Chapter 11 #2
"Yeah." I touch his arm. Brief. "He's the best thing that ever happened to me too."
We leave the clinic. Step into pale spring sunlight. The world looks. Different. Sharper. Like someone adjusted the contrast.
Gunther is Orry's dad.I have a co-parent. We're doing this.
Morning light slices through my apartment windows like an accusation. I've been awake since five. Made coffee. Remade coffee. Stress-cleaned the kitchen until the tiles gleamed. Reorganized Orry's toy bin by color because apparently I've caught Gunther's neuroses like a cold.
He's due in twenty minutes.
Our first official co-parenting meeting.
The phrase tastes foreign. Clinical. Like something from a custody handbook I never wanted to read.
Orry babbles from his playpen. Stacking blocks. Knocking them down. Rebuilding with the focused intensity of a tiny architect. He's wearing the green overalls with the duck patch. His hair's doing that thing where it sticks up at the crown no matter how much I smooth it.
He looks happy. Unbothered. Blissfully unaware that his entire world just got rewritten.
Lucky kid.
I check my phone. Again. No messages. Gunther said eight-thirty. It's eight-seventeen. He'll be early. He's always early.
Calm down. It's just a conversation. You've had thousands of conversations.
Right. Conversations. About scheduling. And boundaries. And whether two people who barely know each other can build a functional family unit from the wreckage of a one-night stand and fourteen months of mutual ignorance.
Piece of cake.
The knock comes at eight-twenty-four. I open the door.
Gunther stands there holding a messenger bag and two coffees from the cafe three blocks over. The good cafe. The one that uses actual beans and doesn't microwave their milk.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"I brought coffee. I didn't know how you take it so I got. Options." He produces a third cup from the bag. "This one's oat milk. This one's regular. And this is black with sugar on the side in case you wanted to—"
"Gunther."
"Yeah?"
"You brought me three coffees."
He blinks. Looks down. "I panicked."
I laugh. "I made two pots!"
Despite everything. Despite the knot in my stomach and the sleepless night and What Comes Next pressing on my lungs. I laugh.
"Come in."
He steps inside. Sets the coffees on my kitchen counter with the precision of someone defusing ordnance. Shrugs off his jacket. Underneath he's wearing a button-up with tiny whales printed on it. Pocket protector firmly in place.
Ridge would never.
The thought flickers before I can stop it. Ridge with his leather and henna and performative gruffness. The costume Gunther wore because he thought he needed to be someone else to be interesting.
I grab the oat milk coffee. Take a sip. Perfect temperature. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Orry spots Gunther. Squeals. Lifts both arms in the universal toddler demand for up, now, immediately.
Gunther melts.
That's the only word for it. His whole face goes soft. He crosses to the playpen. Scoops Orry up with the careful competence he's developed over weeks of practice.
"Hey, buddy." His voice drops into that gentle register he uses only with Orry. "Did you sleep good? Yeah? Your hair looks like a porcupine."
Orry pats Gunther's cheek. Right over the dimple. Like he's checking it's still there.
My chest does something painful. This is real. This is happening. This man is my son's father.
"We should probably. Talk," I say.
"Right. Yes. Talking." Gunther settles on the couch. Orry in his lap. "I made a document."
"Of course you did."
"It's not weird. It's. Organized." He pulls a tablet from the messenger bag. Swipes. Turns it toward me. "See? Sections. Categories. Color-coded by priority."
I lean in. The screen shows a spreadsheet titled Co-Parenting Framework v3.2.
Version three point two.
"How many drafts did you do?" I ask.
"Seven. But the first four were. Not good. Too formal. Then I overcorrected and got too casual. Version five assumed we'd alternate weeks which seemed extreme for a seven-month-old. Six was close but the font was wrong—"
"Gunther."
"Right. Sorry." He taps a section. "Basic structure.
We split time. I'm flexible on the specifics but I was thinking.
Maybe I take mornings? Before work? I could do breakfast and playtime while you open the shop.
Then you take afternoons and evenings since that's your routine already.
I'd cover weekends. Alternate. Or we could do a rotation if you want more predictability—"
"Breathe."
He stops. Inhales. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just. Slow down."
"I'm nervous."
"I know."
"I don't want to screw this up."
"You won't."
"You can't know that."
"I know you're trying. That counts for a lot."
He looks at me. Something raw in his expression. "Does it?"
"Yeah."
Orry grabs for the tablet. Gunther redirects him with a teething ring from his bag. Because of course he has a teething ring in his bag now. And wipes. And probably a backup onesie and emergency snacks and a laminated list of pediatrician numbers.
He's all in. Completely. Terrifyingly all in.
"Okay," I say. "Show me the schedule."
