child coming. We’re building a family. That’s the reason.”
It sounded clean. Structured. Like a mission statement prepared ahead of time.
Dr. Patel nodded thoughtfully. She didn’t write anything down. She just turned her gaze to me.
“Hadley?”
My fingers tightened slightly against my belly. The blue diamond on my ring caught the sunlight and flashed against the dark room, the cold shimmer making my chest tighten unexpectedly. I stared at it for a second, letting the weight of it ground me.
“I’m here because I want to believe this can be real,” I said quietly.
The words tasted fragile leaving my mouth.
“But most days…” I paused, swallowing. “…most days I feel like I’m auditioning. Like I have to prove I’m worth keeping every single day.”
Cal shifted beside me. I could feel the movement in the couch cushion, the slight tension radiating off him before I even looked.
“And I’m terrified,” I continued, voice smaller now, “that once the baby’s here, I’ll be replaced. Or sidelined. Or just… forgotten.”
Silence dropped into the room like a physical object. Heavy. Suffocating. It pressed against my ribs and made every breath feel louder than it should have.
Cal’s head snapped toward me. His eyes widened slightly, something raw flickering across his expression before his jaw tightened, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
Dr. Patel didn’t interrupt. She didn’t comfort. She just let the silence exist, letting it stretch until it forced honesty to surface.
Cal inhaled slowly through his nose before speaking. His voice came out lower this time. Rougher.
“I don’t know how to love normally.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers pressing into tense muscle like he could physically knead the confession out of himself.
“I never learned it right,” he added. “For me, love is… possession. Protection. Keeping someone safe. Providing. Making sure no one hurts them. Not… whatever this vulnerability shit is supposed to be.”
He let out a humorless breath, eyes dropping to his hands before lifting again, landing on me with startling intensity.
“I protect you. I show up. I do the things. But feeling it? Saying it? That part’s broken.” He paused, jaw flexing. “I’m trying to fix it. But I don’t know if it’ll ever work the way you want.”
My throat burned instantly, emotion crawling up like smoke with nowhere to go. I turned my body toward him fully, ignoring the therapist, ignoring the room, focusing only on the man sitting inches from me who somehow still felt miles away.
“You say you protect me,” I said, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady. “But you protected Sydney for years. You protected your band. Your image. Your numbness. And every time something got hard, I was the one left standing in the hallway listening to doors slam.”
His eyes flickered, a quick, involuntary reaction. A flinch.
“So yeah,” I whispered, tears blurring the edges of my vision, “I feel like I’m auditioning. Because I’ve spent my whole life proving I’m worth not leaving. And I’m tired, Cal. I’m so tired.”
He flinched again. Smaller this time. But deeper. Like the words landed somewhere he didn’t know how to shield.
Dr. Patel spoke softly, her tone steady but firm enough to anchor the moment.
“That’s a lot of fear on both sides,” she said. “Cal, you’re afraid vulnerability will break you. Hadley, you’re afraid being chosen is temporary. Both of those fears are valid. But they’re also preventing you from seeing what’s happening right now.”
Cal dragged both hands down his face, exhaling sharply.
“I don’t want temporary,” he said, voice muffled behind his palms before he dropped them. “I want her. I want this.”
“Then say that,” Dr. Patel replied calmly. “Not as a defense. Just say it.”
The room felt unbearably still.
Cal turned fully toward me, his knee brushing mine. His gaze locked onto mine, and for once there was no deflection, no sarcasm, no carefully constructed emotional armor.
“I want you,” he said.
His voice cracked on the last word, the sound so subtle most people wouldn’t notice it.
I did.
“Not because of the baby,” he continued. “Not because of obligation. I want you. Even when I don’t feel it right. Even when I’m scared shitless. I want you.”
My chest tightened painfully, heart beating so loudly I wondered if both of them could hear it.
“And if the feeling never comes?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
“Then I’ll still show up,” he said quietly. “Every day. Until it does. Or until you tell me to stop.”
