Chapter 21
Twenty-One
I wake before the sun, pulled out of sleep by a restlessness I can’t shake.
The world is hushed, bathed in the soft hues of pre-dawn with shades of blue and lavender bleeding into each other. Cold air sharpens my senses as I run, each footfall crunching against the snow-packed road.
The family is planning to ski today. Anna and I are on our own, unless a certain green-eyed man decides not to go.
Can I let myself have a day with him if he stays behind? The thought of uninterrupted hours—after the sunroom, the sketchbook, and Vera’s conversation—makes my heart race with more anticipation than fear.
What happens without the buffer of family?
As I near the driveway, a shrill voice slices through the stillness, stopping me in my tracks. I slip toward the edge of the woods, not wanting to interrupt.
“What do you mean you’re not coming skiing?” Ivy’s voice is sharp with disbelief.
James, ever calm but firm, replies, “I don’t enjoy skiing. I’ve mentioned this before. You’re welcome to go. I’ll hang here and read.”
“But…” She cuts herself off, unable to say what’s on her mind. She knows I’m not going. “Okay, love. You can make it up to me and sleep in my room tonight.” Her hands slide up to his face as she pulls him down. “No more sleeping in the guest room, it’s silly. We're engaged.”
Instead of looking away, I watch her rise on her toes and kiss him. His hands stay at his sides, letting the quick press of lips pass.
“Have fun,” he says, and starts up the porch stairs.
“James,” she calls out. When he stops, mid-step, she hesitates. Almost like she regrets calling after him. Then she says, “Is everything okay?”
“Can we enjoy the holiday and talk about all of this stuff later?” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame the mess, the guilt.
“Sure.” Her back is to me, but I imagine her face matches the resigned tone to her voice. “I’ll see you tonight.” She drops her head and drags her boots through the snow, kicking at it as she walks toward the back.
He stands there staring off into the distance without moving a muscle. It’s too far for me to see his face, but I can imagine the tight set of his jaw, guilt warring in his chest. His clipped tone and closed-off demeanor I just witnessed are so far from the man he is with me.
Conversations and relationships take two people, and Ivy has played her part. It takes two people to build a relationship on half-truths. And I get it. I really do. Sometimes not knowing feels easier than facing what it might mean.
Guilt gnaws my insides as I slink back, leaning against a tree. I’ve known Ivy since she was eighteen. But I can’t keep twisting myself around her choices.
Maybe all these splinters, all these fissures, come from the fact that we’re living double lives: the one in our heads, full of desires and dreams, and the one we're living out loud. For me, it’s always been this way.
What would happen if those lives aligned?
If my actual life reflected what I have only dared to imagine?
Today might give me a glimpse, because he’s staying. The cold air can’t compete with the heat growing in my chest.
I move through the rhythm of our morning routine: diaper, clothes, milk, each step familiar and grounding. A soft contrast to the buzz of anticipation thrumming beneath my skin.
Mason offers a curt good morning, his eyes briefly darting to my bare neck before he disappears for his beloved day of skiing. He leaves without a glance back, still nursing his wounded pride.
With the house empty, I take my time getting dressed. I want to feel like myself. Not a tired mom, but the confident Sydney who at twenty-five would walk into a dark pool den and challenge any guy to a game. The woman who survived her teenage years in France.
Sans peur. Without fear.
I pull on jeans, the soft denim hugging my curves. An oversized sweater, the color of a winter sky at dusk, slips off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin. It’s not a drastic departure from my usual look, but it’s also a quiet declaration. I’m not dressed for a day of toddler play.
The house is silent, except for a clink of a coffee mug hitting granite.
James sits at the kitchen counter, coffee clasped between his fidgeting fingers. His navy Henley strains just enough across his chest and arms to make me forget how to breathe, freezing me in the doorway.
His eyes soak me in, roaming from the top of my head to the curve of my exposed shoulder, down the length of my body. He draws a steadying breath and tips back on the stool.
“Hungry?” he asks, casual, as if this is just another morning.
Anna bounces in my arms, babbling, reaching for her chair. James is already there, setting down a plate with tiny, perfectly cut pieces.
Without a word, he pours coffee into a mug, adds the oat milk, and slides it toward me with that damn lopsided grin. “Here you go.”
I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic. There is no one here to stop us, to make us not look at each other, only guilt and conscience. All I hear is the pounding of my heart. “Thank you.”
“Would you have any interest in going to the bookshop today?” he asks, as we sit on each side of Anna. We sip our coffees while she spreads pancake and syrup around her tray, as much landing there as in her mouth. Bell waits eagerly for her offerings.
“I was thinking of taking Anna. I didn’t get there on Christmas Eve and need my annual fix.” I laugh and take another sip.
He nods, pleased, and moves through the kitchen, grabbing a bowl, berries, yogurt, and granola before setting it in front of me.
“I know you ran this morning. You need to eat.”
“How did you know that’s my breakfast?”
A finger skims the bare skin of my shoulder, the light touch sliding down my spine and pooling deep in my stomach.
“I pay attention, Sydney.”
He scoops Anna from her chair. “Come on, Bug. Let’s go play with Bell while your mama eats her breakfast.” He carries her airplane-style, her giggles trailing behind them.
And as I eat, bite after bite, I watch them on the floor. James, fully engaged, making silly faces, catching her in his arms. His laugh carries. A rich, unfiltered sound that wraps around the room and settles somewhere I’ve tried to protect.
The flutter in my chest?
It’s a full-blown woodpecker now pounding at every wall I’ve built, every doubt I’ve fed, demanding louder and louder: Lady, when are you going to wake up?
***
The bookshop is a haven of quiet corners and overflowing shelves. The train table is its own wonderland with Mickey and Minnie waving from boxcars, Pluto guarding a tiny present. Anna giggles and stands in awe. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.
