Chapter 25 - Bailey
Bailey
By the time Gretchen finds me in the kitchen at six, I've written and deleted three different speeches in my head.
"You okay?" She starts the coffee maker—for her, not me. I get herbal tea now.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
"You're meeting him. Hearing what he has to say."
"What if it's all just words?" My hand finds my stomach automatically. "What if he hasn't actually changed?"
Gretchen sets a mug of tea in front of me. "Then you'll know. But Bay? You deserve to hear him out. Not for him—for you."
"What do I even say?"
"The truth. That's all you can do."
***
I change outfits three times.
The jeans that still button—barely. A loose sweater that hides the bump. My hair down, then up, then down again because I can't decide which makes me look more put together.
"You look beautiful," Gretchen says from the doorway.
"I look exhausted."
"You look like someone who's surviving something hard. That's beautiful."
I arrive at Luna's an hour early because I can't stand waiting at the apartment anymore.
Sit in my car, hands gripping the steering wheel. Almost drive away twice.
My phone buzzes. Gretchen: You've got this. I love you.
I get out of the car before I can change my mind.
***
Maya is behind the counter when I walk in.
"Hey! You're not working today." Then she sees my face. "You okay?"
"Meeting someone. It's complicated."
Understanding crosses her expression. "The guy?"
"Yeah."
"Want me to hover nearby? Signal if you need an exit?"
The offer makes my throat tight. "I think I'm okay. But thank you."
I take a corner table. Order chamomile tea I won't drink. Watch the door like it might open and swallow me whole.
Two o'clock arrives with agonizing slowness.
Then, exactly on time, he walks in.
Daniel.
My breath catches.
He looks different. Thinner—his suit hangs looser on his frame. Dark circles under his eyes like he hasn't slept properly in months. The perfect, controlled expression I remember is gone, replaced by something raw and uncertain.
He sees me. Stops. And something in his face breaks open.
Vulnerability. Fear. Hope.
All the things he used to hide.
He walks over slowly, like I might bolt if he moves too fast.
"Can I sit?" His voice is rough.
I nod.
He sits across from me. The small table feels enormous and too small at the same time.
Silence stretches between us, loaded with three months of absence and everything that broke us.
He opens his mouth to speak.
I hold up my hand. "Let me go first."
He closes his mouth. Nods.
All my rehearsed speeches vanish. I'm left with just the raw truth.
"You hurt me." My voice shakes. "Really, really hurt me."
"I know." The words sound like they're being pulled from somewhere deep. "I know."
"I don't think you do." I lean forward. "I couldn't eat for weeks. Couldn't sleep. Cried myself sick. Every morning I woke up and remembered all over again."
His hands clench on the table, knuckles white.
"It was humiliating." The words come faster now. "Going from lead designer to serving coffee. Having people from Williams come in and pity me. Counting my tips to see if I could afford groceries."
"Bailey—"
"I'm not finished." My voice hardens. "I was trying to tell you I was pregnant that night. You wouldn't let me finish. You just... cut me off. Called me a liability and pushed me out of your life like I was nothing."
He flinches at the word. Good.
"I spent two years with Derek thinking I wasn't enough. Or that I was too much, too needy, too emotional. Then I thought maybe with you..." My voice breaks. "But you proved him right. You proved I was exactly what he said I was."
"That's not—" He stops himself. Takes a breath. "You're right. I made it seem like that. But he was wrong. You weren't too much. Not at all. I was too broken to see what I had."
"Pretty words."
"True words."
We stare at each other across the table.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I know that's not enough. I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm so, so sorry."
The apology sits between us. I want to throw it back at him. Tell him sorry means nothing.
But I asked him here. I need to know if he's actually changed.
"Why should I believe you've changed?" The question I've been carrying for weeks. "You're good at words, Daniel. You made me believe a lot of things before."
He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. Opens something and hands it to me.
"What’s this?"
"My trust journal. My therapist gave me an assignment. Every time I feel the urge to control something out of fear, I choose trust instead. And I write it down."
I look at the screen. Notes app. Entries dating back weeks.
I scroll through, reading.
