Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Anna nurses peacefully in my arms, her tiny fingers curling against my skin, a balm to the sting of Mason’s careless words as we nestle into a corner of the sunroom.
I trace each tiny finger, memorizing every detail.
The delicate knuckles, the tender creases—each part of her changing so quickly, I can barely capture these moments.
There was a time I couldn’t imagine stepping away from my career.
I’d never planned to take the full six months my firm offered. But the moment I looked into Anna’s eyes, everything shifted. I knew taking leave was career suicide, but for the first time, I didn’t care. My priorities realigned, and I know how lucky I am.
The trust fund my parents left, their one kindness, means I have economic freedom and a choice to go back or not, and decide what fits my new goals.
A tree glows in the corner, its twinkling lights casting gentle shadows.
The scent of pine lingers, wrapping around me as Tinashe’s velvet-drenched Christmas album unfurls into the hush.
Music sways through the room and I let it carry me, stirring what’s been humming beneath the surface since we arrived.
The creaky floorboard in the hallway groans.
I freeze.
“Sorry,” James whispers. “I couldn’t sleep. Heard the music… thought I’d find you here.”
“This is one of my favorite Christmas albums. I only play it at night; not exactly the cheery carols people expect from holiday music.”
“Is it okay if I join you?”
I hesitate, not because I don’t want him to, but because I do. More than I should.
“Yes. Please.”
He sinks into the chair across from me. Eyes closed, he lets the music move through him. Tinashe’s voice is low and aching, each note suspended in the air.
When his eyes open to find me already looking at him, the dimple I’ve tried not to think about for months deepens.
James’s gaze sweeps down for the briefest second.
My bare legs are tucked beneath me, my sleep shirt undone enough for Anna to nurse.
He finds the freckles on my collarbone. He swallows hard, and every inch of me tightens.
The desire, the restraint, the thread pulled so tight between us that one tug would snap it.
Don’t you feel this?
I’ve tried to smother every thought, convinced myself time and distance had warped it all, turned it into something it never was. Told myself it was exhaustion. Loneliness. A fleeting moment spun into fantasy.
But the way he’s looking at me now?
I know the truth.
It was never nothing. Whatever sparked between us last year hasn’t faded.
Anna stirs against me, her tiny mouth still working in her sleep—and the duality of this moment, my child at my breast while my heart pounds for a man who isn’t her father, feels like the most honest metaphor for my life.
He opens his mouth, ready to say something—
Footsteps thump down the hall.
James straightens, sinking back into the chair instead of crossing a line he couldn't uncross.
I glance at the rubber band on my wrist. Wanting something doesn’t mean I can have it. I pull. Hard.
The snap makes me wince, but I welcome it. I need it.
“Hey.” His voice cuts through the pain. “What was that? The rubber band… why would you do that?”
I don’t meet his eyes. “It’s nothing. Just something I do to remind myself of my responsibilities.”
He moves without a word and kneels beside my chair. His thumb skims over the welt, back and forth. A shiver shoots up my arm from that single point of contact.
James clears his throat. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”
As soon as he’s gone, I lay a sleeping Anna in her pack-and-play and snatch my phone from the table, fingers moving frantically to change the music. By the time James walks back in, I want to pretend whatever passed between us was only in my head.
“Wine?” he asks, returning with a glass in one hand, a large cup of water in the other, and an ice pack. Damn him. He sets the glasses on the side table, runs his thumb along the welt again, then places the ice pack on top, his eyes holding a softness that threatens to pull me under.
“Thanks,” I manage, the word catching in my throat.
Taylor Swift plays now. One of my favorites, a quiet, acoustic, stripped-down album. More to do with relationships ending than night conversations full of innuendo. I wrap my free arm around my knees, but I leave the ice pack in place. He did go to the trouble, after all.
“I love this album,” James confesses. “One of the best things to come out of the pandemic. I’m secure enough to admit I’m a Swiftie.”
“If that’s true, what’s your favorite song?”
It comes out half-teasing, half-daring; like I’m hoping he’ll name one of the overplayed radio hits and prove he’s not as thoughtful or sincere as he comes across.
He smiles. Slow. Knowing. “That’s tough. She’s the one artist I’d most want to headline the amphitheater. Imagine her, a piano, and a guitar.”
“I’d be the first to buy tickets,” I let out a wistful sigh.
“You’ll be the first person I call if it ever happens.” He leans forward, nothing playful in his tone.
I tilt my head, skeptical, keeping us in the safe zone. “Ahhh, but you still need to prove you’re a real Swiftie. I need a song. And not one of the chart-toppers.”
His mouth twitches, and he reaches for his phone, disconnecting mine from the speaker.
Taylor’s voice spills into the room, breathless, impossibly vulnerable. The slow, hypnotic beat winds its way through the quiet. The lyrics seep in, their meaning impossible to ignore, singing of that fragile shift where attraction becomes something deeper. Something Delicate. Something real.
The seconds stretch endlessly, each one sinking deeper, reaching through walls I thought were impenetrable.
