Leah
Icould’ve sworn I didn’t have any expectations.
I told Nick I had none. But it's been nineteen days, fifteen hours, and approximately— oh …
twenty-two minutes since giving him my number in what was objectively, a Hallmark heroine's fever dream, and I'm saddened to report that my stupid heart never got the memo.
What was I thinking?
I interrogated the man about his intentions, tucked my phone number inside a deck of playing cards, and basically said, call me whenever. I have all the restraint of a homeschooled Bible-thumper who's already monogrammed the wedding towels after one side hug.
The thing is, I see him all the time. Since Halloween, he's become a regular at both drop-off and pickup at the school. He even helped with the annual Pinehurst Thanksgiving Food Drive. The members of the PTA think he hung the moon.
I mean, he kinda does.
The really confusing part? I've never felt this way before.
Not even with Declan. The butterflies back then came from the excitement of being wanted, of imagining a husband and a future.
These butterflies don't care about any of that.
They show up simply because Nick Crawford gave me that crooked grin with that kissable dimple.
We still engage in small talk in the car line, and like clockwork, he’s there when Skye and I lock up.
And that's it.
My beautiful little enigma.
My hot doctor who will almost certainly never be mine.
Okay, that one’s a little dramatic.
I keep reminding myself he's busy. He's figuring out fatherhood. An entire little human suddenly needs him in ways he never imagined. I should be rooting for every second he spends with Grady.
But a text only takes, like, twelve seconds.
Not that I've timed it.
“Okay …” Rachel’s voice drifts over the refreshment table. “Who's got you smiling like that?”
I blink. “What?”
She points a deviled egg at me. “You’ve been standing there with the sappiest grin on your face for, like, thirty seconds.”
My cheeks heat, my hand flying to my mouth. “I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was thinking.”
She snorts. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Ha ha, good one.” I roll my eyes.
She plucks a petit four from the tray before I can stop her. “You’re deflecting.”
I sigh dramatically and return my attention to arranging the desserts on a three-tiered tray.
My parents’ house has been transformed into baby shower central, and the Noah’s Ark theme is en pointe.
That is, Noah’s Ark as imagined by Pinterest—not the actual biblical account where the entire world drowned, a floating zoo spent forty days at sea, and Noah celebrated dry land by getting blackout drunk.
Soft shades of mint and blush gingham drape every table beneath a matching balloon arch.
Hand-carved wooden animals nestle among baby's breath and silk ribbon while the dessert table groans beneath iced sugar cookies, macarons, cake pops, lemon bars, and petit fours.
Rachel couldn't decide what she wanted, so my mom helped me make one of everything.
And by helped, I mean she let me measure out ingredients while she worked her magic as the baker in the family.
“I don't know who made these,” Rachel mumbles around a chicken salad sandwich, “but she's my favorite person.”
“Hey—” I chuckle—“I actually made those.”
“I know … and it’s still my favorite.” She winks before grabbing a pimento cheese sandwich.
I place the last cookie before standing back to see what adjustments need to be made.
“So …” She follows me, arching an eyebrow. “Declan?”
I recoil. “No.”
Rachel bursts into laughter. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You’ve said enough.” I bend down and straighten a platter of macarons.
“I thought maybe you were daydreaming about him or something.” Her smile fades. “Like maybe God was softening your heart toward him to reconcile.”
I groan. “Rach, not you too …”
“What?”
“I’ve heard it from everyone. My folks. From Matt. The ladies at church.” I shake my head. “I don't know if I can handle my only friend from church condemning me too.”
“Lee, I’m not condemning you.” She saddles up next to me, resting a hand on her belly. “I’ve always believed God can restore anything if we let Him. Marriage especially.”
I don't doubt that she believes it. That's the hardest part.
We grew up in the same church. We memorized the same verses, listened to the same sermons, read the same marriage books.
We watched divorced Christian leaders, authors, and musicians quietly disappear from conference stages while pastors praised the couples who ‘fought for their marriages.’ Somewhere along the way, divorce stopped being something tragic and became something shameful.
“It would be an amazing testimony too,” she continues, “one that could save other women from … well, you know.”
Making my mistake.