Week 6, Day 3: Lottie made a mistake on the Larsson contract. Wanted to take over and fix it myself. Didn't. Trusted her to handle it. She did.
Week 7, Day 5: Board questioned my decision on the Whitmore acquisition. Felt panic rising—wanted to shut down the conversation. Told them the truth about my doubts instead. They helped me find a better solution.
Week 9, Day 5: Saw Bailey's Instagram story (Gretchen tagged her). Wanted to comment. Wanted to like it. Wanted to show her I'm still here. Didn't. Trusting she'll reach out when ready.
Week 10, Day 2: Therapy today. Told Dr. Chen about my mom. About watching my dad destroy her. Actually cried. Trusted her with the ugly parts.
The entries go on and on. Small things. Big things. All dated. All detailed.
"This is real?" I look up at him. "You've been doing this for months?"
"Twice a week. Therapy. It's..." He runs a hand through his hair. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done. But I needed to do it."
"What does your therapist say about us?"
"That I need to become someone worthy of trust before I ask for it back."
I set his phone down. Study his face, looking for the lie.
Don't find one.
"What do you need from me?" His voice is careful. "Regarding the baby. Whatever you're comfortable with—I'll respect it."
The question surprises me. Not what do I want from us, but what do you need.
"I don't know yet," I admit. "I've been so focused on surviving, I haven't thought past... just getting through each day."
"Can I help? Financially, I mean. You shouldn't be working at a coffee shop while pregnant with my child."
"That feels like buying forgiveness."
"It's not. It's making sure you and the baby are taken care of. That's separate from us."
I consider this. "Doctor appointments. You can come to those. If you want."
"I want to." The relief in his voice is palpable. "When's the next one?"
"Two weeks."
"I'll be there."
We sit in silence for a moment. The question I've been avoiding rises up, demanding to be asked.
"How do I know you won't do this again?" My voice breaks. "The second things get hard, the second you get scared—how do I know you won't destroy me again?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Doesn't rush to reassure me.
Finally: "You don't. I don't know either. All I can do is show you every day that I'm doing the work."
"That's not very reassuring."
"It's honest."
And honesty, right now, means more than promises.
"I can't go through that again," I say quietly. "I won't survive it."
"You shouldn't have had to survive it the first time." He leans forward. "Bailey, I broke your trust. I destroyed what we had. You don't owe me forgiveness. You don't owe me another chance."
"Then what are we doing here?"
"I'm asking—not demanding, asking—for the chance to earn your trust back. Not today. Not next week. However long it takes."
"What if it takes forever?"
"Then I spend forever trying." His voice is steady. "Because you're worth it. And I finally figured that out."
I study his face. The dark circles. The exhaustion. The absolute lack of armor.
This isn't the Daniel who destroyed me. But is it the Daniel I fell in love with?
Or is it someone new?
"I'm not saying I forgive you." I need him to understand this. "I don't. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"I understand."
"But I'm not saying no to trying. Slowly."
His relief is visible, but he doesn't let himself celebrate. "What does slowly look like?"
"Coffee. Once a week. We talk about the baby. About us. See where it goes."
"I can do that."
"And you keep going to therapy."
"I was planning to regardless."
I nod. Process this. "I'm almost nineteen weeks now. The twenty-week anatomy scan is in two weeks. Friday at 2 PM. That's the big one—where they check everything. I'll text you the details."
"Thank you."
We stand. The awkwardness returns—what do we do now? Hug? Shake hands? Pretend the last three months didn't happen?
I settle for a small, sad smile. "Same time next week?"
"I'll be here."
I walk toward the door. His voice stops me.
"Bailey?"
I turn.
"You look beautiful. The pregnancy—it suits you."
The compliment lands differently than it would have months ago. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just... true.
"Thank you."
I walk out into the afternoon sun. Touch my stomach as I cross the street to my car.
"Okay, baby," I whisper. "We're trying. I don't know if this will work. But we're trying."
The fear is still there. The hurt hasn't disappeared.
But underneath it, something else.
Hope.
Fragile and tentative and terrifying.
But hope nonetheless.
I drive back to Gretchen's apartment, and for the first time in three months, I don't cry.