Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
AVERY
His pillow smells like him.
This is the first thing I register when I wake up, face buried in Egyptian cotton that probably has a thread count higher than my credit score. Sandalwood and something clean, clinical. The scent of a man who uses actual skincare products instead of whatever bar soap is on sale.
I'm not in his bed. I'm in the guest room, in my bed, but somehow his pillow migrated here three nights ago and I haven't returned it. Haven't even acknowledged taking it. Just wake up each morning breathing him in like some kind of pheromone addict.
Twenty weeks pregnant, living with a man I'm not dating, stealing his pillows like a raccoon hoarding shiny objects.
My therapist would have a field day if I had a therapist. Or insurance that covered therapy.
Or any idea how to process the fact that I've started looking forward to his color-coded meal schedules.
The apartment is quiet, which means Nathan left for his morning run approximately forty-seven minutes ago.
I know his schedule now. Know that he wakes at 5:30, runs for exactly fifty minutes, showers for twelve, and has breakfast prepped by 7:15.
Know that he leaves a protein smoothie in the fridge for me with a Post-it note listing the nutritional content.
Know that last Tuesday's note said "Added extra spinach.
You won't taste it. Trust me." with a small smiley face that looked like it physically pained him to draw.
I haul myself out of bed, one hand on my belly where our daughter is practicing kickboxing. She's been active all night, which means I've slept approximately never. The mirror in the bathroom shows a woman who looks like she's smuggling a cantaloupe and lost a fight with her own hair.
"Morning, bean," I mutter, rubbing the spot where a tiny foot just connected with my kidney. "Could you maybe not use my internal organs as a jungle gym before coffee?"
She kicks again. Noted.
Nathan's office door is open, which is unusual. He keeps it closed with the reverence of a man protecting state secrets, though the only secrets inside are medical journals and an alarming number of sticky notes arranged in patterns that probably mean something to someone with an advanced degree.
I shouldn't snoop.
I absolutely snoop.
His desk is organized chaos—his chaos, anyway, which looks like a museum exhibit compared to my actual chaos. But there's a legal pad near his keyboard that catches my eye. His handwriting, neat and precise.
Baby names.
My throat tightens.
Isabella - Italian, "devoted to God" Sophia - Greek, "wisdom" Charlotte - French, "free woman" Eleanor - "bright, shining one" Rose – Latin, “love, beauty”
He's been researching. Not just names but meanings, origins, the kind of thoughtful consideration that shouldn't surprise me anymore, but it does.
Under each name, he's written small notes.
Isabella - Ave mentioned grandmother was Elizabeth, similar feel?
and Charlotte - freedom theme, might appeal to A.
The "A" gets me. He's thinking about what I would want. Factoring me into his plans like I'm a variable he actually cares about solving for.
Then I see the calendar on his wall.
It's the big one, the monthly overview where he tracks his surgeries and conferences and whatever else important surgeons track. But there, blocked out in green highlighter every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon: Avery's photography time.
Not "baby-related appointment." Not "pregnancy obligation."
Avery's photography time.
Like my work matters. Like I matter, separate from the baby I'm carrying.
The walls start closing in.
This is what I do. Someone gets too close, shows too much care, and my fight-or-flight response kicks in with a strong preference for flight. I've left relationships for less. Left cities for less. Once left a perfectly good apartment because my landlord started asking how my day was going.
I grab my laptop and start searching for apartments before I can talk myself out of it.
By the time Nathan returns from his run, sweaty and unfairly attractive in running shorts, I've found three options in my price range.
One allows cats—I don't have a cat, but options are good.
Another overlooks a parking lot. The third is above a bar, which feels appropriately on-brand for my life choices.
"You're up early," he says, not quite looking at me as he heads for the shower.
"Couldn't sleep. Bean's training for the Olympics in there."
"The baby's movement patterns are—"
"If you say 'completely normal,' I'm throwing this laptop at you."
He almost smiles. "I was going to say impressive."
The gender reveal party is Mia's fault.
I didn't want a party. Nathan didn't want a party. But Mia decided we needed "a moment of joy to celebrate this blessing," and arguing with Mia is like arguing with a very well-dressed hurricane.
So now our apartment—his apartment, I need to remember that—is full of pink and blue balloons, a cake that cost more than my first camera, and approximately seventeen people I barely know.
Nathan's colleagues from the hospital. A few of my photography contacts who made the trip from prior gigs.
Mia and Dimitri, of course, circulating like the professional socializers they are.
Nathan and I haven't spoken about anything real since this morning. We orbit each other with careful distance, smiling for guests, performing the role of happy co-parents.
"You two are terrible at this," Dimitri says, appearing at my elbow with a glass of sparkling cider. "The fake happiness thing. Very unconvincing."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You've been staring at the exit for twenty minutes."
"I'm admiring the architecture."
"It's a door."
"A very nice door."
Dimitri sighs. He's known Nathan since college, which means he's probably seen this particular brand of emotional constipation before. "Whatever's going on with you two, figure it out. He's been reorganizing the cheese plate for the last hour. That's his stress tell."
I glance across the room. Nathan is, in fact, rearranging cubes of cheddar into what appears to be a grid pattern. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense beneath his button-down. He looks up, catches me watching. His gaze holds mine a beat too long. We both look away.
"See?" Dimitri says. "Terrible."
Mia swoops in before I can respond, all bright energy and aggressive optimism. "It's time! Everyone gather around!"
The cake sits on the dining table like a pastel bomb waiting to detonate.
