Chapter 15 #2
“He seemed entirely focused on what I need,” I tell her. “And he wants to switch me to another doctor. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea for him to oversee my pregnancy.”
Emma nods. “That’s kind of amazing. And the doctor thing seems very responsible.”
“I know,” I say.
She tilts her head. “And how did that feel?”
I hesitate, burrito hovering halfway to my mouth. “Right,” I say. “Like it made sense. This is how it should be, right?” I roll my eyes, hearing how obnoxious I sound.
Emma leans back in her chair. “Addie.”
“What?”
“You’re smiling.”
I drop my eyes. “We had fun. Normal fun—cooking, talking, sleeping. He doesn’t rush to fill the quiet.”
“Sleeping,” she repeats.
“Yes,” I say. “Sleeping.”
She studies me again. “You’re not panicking.”
“No.”
“You’re not qualifying every sentence.”
I shrug.
She takes another bite. “I still don’t trust how easy this feels.”
“Me neither.”
“And I still don’t fully trust Luc.”
“I know that too.”
Emma wipes her hands on a napkin. “But you do.”
I open my mouth to answer and stop. “I think,” I say slowly, “I trust the way he is with me. He seems different than what I’m used to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look down at my hands, at the curve of my stomach beneath the table. “He seems like the kind of guy I could fall for.” I’m not saying I’m there yet, but it just makes sense. I don’t know how to explain what transpired between us last night, but everything seems different.
Emma doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then she nods. “Okay.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it,” she says. “I don’t need to agree with every part of this to hear you clearly. And he’s your baby daddy. It makes sense that you explore this. It doesn’t mean you have to marry him.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Right?”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Just be careful. You have a lot on your plate right now.”
I smile. “Deal.”
We finish eating, talking about work and errands and nothing that feels heavy. But actually, even the other part didn’t feel so heavy. I’m not trying to convince myself of anything. I just sense it.
By the time I get home, the light has changed. It’s softer now, angled low enough to stretch across the living room floor. I kick off my shoes by the door and carry a canvas out from the spare room, propping it against the wall where I can step back and really see it.
It’s big. Bigger than anything I usually work on, and usually, I paint in watercolor. I’ll paint the wall in acrylics, though—they’re more forgiving—and I want to see it on canvas first. I want space to be wrong before it’s right.
I spread a drop cloth, line up my paints, and stand staring at the blank surface. This isn’t a plan. It’s a test, a way to see what I reach for when no one’s watching.
I start with green—wide strokes, loose and uneven. A floor that doesn’t need to behave yet. As the color fills in, the room starts to take shape in my head. Not furniture. Not rules. Just atmosphere. Quiet. The kind of stillness Goodnight Moon always creates without explaining how.
The phone rings behind me, breaking my rhythm. I wipe my hands on a rag and answer without looking at the screen.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hey,” Ric responds. “Just checking in. You alive?”
“Barely,” I tell him. “But I survived lunch.”
“With Emma,” he says. “That doesn’t sound too taxing. What are you working on now?”
“I actually had some ideas for the nursery, so I’m doing a test canvas. I’m thinking about a Goodnight Moon theme.”
“I think I see another side business for you.”
I laugh. “I’ll stick with what I’m good at.”
“You’re good at everything.”
I smile and turn back toward the canvas, adding another layer of green. “So what’s up?”
“Family dinner next week,” he says. “It’s technically your turn, but I think we should just take you out of the rotation for now.”
I stop mid-stroke. “Oh, hmmm… Really?”
“You don’t sound thrilled.”
“No, it’s not that… I forgot,” I admit. “But you’re right. I’m not sure I have it in me, so it would really help not to have to host for a while.”
“Okay,” he says. “Then we’ll do it at my place.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I got your back,” he says. “Liz and I already talked about it. You can just show up.”
“You’re the best,” I say. “That’s a huge help. I owe you.”
He hums softly on the other end. “You okay otherwise?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
“That’s not an entirely clear answer.”
I glance back at the canvas, at the beginnings of a room that only exists inside my head. “I’ve been spending time with Luc.”
“Okay,” he says. “Is this new, or have you been holding out on me?”
I’m not ready to tell Ric the full story of who Luc is to me. So for now, I ignore his question. “He’s Paradise adjacent—Elise Anderson’s cousin.”
Ric doesn’t respond right away. I can almost see him leaning back, considering. “Okay,” he says finally. “What comes up for you when you say you’re hanging out with him?”
“Nothing bad,” I assure him. “And it actually doesn’t feel that exciting or scary. It’s just…steady.”
“Tell me what steady looks like for you.”
I spread more green across the canvas. “It’s not strange or urgent. It doesn’t feel like I’m chasing anything or bracing for it to fall apart. It feels natural and like it’s progressing at its own pace, slowly. As it should be.”
“And when you imagine taking it slow,” he says, “what does that give you?”
“Room,” I explain. “To stay myself as I figure out what’s coming next in my life.”
There’s a pause on the line. “And what isn’t happening?”
I think for a second. “I’m not disappearing. I’m not rearranging my life to make it fit for someone else. I’m just…in it. And he’s focused on getting me what I say I need.”
“That’s important,” Ric says quietly.
Therapist mode, fully engaged now.
“What happens if this doesn’t work out?” he asks.
I think about it. Not hypothetically. Honestly. “I’d be sad,” I say. “But I wouldn’t be wrecked. And I think my baby will still be well cared for.”
“And what happens if it does?”
The brush lowers slowly. “I get to continue being the person I am,” I say. “Living the life I’ve chosen, just with him in it.”
Ric exhales. “You sound clear.”
“I am.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t warn me off. “Okay,” he says. “Then I trust you.”
My throat swells with unexpected emotion. “Thanks,” I say.
“Finish your painting,” he adds. “I’ll see you next week.”
“See you, and thanks again for taking over hosting.”
When we hang up, I set the phone down and step back to look at the canvas from a wider angle this time. The green floor. The beginning of a window. Space where something gentle will go.
It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t need to be.
Because I’m not painting around uncertainty. I’m painting toward something.