Chapter Twelve
Twelve
My eyes blink open, the harsh morning sun clearing away the shadows of last night.
I stretch my body for a long, luxurious moment—only to feel the ache between my legs, a sharp reminder of everything I tried to chase in the dark. My wrist still bears a faint red welt, tender to the touch.
That damn rubber band has never once stopped my mind from drifting to James, just like crawling into Mason’s arms didn’t erase the memory of James’s fingers brushing my skin.
Pavlovian training, my ass. I hurl it across the room.
When Anna and I finally make our way toward the sounds of the family in the kitchen, I pause at the bottom of the stairs.
Mason sits at the table, a newspaper spread wide, chatting easily with his parents.
The scent of Margaret’s early morning baking drifts through the air, mingling with the soft hum of “Silent Night” playing from the speaker.
My nephews, game devices in hand, are locked in silent competition.
Gary stands and kisses Margaret’s cheek. “Can I get you some more coffee, love?”
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll take another.”
After all these years, it’s not a performance. It’s just love. Worn, comfortable, sure.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Mason glances up and notices Anna and me. He stands briefly to kiss her cheek, and offers me a small, sly smile. “You look… rested.”
His voice is light, teasing. And for a second, I catch a glimpse of the man I married: the one who used to run out for bagels after my morning runs, who programmed the coffee pot every night, who, that first night we met, read my desire to be invisible and met it with acceptance.
I take in his easy grin, the casual warmth. Maybe last night meant something. Maybe, even if it’s not everything, it’s enough. I almost convince myself of that lie until James walks up from the basement.
He’s in gray sweatpants, a sweat-dampened tee clinging to his chest and trim waist, hair swept back from his forehead. I track the length of him before I force myself to stop. Too late. He catches me, a slow smirk curving his mouth.
“Morning,” James says, casual and unbothered.
Anna turns her head, her big eyes tracking his movement.
She smiles. A wide, toothless grin, the kind she’s only started giving out.
He stops to tickle her belly, eliciting a soft giggle.
His arm brushes mine, barely a touch, as he reaches for a coffee mug.
I step back too fast, sloshing my coffee dangerously close to the rim.
“Careful.” His hand steadies me before pulling away.
The kitchen feels smaller. Too warm. His scent, fresh sweat, and that woodsy cologne, cut through the cinnamon and baking pies. I glance down, automatically reaching for the rubber band. Damn it.
“Good workout?” Mason asks, joining us near the coffee pot.
“Didn’t sleep great. I needed to burn some steam.” James takes a sip, eyes darting toward me.
I look away, burying the blush that rises too easily, as I take in them standing side by side.
They keep talking about workout and training plans, falling into safe territory, while I force myself to breathe. To look normal. I reach for something solid to say, instead of standing here like a fumbling teenager.
“Did you run Chicago? I haven’t been paying attention to whether races were on or canceled.”
James lifts an eyebrow, surprised I remembered. “Another casualty of COVID. Hopefully, it will happen this coming fall. Want to run it with me, get your next star?”
“Not sure I’ll be ready for a marathon by then. I don’t want to push too fast and end up injured.”
“We bought you that treadmill. It only takes a little prioritizing.” Mason’s voice takes on that condescending tone that grates every last nerve.
“Sometimes sleep is a priority. Especially if Anna’s had a rough night.”
“If running was a priority, you’d find the time.” He shrugs. “It’s not like you’ve got a ton going on right now.”
James, though, is having none of it. “Right. Because growing, birthing, and keeping a human alive—that’s totally low effort.”
His sarcasm is thick enough that even Anna probably hears it.
Mason doesn’t say another word. He drains his coffee, announces he’s heading to the gym, and walks out without a glance back. James watches him go, jaw clenched.
A silent scream builds in my chest, clawing at my ribs. I want to break something. To watch it shatter and join everything else I’ve spent months trying to hold together.
But I don’t.
I raise my coffee to my lips and swallow down the bitterness.
“Sydney,” Margaret’s gentle voice calls out. “Can I take Anna? We’ll play and I’ll put her down for her nap.”
“Thank you. That would be great.”
Breathe. Smile. Don’t crack.
“The Dickens Festival is this afternoon. Will you join us, or is it too much, even with masks?” She asks, taking Anna in her arms, pausing to blow a raspberry on her stomach.
“As much as I’d love to go, I think it’s safer if we skip this year.”
Another sting to add. Not missing something I love, but knowing it won’t even occur to Mason to stay with Anna. A simple, thoughtful gesture that would cost him nothing and mean everything.
“James, is the guest room okay?” Margaret asks.
He nods, flushing. “Yeah, it’s great. Thank you.”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but you know it’s fine if you stay in Ivy’s room. We’re all adults here.” She disappears, her words echoing in her wake.
I turn to the sink full of dishes. Anything to silence the quiet chaos left behind from Mason. From Margaret.
James grabs a dish towel and steps beside me, falling into sync. Wash, dry, put away. The rhythm is oddly steadying.
“You okay?” he asks after a round of drying mugs.
“I’m fine.”
He tilts his head, studying me with that unnerving ability to peel back layers I’ve spent years stitching in place. Layers no one is supposed to see.
I snap, sharper than I mean to. “Will you please stop doing that? I can’t have you looking at me like that.”
His brows lift with that maddeningly smug expression. “Like what?”
My pulse trips. Because this man is making it impossible to keep lying to myself.
His voice drops. “You know, there’s a thin ring of gold around your irises. When you’re flustered, it’s like it catches fire. You keep yourself so locked down, but that, Sydney… you can’t control.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what, Sydney?” He lets each syllable roll off his tongue. His eyes pin me in place, and when he bites his lower lip, the smugness sharpens into something darker.
