Chapter 18
Eighteen
Luc
Addison and I have found a decent rhythm over the last week.
I pick up dinner on my way home from clinic, and I stay the night.
Today, I’ve taken the day off to spend with her.
The house is quiet. Addison’s in the shower getting ready for her OB appointment, and I’m left with nothing to do.
The sound of water carries down the hall, and I stand at the counter.
I decide to sneak in a call to my mother, even though it’s still early, as it’s two hours later in Regina.
Mom answers on the third ring. “Lucas,” she says, like she’s been expecting me. “You’re alive.”
“I call every week.”
“Yes, but you don’t always answer your texts.”
“That’s because you send seventeen in a row.”
She laughs, pleased with herself. I can picture her at her kitchen table, glasses low on her nose, one of the dogs at her feet and the other two orbiting.
“How are the dogs?” I ask.
“Exhausted,” she says. “Your father insisted on bringing them to the store again yesterday, so they greeted everyone and acted like we never pay them any attention.”
“That’s sounds about right.”
“Trust me,” she replies. “Retirement is wasted on people who don’t reinvent themselves.”
I smile, and since she can’t see me, I also roll my eyes. “How’s business?”
“Steady. The contractors like that we’re open before seven. And Mrs. Dombrowski comes in every Tuesday just to talk.” She pauses. “It’s the best decision we could have made.”
“Taking over the hardware store or retirement?”
“Both,” she says. “After teaching for more than a quarter of a century, we weren’t meant to sit still. And the dogs are happier when they’re with us.”
I lean back, listening to her voice. There’s comfort in it. Predictable terrain.
“And you?” she asks. “Still settling in?”
I glance down the hallway. Addison’s door remains closed.
“The clinic’s good,” I say. “Busy.”
“And have you heard from Mitch?”
“No. I see Elise now and then, though.”
“When is Mitch due back?”
“They plan on being here for Christmas.”
“Have you started looking at where you want to live?”
“Probably next month. I’m going to find something before he gets back so he and his lady friend don’t have to worry about me,” I assure her.
She hums. “You don’t usually like leaving decisions open.”
“Well, I’m adjusting to a new place. For now, I like having options.”
“Options are just delayed commitments,” she says mildly.
I stare at the blank wall across from me. One of Addison’s canvases is propped against it. Unlike the nature art she sells, this seems abstract, in deep blues and ochre. It looks unfinished and intentional at the same time.
“I can’t decide if I want to be farther from town,” I say, surprising myself by saying it at all. “Somewhere quieter. Or if it’s better to be closer to the clinic.”
“Which feels more like your life?” she asks.
That’s a good question. Closer to the clinic makes sense. It’s efficient and practical. But farther out means space, privacy, a different rhythm.
Neither option includes the fact that I spend most nights here or that I don’t know where Addison plans to live after the baby’s born.
“I haven’t decided,” I say finally.
“Interesting. You usually decide quickly,” Mom points out again.
“Not this time.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asks.
My instinct is to say no. Instead, I hesitate long enough that she hears it.
“Lucas.”
I look down the hallway again. Addison’s door is still closed, but I can hear movement now. The faint scrape of a hanger. The quiet exhale she makes when she’s concentrating.
There are a dozen ways I could say this, but the words gather and then stall.
It isn’t secrecy. It’s timing. I don’t want to tell her and Dad over the phone. I should invite them out, or we can go and tell them in person. But I want to know what Addison and I are and what we’ve decided about being parents together before I introduce this to my parents.
“It’s just busy,” I say instead. “New place. New routine. I want to get this right.”
“You’ve always been careful,” she says, making her peace with this.
Before I can respond, the bedroom door opens. Addison steps into the hallway, smoothing her dress. It’s dark green, simple, cut in a way that looks effortless but probably isn’t. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders. She catches my eye and gives me a small, almost self-conscious smile.
“I have to go,” I say.
“That quickly?” my mother asks.
“We have a meeting.”
“We?”
I can’t ignore it this time. “Yes, we.”
Another pause. “Well,” she says finally, “don’t keep her waiting.”
“I won’t.”
“And Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
“Options aren’t always safer. Sometimes, they’re just lonelier.”
I consider that a moment. “I’ll call next week,” I tell her.
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up and set my phone down.