Pink and blue frosting swirled together, neutral and noncommittal.
Inside, supposedly, is the answer to whether we're having a son or daughter. We already know we’re having a daughter, but Dr. Hoffman's office sent the results directly to the bakery because apparently that's a service that exists. Besides, we’re only doing the gender reveal for the guests.
Nathan materializes beside me. His hand brushes mine as we pick up the cake knife together, and I feel the contact everywhere.
"Ready?" he asks quietly.
"No."
"Me neither."
We cut the cake.
Pink. Bright, unmistakable, aggressively pink crumbs spilling onto the white tablecloth.
A girl. We're having a girl.
The room erupts in cheers and applause, but I barely hear it. All I can see is Nathan's face—the way his eyes go glassy, the way his hand finds mine and squeezes hard enough to bruise.
"Isabella," we say at the same time.
Then we're staring at each other, because how did we both know? How did we both land on the same name without ever discussing it?
"You saw my list," he says.
"I saw your list. But I'd already—" I stop. Swallow. "I'd already been thinking about it. My grandmother was Elizabeth."
"I know."
Of course he knows. He pays attention. He always pays attention.
Standing here with pink cake crumbs on our fingers, a name already chosen, a future already taking shape. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't what I planned.
And that's exactly what terrifies me.
The party winds down. Guests trickle out with congratulations and gift bags, leaving behind a disaster zone of plates and cups and deflating balloons. Mia and Dimitri are the last to go, Mia hugging me tight enough to restrict breathing.
"Call me tomorrow," she whispers. "We need to talk about whatever's going on with you."
"Nothing's going on."
"Avery."
"Fine. Something's going on. But I don't know what it is yet."
She pulls back, studies my face. "Just be smart about this, okay?"
"I'm always smart."
"You live in a van specifically designed for fleeing. That's not smart, that's a getaway vehicle."
Fair point.
After they leave, Nathan and I clean in silence. He washes dishes; I collect trash. We move around each other like dancers who know the choreography but can't hear the music. The tension builds. Every accidental touch makes it worse.
"I found an apartment."
The words fall out of me while he's elbow-deep in soapy water. He goes still.
"What?"
"An apartment. For me. There's a place above a bar in Spenard, and I think—"
"You're leaving."
"I'm not leaving. I'm just... relocating. Establishing my own space. It's healthy to have boundaries—"
"Don't." He turns, hands dripping onto the floor. "Don't give me a therapy speech about boundaries. That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"It's you running. Again. Like you always do."
The accusation lands like a slap. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He steps closer, and I step back, bumping against the counter. "Something real happens between us, and you pull away. Every single time. You find an exit before I even know we're in trouble."
"We're not getting somewhere. We're co-parents. That's the arrangement."
"Is it?"
He's too close now. I can smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, feel the heat radiating off his body. My back is pressed against the granite counter and he's right there, hands braced on either side of me, caging me in.
"Nathan—"
"Tell me you don't feel this." His voice is rough, barely controlled. "Tell me you don't lie awake thinking about me the way I think about you. Tell me, and I'll back off."
I should tell him. Should lie through my teeth and protect us both from whatever disaster is building between us.
"I can't."
His expression cracks open—want and hurt and something that looks like surrender.
His mouth crashes into mine, desperate and demanding, nothing like the careful control he maintains in every other aspect of his life.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
He lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing, stepping between my thighs, and I wrap my legs around him.
"Don't leave," he murmurs against my throat. "Stay. Please stay."
His hands slide under my shirt, up my sides, reverent and hungry at once. My fingers find the buttons of his shirt. This is a terrible idea. This will ruin everything.
His mouth finds mine again and I stop thinking.
We don't make it to the bedroom. The kitchen counter wins. His shirt on the floor. My hands in his hair. He's gentle. I'm desperate. We meet somewhere in the middle.
After, we're both breathing hard. He's pressed against me, forehead to forehead, and for one perfect moment everything feels exactly right.
Then he speaks.
"I'm falling in love with you," he says. "I've been falling for months."
The words land like a verdict.
"That's the problem." I push against his chest, needing space. "Nathan, this was a mistake."
"Don't say that."
"It's true. We can't—I can't—" I'm scrambling for my clothes, heart pounding. "This changes everything."
"Maybe it should."
"I don't want it to!" The words come out louder than intended. "I don't want to fall in love with you and move into your perfect apartment and become some domestic version of myself I don't recognize. I don't want to need you. I've spent my whole life making sure I don't need anyone."
He watches me with an expression that's half devastated, half understanding. The understanding is worse than anger would be.
"So, what now?"
"I need space. Time to think." I grab my phone, my keys. "I'm going to stay in my van tonight."
"Avery—"
"I'll call you tomorrow. I promise. But I can't be here right now. I can't think when you're looking at me like that."
I make it to the door before he speaks again.
"For what it's worth, I didn't plan this either. You weren't in my five-year plan, and neither was Isabella. But some things—" He stops, clears his throat. "Some things are better unplanned."
I leave before I can change my mind.
My van feels personal and exactly what I need. I sit on the bed in the dark, hand on my belly.
Isabella kicks. Hard.
"I know," I whisper. "I'm a mess. Your mom's a mess."
Another kick. Like she's agreeing. Or arguing. With this kid, probably both.
I run because that's what I do.
But Isabella keeps kicking. All night, she keeps kicking. Like she's got opinions about my choices.
Yeah, kid. Me too.