Chapter 31
Thirty-one
Luc
I text Addie when I’m on the way to the doctor’s office.
Me: Just left my office and I’m driving over now.
I don’t add anything else. She knows where the office is. She knows I’ll be there if I say I will. The rest isn’t mine to manage.
I keep my speed steady, aware of how much effort it takes not to rehearse the appointment in my head. I’ve been in exam rooms like this a hundred times, on the other side of the door, the other side of the chart. None of that feels useful now.
This isn’t my appointment to run.
I pull into the lot and shut off the engine without getting out right away. The ache that’s been riding low in my chest all day doesn’t ease.
When Addie’s rideshare pulls up, I watch her get out. She moves carefully but not cautiously, one hand braced on the door as she stands, her posture steady. She looks good. I now understand the pregnancy glow.
I get out and meet her at the edge of the sidewalk.
“Hi,” I say with a smile.
“Hello. Are you enjoying our weather?” She shakes her head.
This isn’t normal for Paradise. The cold has pushed in hard, and snow came with it, but not the sun, just a flat, gray sky that presses low over everything.
“I think Regina is warmer than this.”
“I think Mother Nature is an unmedicated schizophrenic. She’s all over the place.”
I laugh as we fall into step side by side, close enough to register warmth, far enough to respect the space she’s claimed for herself.
Inside, I nod to the receptionist as Addie checks in, and then take a seat where she points, letting her choose how close to me she wants to sit. She chooses the next chair.
I’ve decided this is what support looks like right now. Showing up. Staying still. Letting the moment be Addie’s to define.
When the nurse calls her name, Addie looks at me, a quiet question in her eyes. I stand only after she does, and I follow her down the hall to the room.
Dr. Carroll knocks before coming in, her energy calm, efficient without being rushed. She greets Addie first, asks how she’s been feeling, already scanning the chart in her hand.
“Good to see you, Luc,” she says after a moment.
“Thanks, Noelle. Great to see you too.”
“How is your morning sickness?” she asks, turning back to Addie.
“I haven’t needed the anti-nausea medicine for a little over a week.” Addie smiles.
I smile too, though I hadn’t realized how much discomfort she’d been carrying quietly.
“The baby hasn’t turned yet,” Noelle notes matter-of-factly a few minutes later, not as a concern, just an observation.
Addie nods. “That’s good. I’m not ready for his arrival yet.”
“You keep telling him that.” Noelle smiles.
I let Addie speak for herself. I don’t correct, don’t supplement, don’t translate her confidence into something more clinical. It’s enough that she feels secure, that she isn’t bracing for the next shoe to drop.
The doctor gets the equipment, and after a moment, a rhythm fills the space. I’ve heard fetal heartbeats before. Probably hundreds of them. They usually register as data.
But as it has every time I hear it, this one goes straight through me and settles deep. I don’t move or speak. I let the sound exist. I reach for Addie’s hand and give it a squeeze.
Addie watches the ceiling, her expression calm but focused. I’m aware of my own breathing, how shallow it’s gone, how quickly my chest tightens before I force it to ease.
This isn’t clinical. It’s my son’s heart, steady and sure, unconcerned with my readiness.
Addie lets go of my hand as Noelle narrates what she’s seeing on the ultrasound. Growth looks good. Everything seems exactly as it should be. I absorb the words, letting them layer over the rhythm still echoing in my head.
When the sound fades, the room returns to its earlier shape, but I don’t. Something has shifted, subtle and irreversible, and I know better than to pretend otherwise.
Noelle continues the exam. She talks through the measurements as she goes, translating numbers into meaning. Addie is doing great. Her weight is right where it should be. The baby’s growth is tracking exactly as expected. Nothing flagged. Nothing lingering.
I watch Addie as much as I listen. She nods along, asking one or two questions. There’s a confidence in her now that wasn’t there earlier in the pregnancy, a steadiness that tells me she trusts her body. That trust seems hard-earned.
Noelle agrees. “Everything looks good. No signs of early labor. No red flags. Just a healthy pregnancy moving forward at its own pace.” She pats Addie’s arm. “You were made for this.”
Relief moves through me in a controlled wave, contained but unmistakable. I don’t reach for Addie’s hand, though I want to. I keep my reaction measured, aligned with hers rather than my own instincts.
I remind myself of that as the appointment wraps up and Noelle steps out, leaving us in the quiet aftermath of good news.
Addie meets my eyes, her expression open, unguarded.
She’s doing great.
And I don’t feel the need to do anything about it.
We leave the exam room together and continue out of the OB practice’s office. Addie walks a half step ahead of me, her hand resting briefly at the small of her back before falling away.
She looks relaxed. Not relieved exactly, but settled. I match her pace without thinking about it, aware of how easy it would be to reach for her and how important it is that I don’t.