We go through it. Section by section. He's thorough. Thought of everything. Morning routines. Nap schedules. Meal preferences. Emergency contacts. Backup plans for the backup plans.
"What about holidays?" I ask.
"Tab three."
I swipe. There's a tab labeled Special Occasions & Cultural Milestones. Complete with a sub-section for birthday planning and another for Potential Future Siblings.
My coffee goes down wrong. "Future siblings?"
His face flushes crimson. "That's. That's aspirational. I wasn't. I didn't mean we would. I just meant in case. Hypothetically. If. If someone. Either of us. Had another—"
"Gunther."
"I'm deleting it."
"Don't."
"It's presumptuous."
"It's sweet."
"It's mortifying."
"Little bit of both." I smile. Can't help it. "But we can table that discussion for. Later."
"Much later."
"Decades later."
"Agreed."
Orry yawns. Nestles into Gunther's chest. Tiny fist curling into the whale-print fabric.
"He likes you," I say quietly.
"I like him." Gunther strokes Orry's hair. Gentle. "More than like. I. I love him. Is that. Is it okay to say that? I know I've only known for sure since yesterday but—"
"It's okay."
"Because I do. Love him. He's. He's mine and I love him."
The words land on me. Heavy. True.
"He loves you too," I whisper. "I can tell."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We sit. Orry's breathing evens out. Almost asleep. The morning light shifts. Softer now.
"What about us?" Gunther asks.
"What about us?"
"The. The third rule. From yesterday. Taking things slow. Figuring out if there's. If there's an us beyond Orry."
Heat creeps up my neck. "What about it?"
"I want to try."
"Try what?"
"Dating. Properly. No costumes. No fake names. Just. You and me. Getting to know each other. For real this time."
My pulse kicks. "You want to date me."
"If you're open to it. If. If I haven't completely ruined my chances by being a disaster for the past several weeks—"
"You haven't ruined anything."
"I wore fake tattoos and lied about my name."
"I called myself Sis and ran away before sunrise."
"We're even?"
"We're even."
He smiles. Tentative. Hopeful. "So. Is that a yes?"
"It's a. Maybe. Ask me again after we survive our first week of co-parenting without killing each other."
"That's fair."
"And no grand gestures. No. No spreadsheets for romance or color-coded date itineraries—"
"I would never."
"Gunther."
"Okay I might. But I'll try to restrain myself."
"Good."
Orry snores. Tiny. Piglet-like.
"He's out," Gunther murmurs.
"You have the magic touch."
"Or I'm boring."
"You're soothing. There's a difference."
"I'll take it."
I lean back. Let the quiet settle. It feels. Different. Not comfortable exactly. But. Possible. Like maybe we can actually do this. Build something functional from chaos.
"Public-facing boundaries," I say eventually. "We should figure that out."
"Right. Yes." Gunther shifts carefully. Orry still draped across him. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking Poplar Springs is small. And nosy. And the second people find out you're Orry's dad they're going to have opinions."
"What kind of opinions?"
"The judgy kind. The speculative kind. The oh-how-scandalous kind."
"We didn't do anything scandalous."
"We had a one-night stand that resulted in a baby. That's the literal definition of scandalous."
"Fair point."
"So we need a story. Something simple. Something that doesn't invite a million follow-up questions."
"Like what?"
"Like. We met. We had a brief thing. Life happened. Now we're co-parenting and figuring things out."
"That's the truth."
"Exactly. Just. Vague enough that people can't pick it apart."
"Will they try?"
"Oh they'll definitely try."
"Great."
"Welcome to small-town life."
He groans. Quiet. Defeated. "I hate gossip."
"Everyone hates gossip until it's about someone else."
"That's cynical."
"That's realistic." I nod, fully aware of the gossip about Orry and me.
A key rattles in the lock.
I freeze.
The door swings open.
Colum sweeps in like a theatrical wind. Arms full of poster board. Grin wide enough to split his face.
"Good morning, happy family!" He kicks the door shut. Spots us on the couch. "Oh perfect. You're both here. Saves me a trip."
"Colum." My voice could cut glass. "I didn't invite you in."
"You gave me a spare key for emergencies. Back when you were pregnant and before we knew Gunther was the man. Er, uh, orc?"
"This isn't an emergency."
"Debatable." He dumps the poster board on my kitchen table. Spins. "Poplar Springs Family Weekend. Next Saturday through Sunday. Two days of wholesome community bonding. Local businesses. Kid-friendly activities. The works."
"Okay?"
"And. As your landlord slash friend slash self-appointed PR manager. I'm strongly suggesting. No. Insisting. That Sparkle Beauty participates."
"I can't afford—"