Chapter 3 #2
Short for Orion, maybe. Or just Orry, because it sounds friendly and strong and like someone who won't let the world push him around. Or maybe the first two letters in orc.
My son.
The reality hits me sideways. I'm having a son. A half-orc baby boy who's going to have his father's eyes, maybe his smile, definitely some combination of our features that I can't predict.
And I'm going to raise him alone.
The thought doesn't scare me as much as it should. I've been alone before. Alone's familiar. Comfortable, even.
But lying there in the dark, feeling Orry kick against my ribs, I let myself imagine something different.
What if Ridge had stayed?
What if I'd woken up that morning and he'd still been there, rumpled and sleepy and interested in more than just one night?
What if I'd asked his real name?
The questions circle like moths around a lamp, useless and persistent.
I push them away and focus on what I can control.
Orry's room, really just a corner of my bedroom with a crib and a changing table.
My birth plan, hospital, epidural, as much medical intervention as they'll give me.
My business—streamlined, organized, ready to run on autopilot for at least six weeks while I figure out this whole motherhood thing.
I can do this.
I will do this.
And if Ridge, whoever he really is, ever shows up looking for answers?
I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Preferably while holding our son and looking like I've had more than three hours of sleep.
Orry arrives two weeks early, during a rainstorm that knocks out power to half the plaza.
Typical.
Labor starts at four AM. By noon, I'm in a hospital bed, gripping the rails and reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
"You're doing great," the nurse says, which is what everyone says when you're clearly not doing great.
I want to ask for drugs. More drugs. All the drugs they have.
But mostly I want this to be over.
Seventeen hours later, it is.
They place him on my chest, this tiny squirming creature with a shock of dark hair and skin that's just a shade too green to be fully human.
And he opens his eyes.
Crystal green. Bright and alert and absolutely his father's.
"Hi, Orry," I whisper.
He blinks at me, solemn and curious, and I fall completely, irrevocably in love. I enjoy the maternity time off, but all too soon I need to get back to work eight weeks after I gave birth.
Motherhood, it turns out, is less about glowing Instagram moments and more about surviving on three-hour sleep cycles while covered in substances I'd rather not identify.
Orry is two months old when I bring him to Sparkle Beauty for the first time.
Maren takes one look at the portable bassinet I'm lugging and immediately clears space behind the counter. "Oh my God, he's so tiny."
"He's actually pretty average." I settle the bassinet in the corner, tucking a blanket around Orry's sleeping form. "Pediatrician says he's tracking perfectly."
"Can I hold him?"
"When he wakes up. Fair warning, he's got a killer grip and zero concept of personal boundaries."
The morning passes in a blur of customer interactions punctuated by Orry's increasingly insistent hunger cues. I learn to nurse while restocking lipstick displays, change diapers between transactions, and perfect the art of one-handed customer service.
Mrs. Ellen, my regular who buys enough face masks to mummify herself twice over, peers into the bassinet with grandmotherly intensity. "Half-orc?"
"Yep."
"Beautiful boy. Strong features. He'll break hearts."
"He's already breaking my sleep schedule."
She laughs, presses a red envelope into my hand. "For good luck. My grandmother always said orc babies are the Plentiful God’s way of promising a prosperous harvest. You’ve got a lucky one there."
Inside is forty dollars and a dried flower I don't recognize.
"Mrs. Ellen, I can't—"
"For the baby. Not for you. Big difference." She winks and leaves before I can argue.
By lunch, I've collected three more red envelopes, a hand-knitted blanket from the woman who runs the yarn shop two doors down, and a freezer bag full of lactation cookies that taste like cardboard but apparently work miracles.
"You've got a village whether you want one or not," Maren observes, organizing the gifts into a pile.
"I noticed."
"Could be worse. Could be alone."
Orry awakes and stares at the ceiling with intense concentration. "Yeah. Could be worse."
The rhythm settles into something almost manageable.
Mornings at the shop with Orry in his bassinet, cooing at customers and occasionally screaming his head off for no discernible reason.
