Chapter 20
Twenty
Luc
For the last couple weeks Addie and I have continued in our same pattern—which feels kind of like a holding pattern, honestly—but I arrive at Dot’s for lunch a few minutes late today, which puts me off balance.
Addie’s usually the one who’s late. Today, though, she’s already seated in a booth with her sisters, hands wrapped around a mug.
Everyone looks careful as I approach. Not tense, exactly.
Just aware of each other in that way people get when the conversation’s already started.
I thought it was a good thing that she wanted us all to have lunch together. But now, I’m not so sure.
I slide in beside Addie and kiss her cheek. She smells like coffee and something sweet, maybe pie. Dot’s is loud in the background—plates clattering, voices overlapping—but our table feels oddly contained, like the noise stops just short of us.
“Sorry,” I say. “Clinic ran long.”
She nods. “It’s fine.”
That’s when I know it isn’t.
Sera’s eyes flick between us, and then away. Josie stirs cream into her coffee even though it’s already light enough. No one jumps in with small talk. No one asks how my morning was.
“What did I miss?” I ask, keeping my voice easy.
Josie opens her mouth, and then stops. Sera gives Addie a look, like this part is hers.
Addie exhales slowly. “Evie reached out again this morning.”
“With groceries?” I ask.
There’s a pause, and then Josie steps in, seeming to feel Addie’s not up to the task. “Evie’s been stopping by Addie’s apartment about once a week,” she explains, “with groceries, yes, and each time, she’s stepped up the pressure.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands straight. “Pressure about what?”
Addie smooths the napkin on her lap. “Still the same thing. She wants me to move back to the vineyard and raise the baby there. No money worries, plenty of space.”
“But you’ve worked so hard for your own life. And even if you stay where you are,” Sera interjects, “Josie and I would be close when you need help or a break.”
Addie pushes her mug away. “I know that, but Evie wants me to move home. She says it would make things easier.”
“For whom?” I ask.
Addie gives me a look. Not sharp. Just tired. “For the baby.”
“She’s even mentioned a house,” Sera adds quietly. “It’s the one Ginny used to live in. It’s one of the smaller ones. She said it could be temporary.”
I look over at Addie. She’s staring at the table now, thumb tracing the edge of her napkin. She doesn’t look upset. She looks resigned. That feels worse.
“I said no,” she says. “Again.”
No pride in it. No defiance. Just a fact.
Josie reaches for her hand. “We know.”
I lean back slightly, processing all this. From what I’ve been told, Evie doesn’t make offers she expects can be refused. That’s the part that catches, and perhaps it’s the reason for this lunch. Evie wouldn’t push this unless she thought Addie was running out of time—or options.
Tom appears then, pad in hand, breaking the moment. We place our orders, and he refills the coffees. The world resumes like nothing has shifted at all. But I can feel it now, humming under the surface.
Evie isn’t just asking Addie to come home. She’s positioned her as someone who might have to.
Things stay pretty quiet until our lunch is delivered, and even then, we don’t talk about Evie’s idea.
The conversation drifts to neutral ground—work schedules, a neighbor’s dog, something funny one of the farmhands said that morning.
Everyone plays along. But it feels like eating around a crack in the plate and pretending you don’t see it.
Only when we’re finished does the original subject resurface.
“Stay strong.” Sera wraps her arms around Addie and whispers in her ear, “We’ll help you if you need it. You don’t need Evie.”
Then Josie hugs her. “That’s right. We’ve got you. Babysitting, rent money, food—whatever it takes.”
When we step outside, the air’s cooler than I expect. Josie and Sera drive off together, and Addie walks beside me, hands in her jacket pockets, shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for something.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. I just hate that Evie keeps trying.”
I just nod. I know better than to jump in too fast. Addie doesn’t need someone reacting louder than she is.
“She knows we’re together,” Addie adds, almost like an afterthought. “But she thinks I’m leaning on you for support. She still doesn’t know you’re the father.”
I nod. That confirms it. Evie is making this offer because she’s assumed Addie doesn’t have any other options, that she’s barely holding things together. That eventually, pride will give way to necessity.
