Chapter Four-Andrea
“Andrea, you know you can stay home longer, as long as you need,” Mom says gently as the car pulls to a stop at the top of the driveway.
Dad’s on the phone, thank God.
Which means he’s not part of this conversation—and that’s a blessing.
The last thing I need is him fussing over me.
Look, I love my parents. I do. But sometimes they can be a lot.
And maybe that’s part of it—growing up in the shadow of their unshakable love story.
Because I’ve spent my entire life wanting what they have.
Even now, all these years later, I still want it.
I want to be a mother. So badly, it’s like this ache under my ribs.
This quiet, constant drumbeat that never goes away.
Some kids dream about being astronauts or presidents or groundbreaking scientists.
Not me.
Sure, I liked school. I’ve built a career I don’t hate. But honestly? Most of that just feels like filler.
Something to do while I wait for the real part of my life to begin.
The part where I build something lasting.
A family. A home. A future.
And no—it’s not some cop-out fantasy, so kindly fuck right off if you think it is.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a parent?
Imagine it from beginning to end.
Planning to bring a whole human being into the world. Growing that life inside your body. Pushing it out into the world through hours of sweat and blood and pain—and then? You get to spend the rest of your life worrying about them more than you worry about yourself.
Every minute. Every day. Forever.
It’s terrifying.
And fucking exhausting.
And it’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.
It might not be trendy or ambitious or worthy of a TED Talk, but it’s mine.
I want that kind of purpose.
That kind of legacy.
I gave up on the idea of finding real love a long time ago.
But I’m not ready to give up on this dream yet. I’ll just have to make it happen another way.
No, damn it, I’m not giving up.
Not yet.
Clementine and Connor are hosting some kind of dinner party tonight.
Supposedly casual.
Supposedly not for any particular reason.
But come on.
If Clemmie’s wearing heels and Connor shaved, someone’s either knocked up or about to be knighted.
My money’s on the former.
Age gaps have got nothing on this family when it comes to procreation.
Like if you’ve got a pulse and a wedding band, you’re probably fertile or in your second trimester.
I exhale and reach for the door handle.
“I know, Mom. But I might kill Julia if I have to share the bathroom with her another night.”
“She’s your sister—”
“She’s a hair-shedding, morning-yoga-at-volume-eleven menace.”
Mom hums in amusement, and I add the final lie with as much conviction as I can fake.
“It’s fine. I talked to the superintendent. He said the exterminator is ninety-nine percent sure the rat issue is under control.”
Lie, lie, filthy lie.
Those rats are thriving.
Probably formed a jazz band.
Maybe even a small government.
Meanwhile, I’ve got a backpack with a weekend’s worth of clean clothes, two burner hoodies, and a hope that one of my cousins will let me crash in one of their guest rooms before I give in and book a Marriott or Hilton or Joe’s Motel for all I care.
“Oh, don’t forget your camera, sweetheart. The girls want you taking pictures of the kids today,” Mom calls from the kitchen, her voice warm and clipped as always, already halfway into her third cup of coffee.
I nod, slinging the familiar black strap over my shoulder as I tighten my hold on the padded case. “Got it.”
Photography is one of those hobbies people start when they’re kids and either grow out of or grow into.
I grew into it. Hard.
What started as a borrowed point-and-shoot in high school turned into something more.
A way of seeing.
A way of making sense of things that didn’t make sense.
The camera gave me an excuse to stand at the edges, to watch quietly.
Frame things. Capture moments no one else was noticing.
The first time I developed film in that little dark room Dad built for me in the garage, I remember standing there, heart pounding, watching the image come to life—grain by grain, line by line, like magic in reverse.
Even now, with digital so much faster and cleaner, I still keep that room.
Still slip in there when I’m staying over and when I need silence.
Somehow the smell of that room, of chemicals and dreams, and that little red bulb all make the world feel more real than it is.
The thing about looking through a lens is it changes everything. And yet, it keeps it all the same.
Frozen in time forever so we can keep coming back to that moment.
You notice things when you’re behind a camera.
Not just light and shadow, but expression. Tension.
The tremble in someone’s fingers.
The glint in their eyes before they laugh.
The story no one else is telling.
Behind the camera, I feel braver. Calmer. More in control.
Out here? Without the lens between me and the world? Things get messy.
Especially now.
Because while I’m snapping pictures of toddlers in superhero capes and toddlers with frosting on their noses, I’ll be doing it with dreams of having a baby of my own someday soon. Of a new life, one I can’t wait to have growing inside me.
I failed, it’s true. But there’s always hope. And maybe someday, right? Isn’t that what folks tell themselves?
Shit. I suck in a breath.
I fight off tears.
At least I have my camera, right?
Behind the lens? I can pretend I’ve got this.
I can find the light, frame the story, and make something beautiful—even if everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
I thank Mom, kiss her cheek, and step out of the car, already regretting the strappy heels I chose.
The Callahan estate is lit up like a goddamn movie set, and the faint sound of laughter and clinking glasses wafts in the breeze.
I climb the steps.
Tell myself I’m ready for polite smiles and uncomfortable questions and probably a handful of babies being thrust into my arms like good luck charms.
But the second I walk through the door and spot him—the air shifts.
What is he doing here?
Remy.
Remy fucking Falco.
My one-night-stand-baby-daddy-that-never-was.
He’s leaning against the wall like a goddamn GQ spread. Arms crossed. Button-down rolled at the sleeves. A glass of something dark sits in his hand.
And, fuck me, he looks good.
Shit. Is he here with someone? Do I even want to know?
Before I can tuck tail and run, he turns his head, and those green eyes lock right on me.
Heat licks up my spine.
My knees—traitors—go a little soft.
He doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t wink.
Doesn’t say a word.
But that look?
Oh, I feel it.
Like it’s a brand against my skin.
Like I’m standing under a spotlight while he devours me with nothing more than his gaze.
Double shit.