I smooth the front of my dress and paste on the same polite smile I’ve been wearing since the divorce papers were signed.
“Listen,” I say, giving Rachel's hand a squeeze. “We’re not doing this today. Okay? I love you, but … let’s not.”
She searches my face before nodding. “Okay.”
“Besides, today’s about celebrating my favorite little nephew or niece.”
“And her mother?” Rachel asks hopefully.
I shrug, feigning disinterest. “Meh, she’s alright too.” We giggle, bumping each other's shoulder as we put the finishing touches to the table.
Before either of us can say another word, my mother glides into the dining room, already smiling in her pressed skirt and cardigan.
Her blonde hair is perfectly styled, unlike my brown waves she never quite knew what to do with.
“There you two are.” She clasps her hands together.
“I just heard car doors. I imagine our guests are starting to arrive.”
Rachel brightens.
Mom's attention shifts to me. “Oh, sweetheart.” She reaches up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from my shoulder. “One tiny favor. Your father and I were talking, and … well, if anyone asks what you’ve been up to lately …” She tilts her head, her smile never wavering.
“Maybe just keep certain things private. That bar isn’t exactly ...
" She lets out a sardonic laugh. "Well, you know how people can be. I’d hate for anyone to get the wrong impression when we're celebrating Rachel today.” Her hand pats my arm.
“I know it’s only temporary, hon." She says it with all the warmth of a loving mother—which somehow makes it hurt even more.
“Of course, Mom.” I smile brightly.
“Wonderful.” She pulls me into a tight hug and kisses my temple. “Love you, sweetheart.”
She sweeps from the room just as the doorbell rings, leaving behind the faint scent of perfume and the burn of criticism.
Rachel winces. “I’m sorry. You know she’s just protecting you and the family.”
Protecting us from more scrutiny and judgment. I know the drill well.
“Of course.” I force another smile. “Now, let's go celebrate your baby.”
The baby shower is a whirl of tissue paper and squeals. We laugh our way through measuring Rachel's belly with ribbon—a game requested by the expectant mom herself … although she loses all enthusiasm the moment she realizes her ribbon is several inches too short.
Rachel receives nearly every gift on her registry, graciously accepting each one as the room erupts into oohs, ahhs, and the obligatory, ‘Oh, you’ll use that every day.
’ Tears are shed when she unfolds a handmade quilt my mother stitched from pieces of her baby blanket and Matt's, and by the time the last gift is opened, it's safe to say we've gifted enough diapers to keep this baby's behind clean and dry through at least their first birthday.
Gradually, the afternoon dissolves into smaller conversations of men being men in the delivery room, epidural horror stories, and bizarre non-food cravings. Gift bags are gathered, leftovers are wrapped, and clusters of women drift toward the front porch with hugs and promises to ‘do lunch soon’.
While clearing empty plates, I pause, catching two of my mother's friends whispering to one another around the corner.
“Did you see the little ribbon rosettes on the party favors? Sweet Leah sewed every single one of those by hand.”
“Such a lovely touch.”
“That girl is just like her mother. The picture of hospitality.”
“It's a shame.”
They lower their voices, mouthing most of their words.
“You'd think someone who can make a room feel so welcoming would’ve done the same for her own home.”
A soft scoff.
“Her poor parents must be so heartbroken about what happened.”
“And don't forget about poor Declan.”
“Oh, that boy has been in love with her for years.”
“Gosh, and after he stuck by her side through cancer …”
“I heard at the prayer meeting Thursday night that Declan is trying to win back her heart back. It's like the modern-day story Hosea.”
Wow. That's a new one.
Apparently, I'm Gomer, the woman God called Hosea to marry despite her repeated unfaithfulness.
Their words find the same bruises they always do. I never set out to become the disappointment, the cautionary tale, the whispered prayer request. Before they can sink any deeper, I turn away and busy myself with cleaning.
I bend to scoop another armful of pastel tissue paper from the living room floor when I hear the familiar rumble of my brother’s SUV pulling into the driveway. Moments later, he's walking through the front door.
“Perfect timing,” I call out to him.
“Hey, little sis.” Matt wraps an arm around my shoulders in a side hug. “Have you seen my wife?”
