Chapter 5 #2
Steam curls from the spicy ginger tea James places beside me. And somewhere between the soft dialogue and the warmth of his quiet care, my eyes grow heavy. I drift off, exhaustion pulling me under.
***
A door slams, clattering through the quiet to jolt me awake. The Christmas tree glows in the darkened room, and I’m snuggled into a warm blanket I don’t remember grabbing. Time has slipped away—an hour, maybe two. The sky is awash in shades of violet and charcoal.
Mason flips on the overhead lights and rushes over. “You okay? Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine.” I wave him off, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the harsh light. I don’t need his faux-sympathy now. “An upset stomach, not a big deal.”
Margaret appears behind him. She brushes her hand over my shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything, sweetheart.” Pivoting toward the rest of the room, she asks, “Anyone have thoughts on dinner?”
“I made chicken noodle soup. Enough for everyone,” James says, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. A checkered apron tied around his waist, wooden spoon in hand.
“Aren’t you an angel?” Margaret beams and turns to Ivy. “He’s a keeper.”
Mason glances at James. “Thanks for helping, Syd. Glad you were there.”
“Of course,” he replies, looking away when Mason kisses my cheek.
As the others slip away to unload equipment and change, James walks over with a fresh cup of tea, placing it on the table beside me. The apron is no longer on, but it doesn’t cause my body to react any less. Who knew a man in an apron could be so maddeningly irresistible?
“Did the nap help?”
“Reading, cooking, taking care of puking women—are you always this fucking nice?” I tease, though my tone is laced with a sharp edge. Defensive. A need to bury whatever it is he’s drawing out of me.
“Are your expectations for men so low that holding your hair while you’re puking makes me Prince Charming, Sydney?” His voice is low, cut with his own edge that makes my toes curl.
A hiccup of time passes. How long, who knows? My pulse trips, and heat stutters through my veins. This time, it has nothing to do with an upset stomach. His gaze doesn’t flicker. Mine should look away, but I don’t.
Not yet.
Until a throat clears and Tom walks into the room with a curious tilt to his head. “You guys have an interesting day?”
I head into the kitchen, leaving my tea and whatever that was behind. And because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, of course, his soup is perfect. It’s exactly what my stomach needs. Simple and comforting.
“The soup is yummy, James,” Ivy says, nudging his side with her elbow.
He looks up, dazed, returning from somewhere far away. “Thanks.”
“Why don’t you cook for me in Boston?” she asks, her tone hard to read.
“I thought you preferred going out.” He shifts, glances at me, back to his soup.
“Speaking of going out, is anyone interested in hitting the tavern tonight?” Ivy surveys the room.
The table quiets. Margaret raises her brows, exchanges a look with Gary, but says nothing. I glance toward Mason, half-expecting him to offer to go with her. But he’s lost in his phone.
“Feel free to go,” James says, still not looking up. He stirs his soup with careful precision. “But I’d rather stay in on Christmas Eve.”
What I wouldn’t give to rewind to yesterday.
If I’d swallowed it down. Not opened up to Jules. Not let her ask that damn question: Are you happy? I could have kept up the well-practiced version of myself, going through the motions and grateful for this family above all else.
But that question led me to try. I asked Mason about the questionnaire.
To connect. I put myself out there only to be met with the same old dismissal.
And then James fucking arrived, riding in like some White Knight who reads, cooks, and takes care of you.
Someone who instinctively understands what those questions were meant to do. A man who doesn’t need a list.
Twenty-four hours of quiet moments replay like an old black and white movie, scenes from a life I’m not living—a glimpse through a doorway into another version of me, one who made different choices. I look up, and his eyes meet mine.
What if it’s not too late?
“Ahh, Bell, get your nose off my lap!” Leo yells, yanking me back to the table and out of my head. A much safer place to be. “You can’t have my dinner roll!”
The table erupts in laughter as the golden retriever's tail thumps eagerly, still watching for crumbs. Conversation shifts back to lighter things with the kids taking center stage, talking about Santa and last-minute wish lists.
Jules leans in, a look on her face that has me holding my breath. “You got sick a few times, and it passed?”
“Pretty much. Why?”
“Have you had this nausea at other times? Dizziness?”
“I’ve been dizzy, yeah. Nausea for a couple of weeks.” My stomach drops to the floor as realization dawns. The thoughts I’ve been pushing down rush forward as the pattern crystallizes.
“When was your last period?”
“What the fuck, Jules?” I whisper-shout as water sprays from my mouth.
“Sorry, babe. But these are classic morning sickness symptoms. You should take a test. I’ll run to the pharmacy if you want.”
“No. Fuck. No.” I stand, grabbing a napkin to blot the water from the table. Raising my voice to its normal level, I turn to the rest of the table. “Sorry, everyone. My stomach’s not great again. I’m going to bed.”
Upstairs, I yank out my phone, scrolling through my calendar. Trying to remember. What was happening the last time…?
Everything blurs. The room spins, fast and unrelenting.
We’ve talked about kids, but I’m still on the pill. I’m not even sure I want children. Mason’s insistence that this is the next step has been a common argument over the past few years, as if this is just another item to check off his to-do list.
Looking at my calendar, one entry jumps out: a doctor’s appointment after I’d fallen during a race and scraped my knees badly.
He prescribed antibiotics and gave a warning that they might interfere with my birth control.
And a few nights later—too much wine, numbing myself during another exhausting fundraiser.
I didn’t think about using backup protection. Didn’t think at all.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I pull the covers over my head, slip in my earbuds, queue up some white noise, throw on an eye mask, and hope to lull myself to sleep and wake up from this nightmare.