I picture it the way Evie probably does. Addie’s stubborn and tired, still insisting she’s fine while everything underneath her keeps moving. She has a baby coming, a not particularly steady income, and she’s without any kind of safety net Evie would ever accept as real.
I stop walking. Addie takes another step, and then turns back.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say automatically. But then I take a breath and rethink that. This relationship needs more communication, not less. “She thinks you’re waiting for me to save you.”
Addie lets out a short breath. Not a laugh. Not quite frustration. “I’m not.”
“I know,” I say. “You’re not a starving artist unable to make ends meet. You’re a successful artist with intellectual property that will pay your rent while you take time off after the baby is born. You have your brother and sisters, and you have me. You don’t need her.”
Evie’s logic works quite nicely if you don’t know Addie.
How easy it would be to look at Addie’s life from the outside and decide it needed fixing.
But I worry Evie doesn’t need to be right.
She just needs to be believed. Will she wear Addie down eventually?
Was that the reason for this lunch? To reinforce Addie’s resolve?
We start walking again, and Addie’s gaze stays forward, fixed on nothing in particular. “I’m not going back,” she says. “I won’t.”
“I know,” I say again, squeezing her hand.
But I don’t think Evie is waiting for Addie to see the light and change her mind. She’s counting on time to do the work for her.
We walk a block before Addie slows, like she’s hit the end of her energy. She leans against a brick wall outside the bookstore, crossing her arms, the light catching in her hair.
“I’m not taking anything from her,” she says. “I walked away when I was eighteen. Why would I undo all of that? I don’t want the house, her money, or anything else she has.”
“I didn’t think you would,” I say.
She looks at me then, like she’s checking to make sure I mean it. “She doesn’t help. She collects.” Addie shakes her head. “She’s framing it like she’s saving me, like this is for my benefit. It’s exactly why I moved out. Evie’s help is never free. And I won’t raise my kid inside that.”
My kid. She doesn’t emphasize it, but I hear it anyway.
As if I’m just the sperm donor. No real stake here.
I haven’t agreed to that, and it isn’t what I want.
Sometimes, I don’t think that’s what she wants either.
But she’s just so afraid of what the alternative might mean.
And this latest from Evie reminds me of exactly why.
“I get it,” I assure her.
Addie pushes off the wall and starts walking again. “I’m managing. I have work and my own space. I don’t need her acting like I’m on the edge of collapse.”
Managing. There it is again. That’s hardly flourishing. Addie deserves more, and I know she wants more. Why does she make it so hard for herself to get ahead?
Addie keeps talking, filling the space, like she knows what I’m thinking and wants to head it off. “She’s acting like I’m hoping someone else will fix this. I’m not. I’ve fixed my own life plenty of times.”
“I know you have,” I say. “That’s not the question.”
She stops again. “Then what is?”
I hesitate. “What happens if you don’t move in with her?”
Addie’s expression shifts—not anger, not fear. Something quieter. Something guarded. “I don’t want to trade one kind of control for another.”
And here we are again. I open my mouth to reassure her, and then close it.
Because if I’m honest, there may be a bigger gap here than I can close.
I’m a person, and this child’s parent, just like she is.
But I don’t know how to navigate that in this situation.
We weren’t partners when this began. We didn’t agree to work together on anything more than an hour of fun.
All the insights and resources I have, all the ways it feels natural to offer my input make her feel like she’s losing control.
So maybe I’m just banging my head against the wall, wishing for something that can never be.
I won’t abandon my child, but I may have to accept that parenting is going to look different than I’d like.
I’m not ready to give up yet, though.
“I’m not trying to run your life or take over,” I say finally. “But I want to take responsibility for my part in this.”
“I know,” she says with a sigh. “But I need to know you won’t decide something for me.”
This feels like the same merry-go-round we always end up on, so I drop the subject for now.
Conversation drifts, like we’ve agreed to set that topic down somewhere safe and walk away from it.
Addie points out a window display she likes.
I comment on a dog tied up outside a café.
But I can’t let it go for long. I’m not going to get anything close to what I want by letting her dictate all the rules.
As strong as she is, she also does a lot of avoiding. And that doesn’t work for me.
So a few blocks later, I say, “There are a couple of rentals opening up downtown.” It comes out light, like a fact I happened to remember, not something I’ve been trying to get her to discuss for weeks.