When I finally meet his steady green eyes, he asks, “Does that work?”
I take a slow breath, swallow it all down. “Tell me more about the amphitheater.”
And so, we talk.
For hours.
While Anna snores. While the fire crackles low. While the world falls away.
It’s the kind of conversation that feels like slipping into a favorite sweater. There’s no posturing, no need to perform. Laughter comes without hesitation, stories tumble out freely, and that rare ease that comes when someone... gets you.
“Have I ever told you how I discovered I’m allergic to cats?” James asks, and I see the mischief in his eyes.
“I'm guessing it's not a severe allergy based on your grin?”
“I was fifteen, desperately trying to impress this girl. Sarah Mitchell. She was way out of my league, but somehow I’d convinced her to let me come over and study.
” He runs a hand through his hair, grinning.
“Her family had this massive Persian cat named Duchess. Pure white, fluffy as a cloud, and, according to Sarah, ‘the sweetest thing in the world’.”
“Hmm. Sweetest thing. I can already tell where this is going.”
“So I’m sitting next to her trying to be charming, when Duchess jumps up, purring and rubbing against me. Sarah’s practically melting, saying Duchess never likes anyone, that this means I’m ‘special’.” He shakes his head. “I’m thinking I’ve hit the jackpot.”
“But?”
“I start sneezing, my eyes watering. I realize I’m having some kind of allergic reaction, but I can’t push the cat away because Sarah thinks this is true love.
” His voice rises, animated. “So I’m sitting there, eyes streaming, trying to breathe through my nose, when Duchess decides my lap is the perfect place for a nap. ”
I’m laughing so hard I have to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. And that’s when I discovered this ‘sweet’ cat had razors for claws. Every time I tried to shift, she dug in deeper. I was being held hostage by a furry dictator while slowly suffocating. I’m sure the red eyes looked great on me in my pursuit of the girl.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Twenty minutes! Twenty minutes of torture while Sarah’s going on about calculus, and I’m dying. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I sneezed so hard that Duchess went flying off my lap, landed on the coffee table, and knocked over some antique vase.”
“No!”
Lost in the moment, I don’t hear the approaching footsteps.
“Aren’t you two cozy?” Ivy stands in the doorway, scanning our faces. “Who’s this Duchess?” She crosses the room, eyes darting between us before settling next to James. One hand drapes casually around his neck.
“I couldn’t sleep. Sydney was kind enough to let me hang out. I was telling some silly story from high school.” He shifts, gaining some space between their bodies.
“Wow, I didn’t realize how late it was.” I’m already gathering Anna’s sleeping form into my arms. “I should get some sleep before she wakes again. Goodnight.”
As I walk away, Ivy whispers, “Will you come to bed?”
Jealousy rises, sharp and metallic in my throat. Impossible to swallow. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to drown out the burning images, burning questions. Will he follow her? Will he touch her the way he stroked my wrist?
Entering our dark bedroom, I place Anna in her crib, my fingers trailing across her soft cheek. So utterly dependent on me for everything—including the choices I make. I can't get this wrong. Can't let my whims overshadow the most important thing: keeping her safe and loved.
Mason stirs as I slide into bed. “I’m sorry about earlier, Syd.”
“I know. It’s okay. We’re both tired.”
It’s not okay, and it wasn’t fatigue. But every nerve in me buzzes with restless, aching need.
I press against him, searching for something to ground me, to dull the burn James left behind.
He’s still more asleep than awake. I reach down, rubbing my hand along the front of Mason’s sleep pants.
I stroke him back and forth, waking his desire as I unbutton my sleep shirt and bring his hand to my breast.
“What are you doing?” he asks, slowly awakening.
“Mase, I’m healed. The doctor gave us the okay months ago. I need you. Please.”
He wakes enough to take charge of his hands. His touch remains tentative, as if he’s unsure or worried I might leak.
“I won’t break,” I growl, desperate.
His eyes widen, and something clicks. His grip tightens. I gasp.
“Are you sure, Syd? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Yes. God, yes.”
Finally, Mason flips us over, pinning me beneath him.
His hands roam, relearning the planes of my body.
I will him on; will this to fill what I need.
His lips trace a slow path down my collarbone, and I let myself sink into it.
The memory of how it used to be. The safety in rhythm.
The knowing that together our bodies will find pleasure.
He grips my wrists, bringing them over my head. His thumb brushes over my skin and he slows, pausing on the welt.“What’s this?” He asks, kissing my shoulder.
“It’s nothing. I forgot it was there.”
And I’m no longer here.
I’m back in the sunroom with James’s eyes on me, his fingers rubbing that same welt, looking at me like this body, reshaped by motherhood, is something to revere. Not beautiful in spite of the changes, but because of them. Every curve, every softness: honored. Wanted.
I pull Mason closer, clinging to him, desperate now. Trying to anchor myself in the familiarity of his body, of this life we’ve built.
As if I can force myself back into this moment, into this marriage, by sheer will alone.