“Last I checked, she was organizing diaper boxes by size and brand"
He nods knowingly. “Sounds about right.”
“Are you ready to load up? It's a pretty impressive haul.”
A softness flashes in Matt's eyes. “Really?”
“Really. This baby is already so loved.”
“And spoiled,” he jokes.
“That too.” I giggle. “C’mon. I'll help you pack up.”
Together, we manage to load up the SUV with most of the presents. Rachel stands in the driveway, one hand braced against her lower back as Matt attempts to wedge the stroller between a mountain of diaper boxes and three oversized gift bags.
“It … will … fit,” he grunts.
"Matty-bear, it's not going to fit."
“Yes … it … will.”
“No, it won't.”
He stops and glares at Rachel, sweat dripping down his brow. “Honey, when I say it's going to fit, I'd appreciate it—”
The stroller bounces right back out, crashing to the pavement. A brief, awkward silence hangs in the air as we stare at the fallen stroller, a single wheel casually spinning in mockery.
Rachel huffs. “Imagine that. Your wife was right.” She lifts her chin in triumph and waddles back inside.
Matt watches her disappear into the house, his jaw working as he quietly concedes defeat.
I pat him on the back. “I appreciated your optimism and gusto.”
“Yeah, well, not everyone does,” he murmurs, finally bending over to pick up the stroller.
“Hey … you okay?”
“Yeah.” He hoists the stroller in his arms. “I'm fan-freaking-tastic.” He paces back into the house, his steps heavy.
I sigh following behind.
Being six years apart meant Matt and I never grew into the kind of siblings who shared every secret. We love each other, but I'd always be his little sister before I'd ever be his confidante.
Ten minutes later, we've tucked the remaining gifts into one of the spare bedrooms to be picked up next week and finally call it an evening. We say goodbye to my mother before the three of us step out into the surprisingly cool November air.
We mosey down the driveway to our parked vehicles when Matt turns to me. “So, Lee, I've been meaning to chat with you about something.”
I chuckle. “That doesn't sound ominous at all.”
He tucks his hands in his pockets, looking every bit like our father despite having our mother's features. “Do you hang out with that Nick Crawford guy?”
I smirk. "We've been at the same place at the same time a few times. That's about it. Why?”
“Leah …” His easy smile fades. "Just be careful, okay?"
"Careful of what?"
He shifts his weight, choosing his words. "Guys like him know what they're doing. He's successful, good-looking, charming. Men like that don't usually spend time with women unless they want something out of it.”
I snort. “You can't be serious right now. You make it sound like he hunts women for sport."
“I’m serious, Lee. He’s a bit of a douche.” He meets my eyes. "Men like that have certain—” he lowers his voice—“expectations."
Rachel leans in closely. “Like sexual expectations … the depraved kind God did not create. You know that.”
I bristle at the condescension as a wave of irritation grows in my blood “Where are you even hearing this?” I ask, but somehow, I already know. “Did Declan tell you?”
They look at each other before Rachel nods to Matt. “He was concerned about you,” he starts. “You're just too trusting and innocent. He'll take advantage of someone like you.”
Someone like you.
I blink, the shock of my brother's words landing like a slap across the face. Not only are they making such heinous accusations about Nick, but they're talking about me behind my back with my ex-husband.
Rachel reaches for my hand. “We just love you and want the best for you.”
I brighten with a smile, my perfected survival skill honed from a guided cage. “Of course.”
Because I don't know what's best for myself.
Angus greets me with messy kisses when I finally get home. We spend a few minutes snuggled on the front doormat before heading out for a quick walk around the neighborhood. By the time I shower off the day, my body feels clean, but my mind is anything but.
I wish I had someone to talk to about all of this. Someone who could sit in the mess with me instead of trying to tidy it up with a Bible verse or a sermon.
Maybe a tall handsome blond.
With full lips.
And really, really strong arms.
My phone lights up.
A jolt of excitement blooms in my belly as I click to open the next text message.
‘Reminder that your prescription is ready.’
Seriously? Flopping back on my couch, I cover my face with a pillow and groan.
Stupid heart.