We stop as she pulls out her phone to call a rideshare.
“Can I buy you dinner?” I ask. I keep my tone neutral, give her the space to decide without needing to manage my reaction.
Addie considers me for a moment. Then she nods. “That sounds good.”
The ease of her agreement surprises me, but I don’t let myself turn it into more than it is. Dinner. A shared meal. Time that’s offered, not claimed.
“I’ve been missing Thai food,” she adds, almost casually.
I smile before I can stop myself. The specificity feels intimate without crossing any lines.
“Thai sounds perfect,” I say.
She nods. “You can drive.”
I help Addie into the passenger seat of my SUV, steadying the door until she’s settled before closing it. The gesture is practical, nothing more, but it carries a weight I don’t comment on. I walk around to the driver’s side and put on my seatbelt before pulling out of the lot.
We merge into traffic without any rush, and the drive to the restaurant is short.
The radio stays low, some familiar song playing in the background.
I glance at her once at a stoplight. She’s looking out the window, relaxed, one hand resting loosely in her lap.
Being here with her feels normal in a way I don’t expect.
It’s something I want, though. I hope she wants it too.
The restaurant is warm and busy. I hold the door while Addie goes in ahead of me, and then follow her to the table the host points us toward. We sit across from each other, menus between us, the simple structure of the moment making me more comfortable.
Dinner unfolds without effort. Addie tells a story about a commission that’s going sideways and makes me laugh out loud before I can rein it in. She grins at that, clearly pleased, and I realize how much I’ve missed this version of us—uncomplicated, unguarded, not negotiating every word.
I tell her about a patient from earlier in the week, keeping it light. She listens and asks a question that tells me she’s actually paying attention, not just waiting for her turn to speak.
The food arrives, and we eat slowly, talking between bites, letting the evening unfold. I don’t check the time. I don’t think about what comes next. We’re just here, sharing a meal, letting laughter surface where it wants to.
When the check comes, I take it without comment. Addie doesn’t argue. Another small mercy. We leave together, the night air cool against my face as we step outside, the world feeling steady beneath my feet in a way it hasn’t for weeks.
She took a rideshare to the appointment, so I drive her back to her apartment. The city is quieter now, traffic thinned to a steady trickle. Addie leans back in the seat.
When we arrive, we both get out. I want to ask if I can walk her up. I want to ask if I can stay. Not for sex. Not even for reassurance. Just to exist in the same space a little longer, to let the night wrap around us instead of ending at the curb.
But I don’t ask.
Addie turns to me. “Thank you for dinner.” Her voice is warm.
“I had a good time,” I tell her. It’s true, and I let it stand on its own without using it as a bridge to anything else.
She nods, smiling faintly. “Me too.”
I walk her to the front door of her building.
Before I can say anything, she says, “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “You will.”
She goes inside without looking back. I wait until the door closes behind her before going back to the car.
As I drive away, the absence presses in. This is the part that doesn’t come with a rulebook, wanting more and choosing not to take it, knowing restraint doesn’t guarantee anything. It just tells the truth.
The road back to my uncle’s is familiar enough that I don’t have to think about it.
My hands know the turns. I replay the day in my mind.
The appointment. The heartbeat. Dinner. The way Addie laughed, the way she didn’t pull away and didn’t reach for more either.
But that makes sense. Nothing about it feels unresolved.
That surprises me. I’m used to endings that scrape.
What lingers instead is the restraint. The deliberate choice to stay inside the lines she’s drawn, even when every instinct I have tells me to step closer. I’ve spent most of my life intervening because I could. It’s the way I’ve learned to measure usefulness.
I pull into my uncle’s driveway. He’s coming home next week.
That doesn’t sting the way it used to. I can’t wait for Addie to figure out what she wants—she may never—and I’ve already found a place for our baby that doesn’t depend on her.
I can be confident in that, so what I feel instead is a quiet awareness of how much discipline this requires.
I shut off the engine and step out into the night.
Inside the house, I move through the dark without turning on the lights.
I know where everything is. The familiarity doesn’t comfort me so much as it steadies me, gives my hands something to trust while my thoughts catch up.
I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t revisit the night looking for openings I should have taken or moments I should have pressed harder.
There’s no sense that something slipped through my fingers because I didn’t close my hand around it.
That’s new.
The image that stays with me isn’t dinner or laughter or even the quiet goodbye at the curb. It’s the sound of the heartbeat in that exam room—steady, insistent, unconcerned with my doubts. It’s proof that something meaningful can exist without my intervention.
I sit on the edge of the bed with that thought. Love doesn’t always announce itself with momentum. Sometimes, it shows up as restraint. As patience.
I don’t know what comes next. But if this is what loving Addie looks like right now—quiet, contained, without leverage—I’m willing to wait and see whether it holds.