Afternoons at home, laundry piling up while I try to nap when he naps and mostly fail.
Evenings alone with a baby who's discovered he has a voice and likes using it.
My body is a roadmap of motherhood. Stretch marks, soft stomach, breasts that leak at inconvenient moments. I've stopped wearing anything that can't be immediately pulled down for nursing access.
Glamorous.
But Orry grows. Starts tracking movement with those startling green eyes. Smiles, real smiles that aren't just gas, usually right after he's spit up on whatever clean shirt I'm wearing.
His dimple shows up at ten weeks.
Right cheek. Deep enough to hide a pencil eraser. Absolutely his father's.
I gaze at it and feel my chest tighten.
"You look just like him," I tell Orry, who responds by grabbing my nose with surprising force. "Ow. Okay, noted. We don't talk about Dad."
But I think about him.
Late at night, when Orry finally crashes and I'm too wired to sleep. I think about Ridge, or whoever he really was, and wonder if he ever thinks about that night. If he remembers the woman who left before dawn. If he'd care that he has a son.
Probably not.
One-night stands don't typically come with paternal instincts.
Still.
Orry deserves to know where he comes from. Deserves the option of a father, even if that father turns out to be a disappointment.
At three months postpartum, I work up the nerve to try again.
The Iron Horse looks exactly the same.
Dim lighting, scarred wooden bar, the persistent smell of leather and hops. The same bartender is working, her nose ring glinting as she catches sight of me.
"Ginger ale girl. Back again?"
"Something like that." I slide onto a barstool, Orry strapped to my chest in a carrier that makes me look like a particularly exhausted kangaroo. "I'm looking for someone."
"Still Ridge?"
"Yeah."
She studies me for a long moment, gaze dropping to Orry's sleeping face. "Ah."
"Yeah. Ah."
"Honey, I told you before. No one here—"
"I know. But maybe someone knows someone? Or saw him around that night? It was Colum Fishborn's party, three blocks over. Big celebration, lots of people."
Recognition flickers across her face. "The plaza thing. Yeah, we had overflow that night. Lot of guys came through."
"Motorcycle orc. Tattoos. Sunglasses inside like an asshole. Called himself Ridge."
"You just described half my clientele."
"He had a leather jacket. Good shoulders. Smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing."
"So does my dentist. Doesn't mean I know where he lives."
I slump against the bar. "This is pointless."
"Maybe." She pours me a ginger ale without asking, slides it across. "Or maybe you're looking in the wrong place."
"What do you mean?"
"Fishborn Financial. That's who threw the party, right? Fancy finance guys playing dress-up. If your Ridge was at that party, he probably works there."
My stomach drops. "You think he's a—"
"Accountant in a costume? Yeah. Happens more than you'd think. Boys who work in offices all day, get a little drunk, decide they want to be dangerous for a night." She shrugs. "Check the company directory. Worst case, you embarrass some poor number-cruncher. Best case, you find your baby daddy."
Orry chooses that moment to wake up and release a hiccup that echoes through the bar like a tiny, judgmental commentary on my life choices.
Several patrons turn to look.
"He's perfect," the bartender says, softer. "Worth tracking down his dad for."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. And honey? Next time you're hunting down a one-night stand, maybe leave the baby at home. Less dramatic that way."
I pay for the ginger ale I didn't drink and leave.
Outside, the air smells like rain.
I adjust Orry's carrier, making sure he's tucked in warm, and start walking. Not toward home. Not toward the shop.
Just walking.
Fishborn Financial.
The name rattles around my head like a marble in a jar. I've walked past the storefront a hundred times. Rent my store from the owner. Seen Colum coming and going with his ridiculous blazers and theatrical energy. Noticed the steady stream of professionals in sensible shoes and button-ups.
What if one of them was Ridge?
What if the male I slept with wasn't some mysterious motorcycle-riding orc, but an accountant who wore fake tattoos and pretended to be someone else for a night?
The thought makes me furious and sad in equal measure.
Furious because I fell for it. Let myself believe in the fantasy of a stranger who wanted me without complications.
