Chapter 3 - Ethan
The door clicks shut behind Naomi, and the silence that follows feels deafening. Jackson watches me with an intensity that makes me want to look away, but I force myself to meet his gaze.
"So," he finally says. "That happened."
"Yeah." My voice comes out hoarse. "That happened."
I sink deeper into the armchair, the reality of the situation crashing over me in waves. Four months pregnant. My child. I'm going to be a father.
"You said you'll be there for the kid," Jackson says carefully. "Did you mean that, or was that just something you said in the moment?"
"I meant it." The answer comes automatically, surprising even me with its certainty. "I'm not going to abandon my own kid."
Jackson sighs, moving to sit on the couch.
"Being a father isn't just about not abandoning them, Ethan. It's about being there. Really being there. Consistent. Reliable."
The words sting because they're aimed at my weakest points. Consistency and reliability aren't exactly my defining traits.
"I know that," I snap. "I'm not completely clueless."
"No, you're not clueless," Jackson agrees. "You're just—"
"A screwup?" I finish for him.
"I didn't say that."
Before I can respond, the front door opens, and Vincent appears, looking exhausted but alert. His eyes narrow when he sees us both still up.
"What's going on?" he asks, shutting the door behind him. "I saw someone driving away when I pulled in."
Jackson and I exchange glances.
"That was Naomi," I admit. "She came by to tell me something."
Vincent raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.
"She's pregnant," I say, the words still feeling foreign on my tongue. "Four months. It's mine."
To his credit, Vincent doesn't immediately launch into a lecture. Instead, he removes his jacket, hangs it by the door, and joins us in the living room, taking the second armchair.
"How are you feeling about that?" he asks, his tone surprisingly neutral.
"Terrified," I admit. "But I told her I'll be there for the baby."
Vincent nods slowly. "That's the right first step."
"What were you doing out so late anyway?" Jackson asks him.
"Lucy had a nightmare. Charlotte was up with her, but I went out for some of that special ice cream she likes from the 24-hour place in Millbrook." Vincent shrugs. "It helps."
That simple statement—that mundane detail of fatherhood—hits me with unexpected force. This is what being a parent is: middle-of-the-night ice cream runs and knowing exactly what will comfort your child.
"I don't know how to do any of this," I confess. "How did you do it, Vince? When you suddenly had Lucy to raise?"
Vincent leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"I screwed up a lot at first," he says honestly. "I had no idea what I was doing. Still don't half the time."
"But you make it look so easy."
He lets out a short laugh. "It's not easy. But it's worth it." He pauses, studying my face. "The real question is: what about you and Naomi?"
"What about us?"
"Are you planning to co-parent separately, or is there something more there?"
I stare at my hands. "I don't know. We were never really together-together. Just... seeing each other."
"For how long?" Jackson asks.
"About six months, off and on." I hesitate. "But we ended things a couple months ago."
"Why?" Vincent presses.
"She wanted more. Commitment. A real relationship." I swallow hard. "I wasn't ready for that."
"And now?" Jackson's voice is gentle but insistent.
"Now I don't have a choice, do I?"
Vincent shakes his head.
"You always have a choice, Ethan. Being there for your child doesn't mean you have to force a relationship with Naomi. Sometimes trying to make something work for the wrong reasons just makes things worse."
I find myself thinking about Naomi in a way I've been avoiding for months. Her laugh, the way she always smells like cinnamon, how she knows exactly how I take my coffee. The way she used to look at me—like she saw someone worth believing in.
"Get some sleep," Jackson finally says, standing up. "Nothing's going to get figured out tonight anyway."
"Your brain's probably halfway to fried between the beer and the news," Vincent adds, rising as well. "Just know we're here, whatever you need."
"Thanks," I mumble, still lost in thought.
They head upstairs, leaving me alone in the dimly lit living room. Eventually, I drag myself up to my bedroom, kicking off my boots and collapsing onto my bed without bothering to change.
The ceiling fan spins lazily above me as my mind races. Will I be a good father? The question loops endlessly, without a clear answer.
My own father was present but distant—all work and discipline, little affection. I don't want to be that kind of dad, but I'm not sure I know how to be any other kind.
And then there's Naomi—beautiful, steady Naomi with her bakery, plans, and unwavering certainty about what she wants. Could I be what she needs? Could we be more than just co-parents?
I never seriously considered it before—or rather, I refused to consider it. There was one night, about six months ago, when we were lying in her bed watching some terrible movie. She'd fallen asleep against my chest, her breathing soft and even, and I remember looking down at her and feeling something shift inside me. For just a moment, I could see a future there—waking up to her every morning, building something real.
I pushed the thought away immediately. Commitment wasn't in my plans. Freedom was my only plan.
