Chapter 10 #2
"Fevers are common. Kids spike them all the time. We just have to monitor and manage."
"You sound like a doctor."
"I sound like someone who read twelve articles last night."
That gets a laugh. Small. Shaky. But real.
I undress Orry. He whines. His little body's limp and hot. I ease him into the water. He startles. Then settles. I cup water over his legs. His tummy. His back.
"There you go, buddy. Just cooling you down."
Cecie kneels beside me. Hands him a rubber duck. He bats at it weakly.
"He hates being sick," she whispers.
"I know."
"I feel useless."
"You're not. You called me. You gave him medicine. You're doing everything right."
She swallows hard. "What if it gets worse?"
"Then we take him to urgent care. But right now, we're okay."
I keep my voice steady. Confident. Inside, I'm terrified. What if I'm wrong? What if I miss something?
But I don't let it show. Cecie needs me to be calm. Orry needs me to be calm.
So I am.
Twenty minutes later, his temp drops to 101. Still high. But better.
I dry him off. Dress him in just a onesie. Light cotton. Breathable. Cecie makes a bottle. He takes it. Slow sips. Then curls into my chest.
"Hey," I murmur. "There you are."
His eyes flutter. He's exhausted. I rock him. Gentle. Rhythmic.
Cecie sinks into a chair. Watches us. "You're good at this," she says quietly.
"I'm winging it."
"You don't look like you're winging it."
"That's the glasses. They're very authoritative."
She snorts. Then sighs. "Thank you. For coming."
"Always."
Orry's breathing evens out. Sleep pulls at him. I keep rocking. Cecie's phone buzzes. She glances at it. Frowns.
"Clinic," she says.
My heart stops. "The results?"
"Yeah. They're. They're ready."
The room goes still. Orry shifts in my arms. Tiny. Warm. Mine.
"Do you want to go get them?" I ask.
She looks at me. At Orry. Back to me. "Not yet. Not while he's sick."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Cecie. I'm not going anywhere. Test or no test. I'm here."
Her eyes shimmer. She nods. "Okay."
We spend the rest of the afternoon in the back room. Orry sleeps. Wakes. Fusses. Sleeps again. I check his temp every hour. 100.8. Then 100.2. Then 99.5.
"It's breaking," I tell Cecie.
She exhales. Relief floods her face. "Thank God."
"He's tough."
"He gets that from me."
"Stubborn too, I bet."
"Definitely from me."
I grin. Orry stirs. Blinks up at me. His eyes are clearer now. He reaches for my face. Pats my cheek.
"Dada."
I freeze. Cecie freezes.
"Did he just—"
"Yeah." My voice is rough. "He did."
"That's. That's new."
"Good new or bad new?"
She bites her lip. "Good. I think. Good."
Orry says it again. Delighted with himself. "Dada."
I kiss his forehead. He giggles. God, I love this kid.
By evening, Orry's fever's gone. He's clingy. Cranky. But himself again. Cecie closes the shop early. We migrate to her apartment upstairs.
It's small. Cozy. Lived-in. There's a playpen in the corner. A laundry basket overflowing with tiny clothes. A shelf crammed with board books and teething toys.
"Sorry about the mess," Cecie says.
"It's perfect."
She rolls her eyes. "You don't have to be nice."
"I'm not. I'm being honest."
She looks at me. Really looks. Then shakes her head. "You're weird, Ridgeway."
"I prefer 'thorough.'"
"Weird."
Orry crawls toward a basket of blocks. Dumps them out. Starts stacking. His little face scrunched in concentration.
"He's obsessed with organizing things," Cecie says. "Lines up his toys by color. It's bizarre."
"That's. That's actually developmentally advanced."
"Of course you'd know that."
I shrug. "I read."
"You read everything."
"Not everything. Just. Pediatric development. And parenting techniques. And childhood nutrition. And—"
"Okay, Rain Man. I get it."
I laugh. Orry looks up. Grins. Goes back to his blocks.
Cecie sits on the couch. Pats the cushion beside her. I sit. Careful to leave space between us.
"Today was scary," she says.
"Yeah."
"But you were. You were really good. Calm. Competent."
"I was panicking on the inside."
"Well, you hid it well."
"Years of practice."
She tilts her head. "At what?"
"Pretending I have everything under control."
"Ah. Same."
We sit in silence. Orry babbles to his blocks. The lamp casts soft light. It feels. Domestic. Comfortable.
This could be my life. The thought hits hard. This could be us.
Cecie's phone buzzes again. She glances at it. Tenses.
"Clinic," she says. "Again. They want to know when we're picking up the results."
"Do you want to go tomorrow?"
"I. Yeah. I think. Yeah."
That night, I go home. But I can't settle. I pace. Make tea. Don't drink it. Stare at my phone.
The results are waiting. On paper. In an envelope. 99.9% probability.
But Cecie doesn't know that yet. And I haven't told her. Because part of me wanted. Needed. This day. This moment of being Orry's dad without proof.
What if the results say something different? What if there's an error? What if—
I stop. Breathe. No. He's mine. I know he's mine.
But doubt creeps in. Persistent. Unwelcome.
I text Colum. Can't sleep.
He responds immediately. Results?
Tomorrow.
You'll be fine.
What if I'm not?
Then you're not. But you will be.
I look at the message. Then type: What if she doesn't want me to be his dad?
Three dots. Then: She let you stay today. That means something.
Maybe.
Definitely. Now go to bed, you neurotic disaster.
I smile despite myself. Thanks.
Anytime, Dad.
Morning comes too fast. I meet Cecie at the clinic at ten. She's in yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Hair in a bun. No makeup. She looks exhausted.
"How's Orry?" I ask.
"Good. Fever's gone. He's with Colum. Apparently they're 'bonding.'" She makes air quotes. "I'm slightly terrified."
"Colum's surprisingly good with kids."
"That's what scares me."
We check in. The receptionist hands us a clipboard. I fill it out. My hands shake. Cecie notices.
"You okay?"
"Nervous."
"Yeah. Me too."
We sit in the waiting area. Uncomfortable plastic chairs. Outdated magazines. A fish tank that hums too loud.
"Gunther?"
"Yeah?"
"No matter what the paper says. You've been. Good. Really good. With Orry. And I. I'm grateful."
"Cecie—"
"Let me finish." She twists her hands. "I've done this alone for fourteen months. And I was fine. I am fine. But having you. Helping. It's. It's nice. And if. If the test says you're not. Biologically. His. I. I'd still want you around. If you wanted."
My throat closes. "I want."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She nods. Swallows. "Okay. Good."
"Ms. Newman? Mr. Ridgeway?"
We stand. Follow a nurse to a small office. The doctor's young. Professional. She hands us an envelope. Sealed. Official.
"Your results," she says. "If you have questions, I'm happy to discuss."
Cecie takes the envelope. Stares at it. Her hands tremble.
The doctor leaves. Cecie and I sit. The envelope between us like a verdict.
"Do you want me to open it?" I ask softly.
Her hand hovers above the paper. Frozen. Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Scared.
"I don't know," she whispers. "What if. What if it changes everything?"
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do. Because no matter what it says, I'm not leaving. I'm Orry's dad. Biology or not."
Her breath hitches. "Gunther—"
"Open it, Cecie."
Her hand shakes. She picks up the envelope. Slides her finger under the seal. The paper tears. She pulls out the results. Reads.Her face goes pale. Then pink. Then something I can't name.She looks at me.
"99.9%," she says.
The world stops.
"He's yours," she whispers. "Gunther. He's yours.”