My careful control shatters. And the truth slips out.
“Like… you’re undressing me.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. He breathes in, slow and deep, and I feel it everywhere. I lean forward as his towering body bends. One more inch and—
“Good morning!” Ivy says breezily as she enters the kitchen.
I jerk back, spinning toward the sink. My cheeks blaze as I grab an already-clean plate and start scrubbing desperately. I pray Ivy doesn’t notice. Doesn’t see. But the chemistry is so potent it could set a high school science lab ablaze by sheer proximity alone; I don’t know how she can’t.
James stands frozen, blinking like someone turned on a spotlight. He clears his throat and says, “We’re finishing up the dishes.”
“What are you guys chatting about? Looked intense.” Ivy leans against the island, tone casual.
A high-pitched laugh escapes, quick as the lie tumbling out of my mouth. “Just debating a book we both read.”
Her head tilts. “What book? Maybe I’ll read it too.”
“A thriller, dark and twisty,” James offers. “Probably not your thing.”
“But maybe it could be, if I gave it a shot.”
“Lock Every Door,” he says without hesitating.
One of the books we picked for each other, and my heart skips a beat.
I stare at him for half a second before I blurt out, “I’m actually heading to the gym.”
And force my feet to move as my pulse hammers in my throat. Still tasting the heat of him, feeling that reckless second where I thought he might kiss me. Knowing how badly I wanted it.
One more second.
That’s all it would have taken to blow up my life and turn this careful dance of glances and loaded conversations into something that would shatter everything. My marriage. Anna’s world. The thought terrifies me as much as how badly I wanted it to happen.
Running has always been my escape, the way I outrun what I don’t want to feel. But pregnancy changed my body, and now, running has to be paired with weightlifting. So I have to hope that throwing some heavy weights around can absorb this crushing ache.
Each squat, I push against the confines of my life. Each lunge fights against the pull threatening to disrupt everything, pushups to maintain my control.
I catch my reflection in the gym’s mirrored wall and force myself to look.
See beyond the things I’ve been conditioned to critique.
My body might be rounder, but it carried Anna safely into the world.
My stomach is softer, my hips wider, my skin marked by change.
But my arms are stronger from holding her close through sleepless nights.
My legs are steady from hours of bouncing her to sleep.
Different. Not broken.
Every inch of this new skin is a testament to motherhood. To love. To sacrifice.
From the corner of my eye, I see Mason watching me through the mirror. He steps off the treadmill, sweat gleaming on his skin. He moves with the ease of someone who’s never questioned his own worth.
He steps behind me, aligning our reflections as his hand settles on my stomach. The touch is light, absent-minded. I almost believe it’s reverent.
Leaning close, his breath warm against my ear, he says, “Don’t worry, babe, you’ll lose this pouch in no time.”
I freeze. Muscles coiled. My breath catches. I meet his eyes in the mirror, searching for awareness. But his expression is earnest, as though he handed me a gift.
“What?”
Mason frowns. “I meant…you’ll be back in shape before you know it. Keep putting in the work.”
My hand instinctively tugs at the hem of my tank. With a cold stare, I say, “Thanks for the encouragement, honey. I think I’m done for today.”
“Hey, come on,” he calls out as the door slams in my wake.
I escape to a scalding hot shower.
This isn’t even surprising. His blind spots aren’t new.
They’re old bruises. Familiar ones. He’s never had to think twice about his body.
Never wondered if he’s too much, or not enough.
A man with money, access, endless praise.
His confidence came prepackaged. He has no concept of what it means to internalize every unspoken judgment until it shapes you.
The bathroom door opens.
“Syd, look… I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t think you’d take it that sensitively.”
Of course, he didn’t. And I know exactly what he’s saying: I’m the problem. My reaction is the issue, not his words. For years, I’ve swallowed these casual cruelties, smoothed them over, made everything easier for him. But I’m done making myself small to keep him comfortable.
“I’m not being sensitive, and I’m not worried about getting my body back. Every new curve, every mark—I wear them with fucking honor. They’re not something I want erased.”
Mason stares as if this conversation has veered wildly off-script. “I didn’t mean… I know running matters to you. That’s why we bought the treadmill.”
“Fuck the treadmill.” My heart pounds as if I’ve sprinted up a mountain. “Running has never been about calories or looking a certain way. It’s about freedom. Pushing myself. Feeling strong. How do you not know that?”
Silence stretches as we both take in everything left hanging in that question.
Anna whimpers. Crackling through the baby monitor, breaking our stares. When she latches on, the tug at my nipple is sharp, a reminder that this, here, is where I’m needed—in the role where I can’t afford ambiguity, and the nudge I need to soften and lower my expectations, once again.
Mason stands in the doorway, shifting on his feet.
“Are you not attracted to me anymore?” I ask.
He blinks, caught off guard by my directness, staying rooted in place.
“This is me now. I might not be the same woman you married, but I’m still here. Still your wife. Still a woman. I need you to want this version of me.”
Mason closes the distance and lowers himself to his knees, a soft smile on his lips. “I’m such an asshole. You’re so beautiful, Syd. Please forgive me.”
I search his face for any sign that his words are more than just an empty script. For any hint of the fire I saw from James. He tucks his face into my neck as though he knows it will show the lie.
A lone bird perches on a nearby pine tree, its head tilting, listening to something in the wind. A calling that only it can hear. Its wings flutter, hesitating for a heartbeat, before lifting off and flying away.
No second-guessing. No turning back.