Chapter 23 Bailey
Bailey
My hand shoots out automatically, silencing it before the second beep. Shower. Uniform. Anti-nausea crackers that barely help. The routine is so ingrained now I could do it in my sleep.
Maybe I am doing it in my sleep. The days blur together.
I catch my reflection in Gretchen's bathroom mirror. Dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Hair pulled back in the same ponytail I've worn for three weeks straight. My jeans barely button—I'll need to size up soon, but that requires money I don't have.
Thirteen weeks pregnant. Twenty-seven days working at Luna's Coffee. Four weeks since Daniel ended what we had.
The numbers are how I measure time now.
I throw up twice before my shift starts.
"You okay?" Gretchen calls through the bathroom door.
"Fine," I lie.
I'm not fine. But I'm surviving. And sometimes that's the same thing.
***
The morning rush at Luna's is brutal as always.
"Tall latte, two pumps vanilla!"
"Grande americano, extra shot!"
"Medium cappuccino—wait, you call it grande here?"
I move through the motions automatically. Steam wand hissing. Register beeping. The same dozen drinks in endless rotation.
Maya covers the register while I make drinks. She's gotten good at reading when I need a bathroom break, stepping in seamlessly when I bolt for the back.
"You okay?" she asks when I return, pale and shaking.
"I'm fine."
"You're really not." She hands me a water bottle. "Ross says take fifteen instead of ten."
"I don't need—"
"Yes you do. Go sit."
I sink into the chair in the back room, sipping water, hand pressed against my stomach. The slight curve is impossible to ignore now. Soon I'll have to tell Ross. Get maternity clothes. Figure out what happens when I can't do this anymore.
One problem at a time.
A regular customer who comes in every morning at 8:15 leaves a twenty-dollar tip with a note: Hang in there, sweetheart.
I stare at the bill, throat tight. Strangers are kinder than the man who said he cared about me.
By the end of my shift, I've made $43.28 in tips. A good day.
I check my bank account on the subway ride back: $1,847.32.
Rent was due. I'm bleeding money.
But I'm still standing.
***
My phone has been quiet for three weeks.
No calls from Daniel. No texts. No flowers. No letters slipped under Gretchen's door.
After weeks of relentless harassment, suddenly... nothing.
At first, the silence was relief. Space to breathe. Permission to survive without his voice in my ear begging for forgiveness he didn't deserve.
Now it's something else. Something that makes me check my phone compulsively even though I tell myself I don't care.
I scroll through my messages. The last one from Daniel is three weeks old: Please. Just talk to me.
I blocked his number after that. Set up email filters to automatically delete anything from his address. Made Gretchen promise not to give him information about me.
And he stopped trying.
Which is what I wanted.
So why does it feel like abandonment?
"You keep checking your phone," Gretchen says from the kitchen.
I set it down quickly. "No, I'm not."
"You've looked at it six times in the last ten minutes."
"I'm just—"
"Checking to see if he's contacted you. You blocked him, Bay."
"I'm not checking for him."
She gives me a look. The one that says I know you better than that.
"Okay, fine." I throw my hands up. "It's weird. He was relentless for weeks and now nothing. It's weird, right?"
"Maybe he finally got the message."
"Or maybe he stopped caring."
Gretchen sits across from me. "Does it matter which?"
Yes. No. I don't know.
"You told him to leave you alone," she says gently. "He's leaving you alone. That's what you wanted."
"I know."
"So why do you look so upset?"
I don't have an answer.
***
Trevor shows up at Luna's during my afternoon shift, carrying a sandwich from the deli down the block.
Ross gives me a questioning look when I ask for my break early. "Family," I explain, and he nods.
I grab my coat and Trevor and I head outside. We sit at one of the small tables on the sidewalk—the ones that are always empty this time of day because it's too cold for most people.
"You're too skinny," Trevor says, pushing the sandwich toward me. "Eat."
"I'm pregnant, not dying."
"You look exhausted. Are you sleeping?"
"Define sleeping."
He watches while I pick at the sandwich. I manage three bites before nausea wins.
"Bay." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep going like this."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're running yourself into the ground."
"What choice do I have? I need this job. I need the money. The baby—"
"I know." He covers my hand with his. "I know. I'm just worried about you."
We sit in silence for a moment, cars passing on the street, the sound of the espresso machine drifting through Luna's window. The question burns in my throat. I shouldn't ask. Shouldn't care.
"Have you..." I try to sound casual. "Have you heard from him?"
Trevor studies my face. "Daniel?"
"I'm just curious. He was so desperate to talk and now... nothing."
"He's respecting your space. Like you asked."
Something in my chest tightens. "So you have talked to him."
"A few times. Nothing deep. Just checking in."
"And?"
Trevor hesitates. "He's still going to therapy. Twice a week. Has been for almost a month now."
The information sits. A month of therapy. Twice a week. That's not performative. That's actual work.