Now, staring at my ceiling at three in the morning, I wonder if freedom is just another word for being alone. If maybe what I've been running from isn't commitment but the fear of failing at it.
Tomorrow, I'll go to the bakery. I'll talk to Naomi—really talk to her, beyond just discussing diapers and visitation schedules. If she's willing to give me another chance, maybe we could try being something more.
It's a terrifying thought.
Almost as terrifying as becoming a father in five months.
Next Morning
I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing I know, Jackson is indeed pounding on my door at 7:30. Not quite 7, not quite 8—I guess that's his version of mercy.
"Up and at 'em," he calls through the door. "The fence on the north pasture needs fixing."
I groan, my head pounding with the reminder of last night's beers and life-altering news. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if the whole thing with Naomi was just a bizarre dream. But the knot in my stomach tells me otherwise.
"Taking a personal day," I call back, my voice rough with sleep.
There's a pause, then the sound of the doorknob turning. Jackson pokes his head in, surprise evident on his face.
"You're taking a what now?"
"A day," I say, sitting up and wincing at the sunlight streaming through my window. "I'm meeting Naomi at two."
Understanding dawns on his face.
"Right. Good. That's... responsible of you."
The word 'responsible' coming from Jackson's mouth in reference to me sounds so foreign that we both almost laugh.
"Don't get used to it," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it.
"I'll tell Vincent you're handling some personal business," he says, then hesitates. "You want to talk about what you're going to say to her?"
"Not particularly."
He nods, respecting my space for once. "Fair enough. Good luck."
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of shower, coffee, and more coffee. I spend an hour researching pregnancy online, feeling increasingly overwhelmed by terms like "trimesters" and "prenatal vitamins" and "mucus plug" (that last one I immediately try to scrub from my brain).
By 1:50 PM, I'm standing outside Sweet Somethings Bakery, fifteen minutes early and feeling like I might throw up. Through the window, I can see Naomi behind the counter, her dark hair tucked behind her ears as she boxes up pastries for an elderly customer.
She's smiling—that warm, genuine smile that first caught my attention almost a year ago.
The bell above the door chimes as I finally work up the courage to enter. Naomi looks up, and her smile falters slightly before she recovers.
"Ethan," she says. "You're early."
"Yeah, I, uh..." I shove my hands in my pockets. "Thought we could talk when you're free."
She glances at the clock. "Melissa should be here in five to take over the counter. Why don't you grab a seat in the back corner? It's quieter there."
I nod and make my way to the table she indicated, passing display cases filled with cookies, muffins, and elaborate cakes that Naomi decorates herself. The bakery smells like vanilla and cinnamon, comforting and familiar.
True to her word, Naomi joins me five minutes later, bringing two cups of coffee. She sets one in front of me—black with one sugar, exactly how I like it.
"You remembered," I say, oddly touched.
"Of course I did." She slides into the seat across from me. "So..."
"So," I echo, wrapping my hands around the mug. "I want to start by saying I'm sorry about last night. The way I reacted wasn't... it wasn't my best moment."
"You were shocked. I understand that."
I shake my head. "That's no excuse. This affects you way more than it affects me right now, and I made it about myself."
She looks surprised by this admission, and I realize how low her expectations of me must really be.
"I've been thinking all night," I continue, the words I've rehearsed all morning tumbling out. "About the baby, about us, about everything. And I want you to know I'm all in, Naomi. Not just for the baby, but for... for us, if you'll give me another chance."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "What?"
"I know it sounds crazy, maybe even pushy, but I want to try—really try—with you. With us. I want to take you on a proper date. I want to see if we could be a family."
Naomi sets down her coffee cup slowly, her eyes studying my face.
"Ethan," she says carefully, "it's not that I don't want that. I did want that—for months while we were seeing each other."
"I know, and I was an idiot—"
"Let me finish," she says gently. "You sound desperate. Like you're running after something you could have had if you weren't so blinded by every shiny new thing that pops up at the bar."
"That's not—" I start to protest, then stop myself. "Okay, maybe it sounds that way. But this isn't just about the baby."
"Isn't it?" She tilts her head. "Because four days ago, you were at The Rusty Nail with Brianna Mitchell. I saw you two."
I wince. "That was nothing. Just dancing."
"It's always 'just' something with you, Ethan. Just dancing, just drinks, just fun." She sighs. "And now you want me to believe it can be 'just' a committed relationship? 'Just' a family?"
"No," I say firmly. "Not 'just' anything. I want this. For real."
"Why now? Be honest with me."
I stare down at my coffee, searching for the right words.
"Because I've been running from the things that scare me," I finally admit. "And nothing scares me more than failing at this—failing you, failing our baby. But I realized that not trying at all... that's the biggest failure I could make."