Sad because it means Ridge, the version I remember, confident and present and real, never existed at all.
"Your dad might be a fraud," I tell Orry, who's dozing against my chest with the sublime peace of someone who has zero responsibilities. "How do you feel about that?"
He hiccups again. Soft and sweet.
And suddenly I'm crying.
Not pretty tears. Big, ugly sobs that shake my shoulders and make my nose run. I sink onto a bench outside a closed boutique and let it pour out—all the fear and exhaustion and loneliness I've been holding at bay for months.
I don't know his name.
I don't know where he lives.
I don't know if he'd even want to meet Orry, this perfect little person we made together during one reckless, beautiful night.
And I'm so tired of doing this alone.
A hand touches my shoulder.
I jerk back, swiping at my face, and find an older woman standing beside the bench. Human, silver hair, kind eyes.
"You alright, dear?"
"Fine. Just, hormones."
She sits down without asking, purse settling on her lap like a small, practical mountain. "That baby can't be more than a few months old."
"Three."
"And you're out here crying on a bench at eight PM."
"It's been a day."
"Looks like it's been a year." She peers at Orry, who's managed to sleep through my entire breakdown. "He's beautiful. Takes after his mother."
"His father, actually."
"Is he in the picture?"
The question is gentle, nonjudgmental. The kind of thing a grandmother might ask while offering tea and cookies.
I shake my head. "Don't know where he is."
"Ah. One of those."
"Not like that. He doesn't know Orry exists.
I don't even know his real name." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
"We had one night and he lied about everything and I left before morning and now I have this perfect baby and no idea how to find his father and everyone keeps telling me I'm doing great but I'm not and—"
"Breathe."
I breathe.
"Better?"
"Marginally."
She pats my hand. "Here's what you're going to do.
Go home. Feed that baby. Get some sleep.
Tomorrow, when you're not crying on benches, you're going to make a list of everything you know about this man.
Where you met him. What he looked like. What he said.
Then you're going to follow the threads until you find him. "
"And if I don't?"
"Then you raise that boy with so much love he never notices there's a gap. But you try first. For him." She stands, smooths her skirt. "You're stronger than you think, mama. Trust me. I've seen plenty of women in your shoes. The ones who keep going? They turn out fine."
She walks away before I can thank her.
I sit there for another ten minutes, listening to Orry breathe against my chest. His heartbeat steady and sure. His tiny fist curled against my collarbone.
Orry.
I'd whispered that name to him in the hospital, right after they placed him in my arms. Before the exhaustion hit. Before reality set in.
It felt right then.
It still feels right now.
"Orry Newman," I say out loud, testing it. "We're going to find your dad. Or we're going to be fine without him. Either way, we're going to be okay."
He hiccups again, softer this time.
And I almost believe it.
Home is a one-bedroom apartment above a vintage record shop that smells perpetually of old vinyl and patchouli.
I unlock the door one-handed, navigate the narrow hallway without turning on lights, and deposit Orry in his crib with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.
He doesn't wake.
Small mercies.
I collapse on my bed, still fully dressed, and grab my phone.
Fishborn Financial.
The website is sleek and professional. Stock photos of diverse people smiling at spreadsheets. A mission statement about "building community wealth through ethical investing." A staff directory with headshots and job titles.
I scroll through faces. A couple of orcs, mostly humans though.
Analysts. Associates. Junior partners. Senior partners.
None of them look familiar.
But then again, Ridge wore sunglasses the entire night. I'm not sure I'd recognize him even if he was staring me in the face.
I flip off the browser and open my photos instead.
There's exactly one picture from that night. Blurry, taken by someone at the party who thought drunk strangers dancing was Instagram-worthy. I'm laughing, head thrown back. Ridge has his hand on my waist, face turned just enough that you can see his jaw but not his full features.
It's not enough.
I zoom in anyway, studying the curve of his smile. The breadth of his shoulders. The way he's looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.
"Where are you?" I whisper to the pixelated image.
Orry hiccups from the crib.
And I start to cry again.