Dr. Patel nodded slowly. “That’s a promise,” she said. “But promises live in actions. Not just words.”
The session continued, but it felt less like structured therapy and more like carefully guided emotional landmines.
We talked about living arrangements. I admitted how the mansion still felt like his house, even after months of living there. How I felt like a guest rearranging furniture instead of a partner building a home.
He surprised me by saying he would sell it.
“If you want something smaller,” he said, glancing at me, “something that feels like yours too… I’ll do it.”
My stomach twisted at the sincerity in his voice. “I don’t want you giving things up just to prove something.”
“I’m not proving anything,” he replied. “I’m choosing.”
Prenup talk surfaced awkwardly, like an unwanted third party stepping into the room. He brought it up first, voice stiff but direct.
“I didn't want one in the first place,” he said. “But if you want it terminated, if it makes you feel safe, I’ll have it done. For high and only for you.”
I shook my head slowly. “I don’t want your money, Cal. I want your honesty.”
His shoulders lowered slightly, tension releasing in a way that felt almost physical.
“You have it,” he said.
By the time we left the building, my head felt full. Not heavy. Just crowded with too many truths trying to coexist at once.
The drive home was quiet. LA traffic crawled in endless lines of red brake lights and impatient horns, but inside the car, the silence felt almost respectful. Like neither of us wanted to break whatever fragile honesty the session had created.
Cal drove with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. After a few minutes, his other hand reached across the console and settled gently on my thigh.
Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just… there.
I stared out the window, watching palm trees blur past, sunlight fading into gold. I didn’t move his hand away.
But I didn’t lace my fingers with his either.
When we pulled into the garage, he parked but didn’t turn the engine off immediately. The car hummed quietly around us, the sound filling the space where words should have been.
“I meant it,” he said finally.
I turned slightly toward him. “All of it?”
“All of it.”
“I know,” I replied softly.
He studied my face carefully, his brows pulling together. “You don’t believe it yet.”
I exhaled slowly. “I want to.”
He nodded once, accepting the honesty without argument. Then he shut the engine off.
Inside, the house was unusually quiet. Eli sat sprawled on the living room couch, headphones draped around his neck, tablet balanced against his knees. He glanced up briefly when we walked in.
“Good session?” he asked casually.
“Long one,” I said, forcing a small smile.
He nodded like that explained everything and returned to his game.
Cal headed upstairs first, shoulders slightly tense, footsteps measured. I followed slower, one hand resting absentmindedly on my stomach as the baby shifted gently beneath my palm.
I found him in the nursery.
He stood at the window, hands tucked into his pockets, staring out over the glowing city skyline like he was trying to map out the future in the lights below.
I stepped behind him quietly and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my forehead between his shoulder blades. His body stiffened for half a second before softening. His hands came up, covering mine, fingers threading carefully between them.
“We’re not okay yet,” I whispered.
“I know,” he replied.
“But we’re talking.”
“Yeah.”
He turned slowly, pulling me into his chest. His arms wrapped around me tightly, his chin resting on top of my head.
“I’m scared too,” he murmured into my hair. “Scared I’ll never feel it the way you deserve. Scared you’ll leave before I get there.”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was too complicated to say out loud.
So I just held him back.
Later that night, we lay in bed, the room dim except for moonlight spilling through the curtains in pale silver lines across the sheets. The air conditioner hummed softly, and the city outside buzzed faintly in the distance.
His hand slid instinctively to my bump, resting there like it belonged.
A kick pressed against his palm almost instantly.
He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against my neck. I turned my head, brushing my lips against his jaw.
“I’m still here,” I whispered.
He pulled me closer, his arm tightening around my waist.
“I’m still trying,” he answered.
We fell asleep tangled together.
Not fixed.
Not broken.
Just… in the middle.
And for the first time in months,
The middle didn’t feel like falling.
It felt like standing.
Unsteady.
Unsure.
But standing.