"Do you think..." I stop. Start again. "Is he actually changing?"
"I don't know." Trevor's voice is honest. "I hope so. But that's not for me to decide."
"It's for me to decide."
"Only if you want to." He squeezes my hand. "You don't owe him anything, Bay. Not your time, not your forgiveness, not a second chance. Nothing."
I nod, but the words sit heavy in my stomach.
Therapy. Real therapy. For a month.
What does that mean?
***
That evening, I'm alone in Gretchen's apartment.
She's out with friends—trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy despite her couch being permanently occupied by her pregnant, heartbroken friend.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Lift my shirt. Look at my stomach.
The curve is undeniable now. Thirteen weeks. Second trimester approaching. Soon I won't be able to hide it.
I place my hand over the bump. Feel the warmth of my own skin.
"Hi," I say softly. "It's me. Your mom."
The word sounds foreign. Mom. I'm going to be someone's mom.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I continue. "I'm scared. But I'm going to figure it out. I promise."
My reflection stares back. Exhausted. Scared. But not broken.
"Your dad is complicated." The words catch. "He hurt me really badly. But I think... I think maybe he's trying to change."
Is he? Or am I fooling myself because I want it to be true?
"What do I tell you about him someday?" Tears slide down my cheeks. "That he loved me but was too broken to stay? Or do I tell you he came back? That he did the work?"
The question I can't answer: do I want him to come back?
I lower my shirt. Wipe my face. Walk back to the living room.
My phone sits on the coffee table. Dark. Silent.
Three weeks of silence.
That has to mean something.
***
I'm walking home from the subway two days later when I pass a small park.
My feet ache. My back aches. Everything aches.
I'm about to keep walking when I see them.
An older couple on a bench. She's wearing a headscarf—the kind cancer patients wear. Frail and thin. He's holding her hand, talking softly, and the tenderness in his expression makes my chest ache.
I stop. Watch from a distance.
The way he looks at her—like she's everything. The way she leans into him—like she trusts him completely despite whatever they're going through.
Love that survived hard things.
Is that possible? Can people hurt each other and still make it back?
The man says something that makes her laugh. The sound is bright and unexpected. He smiles like making her laugh is the best thing he's done all day.
They've been through something terrible—I can see it in her frailty, in the careful way he helps her stand. But they're still here. Still together.
Is that what love looks like? Fighting through the hard things?
Or is that different? They probably didn't destroy each other the way Daniel destroyed me.
I walk away, but the image stays with me.
***
"I saw a couple today," I tell Gretchen that night. "In the park. She was going through chemo, I think. And he was just... there. Holding her hand like it was the most important thing in the world."
Gretchen sets down her wine glass. "Yeah?"
"I keep thinking about them. About how they'd obviously been through something awful together. But they were still there."
"Bay." Her voice is gentle. "What's really going on?"
"I don't know." I pull my knees to my chest. "Trevor said Daniel's still in therapy. Twice a week. For almost a month."
"I know."
"You knew?"
"Trevor mentioned it."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you didn't ask." She moves to sit beside me. "What do you want, Bay? Not what you think you should want. What do YOU want?"
"I want to know if he's actually changed." The words tumble out. "I want proof, not promises. I want to know if this is real or if he's just going through the motions."
"And if he has changed?"
"I don't know." My voice breaks. "Does that make me weak? That I even care?"
"It makes you human." Gretchen takes my hand. "You can hate what he did and still love who he was. Both things can be true."
"I should just move on. Raise this baby alone. Forget him."
"Should is a useless word. What does your gut say?"
I close my eyes. Listen to the answer I've been avoiding.
"My gut says I need to know. One way or the other. I need to see if he's actually changed."
"Then maybe you need to find out."
"How?"
"That's up to you. But sitting here wondering isn't helping either of you."
***
Late that night, I lie on Gretchen's couch, hand on my stomach, thinking.
Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of Daniel respecting my space. After weeks of harassment, he finally listened.
That means something, doesn't it?
Or does it mean he gave up?
Trevor says he's in therapy. Real therapy. Twice a week for a month.
That's not nothing.
But is it enough?
The only way to know is to... what? Reach out? See him? Ask for proof?
I'm not ready for that. Not yet.
But maybe someday.
Something flutters in my stomach. So light I almost miss it.
I hold my breath. Wait.
There it is again. A flutter. A whisper of movement.
The baby.
My hand presses harder against my stomach. "Did you just...?"
Another flutter.
Tears stream down my face. "Okay. Okay, I hear you."
The baby is real. Growing. Becoming a person who will need answers someday about why their parents aren't together.
And I need answers too.
Not today. Maybe not next week. But someday soon, I need to stop wondering and find out.
I need to know if Daniel Williams is capable of real change.
Or if I'm fooling myself to even hope he is.
The door isn't open. But it's not locked anymore either.
And that's something.