Addison steps closer, searching my face. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I reach for her jacket and hold it out for her. “I was just checking in with my mom. Ready?”
She nods.
As she slips her arms into the sleeves, I think about Regina. About hardware stores and dogs and retirement that isn’t really retirement. About Mitch and Christmas and houses I haven’t looked for.
None of my options makes sense without determining whether Addison is going to be part of them. We’ve recovered from the last misstep, so we need to find a way to start talking about that.
“Let’s go,” I say, ushering her toward the door.
As we drive over to her doctor’s appointment, I tell Addison about my conversation with my mom, clarifying that she doesn’t yet know we’re having a baby together. “She’d love to show you where I grew up some time, though, and you don’t have to worry. I don’t want to move there.”
Addison feigns a smile and looks out the window. “I don’t know if I’m ready to meet your parents. Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” It makes perfect sense, but I still feel a little disappointed.
Dr. Carroll’s office is in the hospital. After we check in, we’re shown to an exam room, and Addison is instructed to change into a gown.
After she’s done so, she sits on the exam table, legs dangling, hands folded loosely in her lap. She looks calm. Not performative calm. Real calm, like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
I take the chair beside her and try to feel that way too. But my mind keeps racing toward all the decisions still ahead of us and all the boundaries we’re still negotiating.
Dr. Carroll comes in with her tablet and greets Addison first. Then she turns to me. “Nice to put a face with the voice,” she says.
I nod. “Thank you for taking us on.”
She smiles. “Of course. I understand.”
She has Addison lie back as she takes measurements, and then she rolls over a small ultrasound machine. “Twenty-four weeks,” Dr. Carroll says, tapping the screen. “Five months. You’re right on track.”
From there, she moves through the checks one at a time. Tape measure. Pressure cuff. A pause while she reads the screen. Another pause while she adjusts something I can’t see.
She says a series of numbers out loud. Then repeats them before writing them down. The room stays quiet except for the soft click of keys and the faint whir of the machine.
When the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, it feels less like a sound and more like something pressing outward, something I can feel. It shocks me. I’ve heard plenty before, but never one that I made.
Addison keeps her eyes on the screen while Dr. Carroll talks, tracking the image like it might move if she looks away. “That’s the growth curve?” she asks.
Dr. Carroll nods and explains, gesturing as she speaks. Addison doesn’t react right away. She waits until she’s processed through the explanation.
“Okay,” she says. “And after this?”
Dr. Carroll taps the screen and turns it toward Addison. “This next part of your pregnancy can feel more intense,” she says. “More check-ins. More information. But most of it is routine.” She shrugs lightly. “You’ll notice more movement. Some new aches. All normal.”
“And if something doesn’t feel normal?” Addison says.
“You call,” Dr. Carroll says. “That’s what we’re here for. But everything looks exactly the way I’d want it to at this point.”
I shift back in the chair, a full breath finally moving all the way out.
“This is the point where things may start to feel more real,” she says, looking at both of us. “Not that they weren’t before.”
Addison smiles at that.
Dr. Carroll finishes typing and glances up at me. “And you,” she says. “You’re a doctor?”
I blink. “Yeah.”
She smiles. “Then you already know her body is doing a thousand things right now.”
She turns back to Addison, who adjusts the paper at her waist, and then looks at me again. “What helps most right now is practical support. Not vigilance. Not hovering.”
I shift in the chair. She doesn’t miss it.
“Carry the weight around the house,” the doctor continues, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Meals. Errands. The boring stuff. Let her rest without needing to ask for it.”
Addison glances at me, amused. If only we lived together…
“Think of it as load-bearing, not oversight,” Dr. Carroll adds.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say before I can stop myself.
She laughs. “I’m serious.” She’s already turning back to the screen. “Support isn’t complicated. It just needs to be consistent.”
I nod, even though she’s done looking at me.
Addison’s mouth curves.
I’m still thinking about the word weight when the heartbeat fills the room again. I remember how I felt when the baby moved under my hand yesterday and wonder if this has long been real for Addison in a way I’m just catching up to.
When the appointment concludes, Dr. Carroll hands Addison a printout and tells her again to call if anything feels off. She gives these instructions confidently, like Addison already knows what to do with her own body.
We step back out into the hallway, and I take a deep breath.
Addison looks over at me. “That went well.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It really did.”