Chapter 13 #2
She studies me for a long beat, eyes sharp beneath the warmth. I can see the calculation. How far to push. When to retreat.
“Well,” she says eventually, smoothing her hands together, “there’s no rush. The offer stands. You think about it.”
Of course.
She reaches for the grocery bag again, pulling out the last loaf of bread and setting it neatly on the counter. Domestic. Settled. Arranged.
“We’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” she adds, like it’s a promise.
I nod. Pushing harder right now could turn this into something I don’t want. But I don’t want her to think she’s getting anywhere. So I lift my eyes to meet hers, holding her gaze. “I appreciate your concern. Truly. But I need space to make my own choices.”
The smile she gives me is kind. Measured. Noncommittal. “Of course, you do.”
I don’t believe her.
After that, she talks about the weather. About how the garden did at the main house. About how the apple trees are finally producing again after all these years. I listen, nodding in the right places, letting her fill the space because interrupting would only make this harder.
But my chest feels tight. Not panicked. Just aware. Like I’ve stepped into a room where the furniture has been rearranged without my permission.
“You know,” she says eventually, almost casually, “when your mother was pregnant, she hated being fussed over.”
I stiffen. “She did?”
“Oh yes. Drove her mad.” Evie smiles at the memory. “She wanted to do everything herself. To prove she could.”
The comparison hangs there, waiting for me to pick it up.
“She learned,” Evie continues gently, “that accepting support didn’t make her weak. It made things easier.”
I keep my gaze on the window. “Easier isn’t always better.”
She considers that, and then hums softly. “Sometimes it is.”
Another pause.
“And I don’t want you getting ideas about needing a man to fix things for you. Especially not someone you barely know. This baby is a Dempsey and our legacy.”
My fingers curl against my palm, nails pressing into skin, grounding me before I say something I can’t take back. This isn’t just about me. It’s about ownership. No longer implied. No longer soft. Fully confirmed.
Heat flares low in my stomach. “Luc isn’t fixing anything.”
Evie raises a brow, surprised. “I didn’t say he was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She sighs, a sound full of fond resignation. “I just don’t want you making choices because you feel cornered. Or because someone else offers something shiny and temporary.”
I turn to face her now. “I’m not cornered.”
She nods. “You’re pregnant. That corners people whether they like it or not.” Then she softens again, reaching out, brushing her fingers against my arm. “I want you to know you don’t have to look to anyone else for stability. You have it here. With us. With me.”
I pull back, not sharply, but deliberately. “I’m not looking for stability. I’m building it.”
Her smile flickers, just for a second. Then it’s back, smooth and reassuring. “I know you are,” she says. “And I’m proud of you.”
I smile, but I won’t let her reel me in again.
Evie gathers her things a few minutes later, kissing my cheek before she goes, promising to check in soon. She leaves behind groceries and a future she’s already outlined.
When the door finally closes, I lean back against it, press a hand to my stomach, and let out a slow breath. I realize being seen isn’t the same as being known. Right now, everyone seems to be reacting to a version of me I never meant to put on display.
Evie’s words replay in my head—safe, taken care of, no need to worry—as if worry is something you can just hand off, like a coat you won’t need anymore.
What she doesn’t understand—or maybe understands too well—is that safety, when it comes too easily, starts to feel like confinement.
I think about Luc again, in just the way I hadn’t planned to.
I’ve never expected him to contribute to the baby’s support.
He doesn’t tell me what I should do or what makes sense.
He doesn’t ask me to explain myself or make everything I say and do mean something.
He just shows up and stays where I ask him to.
I rearrange a little in the kitchen, putting the things Evie brought where I actually want them. I’m finishing up when my phone buzzes.
Luc: How are you feeling today?
Nothing heavy. Nothing loaded. Just a simple check-in, only now I’m primed to overthink things. I hold the phone, feeling the pull of it. The comfort. It would be easy to let him step in and steady the ground.
I turn the phone face down on the counter.
Not because I don’t want him, but because I don’t want to react.
I pick up my pencil instead and begin to draw. The lines are slow, uneven. But the movement steadies my breathing and pulls me back into my body instead of letting my thoughts run ahead of me.
This is how I’ll stay present.
I won’t protect myself by disappearing. I won’t accept every offer that sounds like safety, and I won’t make myself smaller so everyone else can relax.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t have a neat plan the way Evie would prefer. I only know that I’m still here. Still choosing. Even when it’s uncomfortable.
I glance at my phone again, and then back to the page in front of me, letting the lines go where they want.
My phone buzzes.
Luc: Let me know if you need anything.
My eyes linger on the screen. I’m aware of how different his offer feels from the one sitting on my counter in the form of apples and tomato sauce and a future already mapped out for me.
But I’m still not answering either of them.
I need time to understand what saying yes would mean.
Evie’s version folds me back into something established and familiar, and that I already know I don’t want.
Luc’s would mean standing beside him where everyone can see, without guarantees.
How can I possibly know what the future might hold for us?
I rest my hand on my stomach and feel a quiet awareness. No movement yet, just the weight of what’s coming.
Yesterday, deciding to be visible felt like a choice.
Today, people are making assumptions, and it’s already beyond my control. It seems safest to stick to what I know, to manage things the way I have for the last decade. On my own.