Addie glances at me. “Okay. But I’m not moving.”
“Maybe not, but I can’t live at my uncle’s forever,” I tell her. “I need a place to live.”
Focusing on me lets me pretend I’m not already picturing the way her things would fill a place like that without even trying.
“Downtown would be convenient,” I add.
Addie slows, and I know I’ve pushed too far. “I like where I am,” she says. “It has the right light for my work, and it’s big enough for my baby and me.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m not taking that away. But do you see me in your life?”
“Of course.” She shrugs. “You’re the baby’s father.”
That is a slap in the face.
She turns to face me, arms crossed. “You’re planning for something different.”
“You don’t see a future with me,” I say.
“You’re planning,” she says again.
“I know we started in an unconventional way, but I thought of you often over the three months we were apart. I know this is a lot for any kind of relationship, but I like you, and I do hope we might mean something to each other as we move forward. I want us to be partners in raising this child.”
“I guess I haven’t given it much thought,” she says. But she can’t meet my eyes, so I don’t know if I believe her. “I just don’t want to feel carried.”
I wish I could tell her I’m not trying to carry her.
I just know this isn’t only her baby. It’s mine too.
I’m trying to make sure there’s solid ground under all of us.
And somewhere in the middle of that, I’ve had some ideas on how to build it.
It’s hard for me to stand idle when she refuses to engage on these subjects.
We stand there for a minute after that. Cars pass. Someone laughs across the street. Life keeps moving, completely unconcerned with how carefully I’m trying not to screw this up.
“I don’t want this to turn into you fixing things because you think I can’t,” Addie says. Her voice tight. “I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”
“I don’t think you can’t,” I say. “But you certainly are taking your time in some ways. I just hoped this was going somewhere. I didn’t realize I was only scratching your itch.”
Her eyes flare. “You do much more than that,” she replies. “But intention doesn’t always change who we are to one another.”
That’s…uncomfortably fair.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, trying to find the line that doesn’t step on hers. “I’m not offering to swoop in. I just want us to have room. Not because you need it. Because the situation does.”
She studies my face, like she’s deciding whether to believe me or not. “You’re talking like this is already set.”
“I’m talking like time doesn’t slow down just because we want it to,” I say. “He’s going to be here in a few months, and I’m his father. I want to be a meaningful part of his life. I guess you need to decide if you want that too.”
Addie looks away then, out at the street, her jaw tightening. “That’s exactly something Evie would say.”
The comparison stings. But I suppose that’s how she sees the world. I have to be aware of that. “I’m not her,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says again. “But the pressure feels similar. And I need you to hear that.”
I nod. I hear it. But that doesn’t make her perception accurate. And understanding her feelings doesn’t make my sense of urgency go away. If anything, it sharpens it. Because now, I’m aware of the risks on both sides—doing too much and doing too little.
“I don’t want to decide anything today,” Addie continues. “I just need to know that when we do, it’ll be because we chose it. Not because we were cornered.”
I nod, thinking of all the possibilities—cornered by Evie, by circumstances, by Addie’s fear and avoidance. “I don’t want that either,” I assure her.
We continue walking and split at her building, the goodbye a little heavier than usual. Addie kisses me like she’s sealing something for later. I watch her go inside, waiting until the door closes before I turn away.
I don’t head back to my office. I’ll worry about the charting I need to do later. Instead, I walk past houses with small yards and crooked fences and kids’ bikes left out like no one’s worried they’ll disappear. I tell myself I’m just clearing my head. That I’m letting the conversation settle.
But I don’t think that’s true.
Evie’s offer replays in my head, her assumption that Addie will eventually need to be rescued from her own life. That someone else gets to decide when she’s reached her limit.
I don’t want that to be true.
But wanting doesn’t change logistics. Or timing. Or the fact that a baby doesn’t wait for people to feel emotionally ready to rearrange their lives.
By the time I loop back toward my place, the light’s fading, the streetlamps flickering on one by one. Doing nothing isn’t neutral anymore. I can’t just defer to Addie forever, because if we don’t decide what happens next, Evie will.
And I’m not going to let her make choices for us.