Chapter 27 #2
Thai turns out to be the exact right call for how wrecked we are—hot, greasy, comfort-food carbs to soak up the hell out of the week. I carry the sodden takeout bags up to the apartment while Audrey follows behind with her shoes dangling from her fingers, since she took them off in the car.
She’s made her space in my place so thoroughly I can’t remember what it looked like before: her keys on the hook by the door, patent-leather shoes lined up next to my sneakers, sticky notes on my fridge reminding us to buy coffee and take leftovers to work.
Her banana-scented hand lotion on the kitchen counter.
We eat on the couch, legs tangled together, an old episode of Taskmaster plays quietly in the background, the British panelists’ dry banter bleeding across the room as we scarf spring rolls and panang curry.
Afterward, we make our way to the bathroom, balancing a stack of towels and my laptop for the requisite bath playlist. Audrey runs the water, dosing it with something that smells vaguely of lavender as I set up the speakers.
She peels out of her clothes first—no ceremony, unashamed—and I’m hit with a burst of impossible gratitude that I get to do life with a human this beautiful, this unfussy, this alive.
Her hair is a mess, her body covered in faint red lines from her bra and waistband, her smile a crooked little dare as she steps into the tub and stretches out like a queen.
“Are you getting in,” she says, “or do you need a written invitation?”
I pull off my shirt and join her. The water level climbs alarmingly, threatening a full flood event, but neither of us care as I wedge in behind her and she melts instantly, back pressing to my chest, legs draped along mine.
She’s a lot shorter than me, so her toes end at my mid-calf.
But I had this bath built so I could stretch out, so there’s plenty of room for both of us.
“This is nice,” she muses as I fold my arms around her waist and relax my body.
I hum my agreement. This is not something I ever imagined myself doing, but with Audrey it’s as crucial as eating or sleep.
We stay like that for a while. The only sounds are the hush of water and the thump-thump bass from the playlist droning through my bluetooth speaker.
She laces her fingers through mine and rests our joined hands just above her navel.
Eventually, her head tilts up, uttering my name in a voice made for late-night confessions.
“Logan?”
“Hmm?”
“I believe in your edge computing solution, you know.”
I laugh, low. “I can tell. You only pace like that when you feel like we’ve found the answer and you’re running all the simulations you can inside your head.”
“You’re not wrong,” she says, and I can feel her smiling though her cheek is pressed snug against my jaw. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“I know we’re still new and we haven’t really talked much about the future—”
“I want a future with you, Audrey. It’s the only one I want.”
“You have to let me finish.” She twists around to look at me, the angle awkward but worth it for the way her eyes go serious and soft all at once. “If we do this—”
“When,” I interject, causing her to nudge against my chest.
“Oh my god. Listen, I’m being serious,” she says, voice stubborn. “If we decide to have kids someday, I hope they’re just like you. I hope they get your brain. Your kindness. The way you try so fucking hard, even when you think no one’s watching or worth it.”
The words burrow through me, molten and sharp, and for a heartbeat I can’t breathe at all. The thought never occurred to me—that I could be the template for someone, that I could give a child something other than anxiety and awkwardness and the genetic echo of disappointment.
A latent panic rises up inside me, thinking of all the difficulty and trauma that’s shaped my life.
I always swore I’d never pass that on. But being with Audrey, seeing her with her family, knowing her brain works a lot like mine—I wonder, maybe it wouldn’t all be so bad.
Maybe at least one generation of Whitmans could get it right.
“That’s…” I swallow, aware my arms are holding her a little too tightly now.
I don’t know how to reply. My mouth works, but nothing more comes out except a choked laugh, and then she’s laughing with me, water sloshing everywhere, and I bury my face in her hair so she doesn’t see the tears skating down my cheeks.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” I murmur, kissing the top of her head once I can trust my voice again.
“You existed.” She turns fully now, water cascading over the edge of the tub as she straddles my lap, her hands finding my face, thumbs brushing along my jaw. “That’s all you ever had to do.”
I kiss her then—slow, reverent, tasting lavender steam and the salt of my own tears. Her body presses against mine, warm and slippery and perfect, and the kiss deepens into something that feels less like desire and more like a promise.
“Bed,” she whispers against my mouth. “Take me to bed.”
We don’t bother with towels. I lift her out of the tub, both of us dripping across the tile, across the hardwood, leaving a trail of water and laughter all the way to the bedroom.
She pulls me down onto the sheets, still damp, still tangled together, and when I slide inside her, it’s not desperate or frantic.
This is slow. This is deliberate. This is every word I don’t know how to say poured into the way I move with her, the way I hold her gaze, the way I whisper her name like it’s the only prayer I’ve ever believed in.
Afterward, she curls into my chest, her breath evening out into sleep almost immediately. I stay awake a little longer, stroking her hair, watching the city lights paint shadows across the ceiling.
Kids like me. She wants kids like me.
For the first time in my life, that doesn’t sound like a curse.