We browse for hours, starting in the toddler section, reminiscing about our childhood favorites, pulling out book after book.
“Do you think Where the Wild Things Are is too much?” he asks, scanning the back.
God, it’s so damn cute—his quiet contemplation of it. And I have to stop myself from imagining all these little decisions that I now handle on my own. What if I could share them? To have a partner who cares enough to read the back of a child’s book.
“Nah. Who doesn’t want a pack of monsters treating you like a king?”
“Well, a queen in your honor.” He pokes Anna’s belly, and she collapses in giggles.
As we wander toward the fiction section, Anna tucks her hand inside his, further disorienting me.
This is the same shop where our story began, the same day I suspected I was pregnant with Anna.
Now my daughter’s hand holds his as she looks up, amazed he's still there.
She is so pure and fearless in her acceptance of him spending the day with us.
Deeper into the stacks, lush foliage winds the shelves, and soft fairy lights transform the bookstore into something enchanted.
I choose a safer topic than what I’m feeling. “What’s your favorite book?”
His brow furrows, that quiet, contemplative look that always makes my pulse stutter. “Dune. It’s not about the politics or power dynamics for me, even if they are fascinating. It’s about surviving against the odds. Becoming stronger not in spite of the hell you go through, but because of it.”
“Do you think I’d like it?”
“You’d get it. You like dark and twisty stories—ones that don’t hand you easy answers. Dune is messy. Brutal. Beautiful.”
Survival. I know a thing or two about that. So does he. The thought catches in my chest until his hand brushes mine, pulling me out of my head.
“Should we pick books out for each other again?” A shy grin tugs at his lips. That stupid, beautiful dimple I’ve imagined under my thumb too many nights taunts me.
“Our tastes might’ve changed.” My fingers twitch at my side, aching to reach for him. But my words hide the truth; those books are still on my shelf at home, well-read and treasured.
“Is that the case?” A small gasp escapes as his fingers cradle my chin. “It’s still one of my favorite days.”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
My breath stalls. My heart trips.
And without thinking, I reach up, tracing the dimple I’ve dreamed of.
He leans into my touch like he’s starving for it, a low groan vibrating from his chest. The sound unspools something tight inside me, and I clench my thighs against the building ache.
In my heeled boots, there’s not much distance between his lips and mine.
A slight tilt of his head, a small lift of my chin, is all it’d take to close the final inches.
His fingers slide down my neck, along my naked shoulder, settling in the small of my back, drawing me closer.
“Mama.” A tiny tug on my sweater and I come crashing back to earth.
I laugh, breathless, and step out of his reach. Thank God. Not sure my hormones or willpower could take much more.
“You’ve got impeccable timing, kiddo.” James huffs a laugh. “Should we check out and head back?”
***
Anna fades fast, her eyelids drooping the minute lunch is over, despite protesting she’s not tired. James promises he’ll play after a rest, and she finally relaxes enough to lie down in bed. Once she's asleep, I sneak off to the sunroom with Dune in hand.
Peppermint wafts through the room as James sets a steaming mug of tea beside me before stretching out on the couch with his own book. Bell pads in behind him, circling once before curling up on the rug between us.
For the next few hours, we read in contented silence, occasionally pausing to share a particularly moving passage. We could have been doing this forever. I catch him peeking at me over his book, disbelief written across his face. All I can do is smile and snuggle deeper into the warmth.
When Anna wakes, still warm and dozy from sleep, we fall into step in the kitchen making spaghetti, Anna’s current favorite. James chops while I stir, our rhythm natural while Anna and Bell play at our feet. The last dregs of sunlight filter through in honey-colored bands.
But my damn mind won’t stay in the moment.
It feels so normal. So good. Too good—surely I’m tempting the universe, inviting it to be taken away. I can already feel it slipping. This pocket of time that isn’t built to last.
James sets down the knife and turns to me. His hands cradle my face, tilting my gaze to meet his. “I can hear the wheels turning in your head,” he says. “Would it help if I kissed you? Something to distract you from all that worrying?”
His eyes drop to my lips. And for a second, I don’t think he’ll wait for an answer.
I stumble back a step, far enough to draw air. My body’s already reacting, caught up in the idea of his mouth on mine.
“Oh no, no. That won’t be necessary.”
He chuckles—a low, rich sound, like thunder rolling through me. “Today wasn’t a game. I was trying to show you what life could be like with us. A normal day. The mess, the quiet, the in-between parts. That I’d be there for it. All of it.”
A pause to let the words settle.
Give them a second to seep through my crumbling walls.
“I meant what I said last year. And what I said yesterday. Every word. It’s true today, and it’ll still be true tomorrow. I don’t know what the future holds, but this? It isn’t fleeting. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m not asking you to turn your world upside down over some passing fling, Sydney.”
He brings my palm to his lips, pressing his nose to its center, a warm tickle against my skin. His stubble grazes my wrist, my forearm, the bare slope of my shoulder. When he reaches the hollow beneath my ear, he pauses… then inhales deeply.
A moan escapes before I can stop it.
I push him away, not because I want to, but because I have to.
My body trembles with need, every cell screaming for him—his mouth, his weight, the scrape of his rough hands on my skin.
But I’m clinging to the thinnest thread of control.
I close my eyes and try to tether myself to something, anything, that isn’t the way he feels.
“I’m here,” he whispers as his lips brush my ear. “I’m here. Waiting. When you’re ready.”
And right when I’m at the edge, the front doors burst open. The spell shatters.
Our day is over.
James sweeps Anna into his arms as she charges him, tossing her into the air with a carefree laugh before catching her against his chest.
Over his shoulder, he winks at me. And I swear, my heart flips like it’s caught midair too.