18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Emily
T rent has already left for work, and Amir has just gone to school when the bleeding starts. Even though I didn’t really expect to get pregnant the first month, I can’t help the tears that form.
Rather than having to tell Trent in person, I send him a not pregnant text.
It takes a while, probably because the shop has been busier since Maggie, Grady, Mia, and Tyler stepped up for him on socials, but he replies.
Are you home at lunch? Or do you have some showing or closings to do?
I’m here.
I don’t add that I don’t feel like talking to anyone or doing anything. Instead, because everything I could do can be put off until later or maybe even tomorrow, I crawl back into bed.
I wake to a knock on my bedroom door, and when I call for them to come in, Trent pushes it open gently.
“Came to check in on my favorite Emily,” he says.
“Aren’t I the only Emily you know?”
“I could know thousands, and you’d still be at the top of the pile. On a scale of one to ten, how upset are you?” He steps into the room, and he’s got one hand behind his back.
“Like a five?” I say, though it’s probably more like a seven. Though I’d never say it out loud, I’m worried that the longer Trent and I do this, the harder it’ll be to re-establish normalcy. Already this new closeness feels normal, and I don’t think it should.
“I thought it might be more like an eight, so I had my mom pick up cookies from Kathy’s Café,” he says, bringing the box around. “They’re the double chocolate ones that you love.”
“Trent!” I say, tears forming in my eyes. “It is more like an eight. God, you bought me cookies?” I hold out my hand, and he approaches the bed, opening the box.
After I take one, he plucks one out and perches on the edge of the bed, chewing with what feels like thoughtfulness.
“Redouble the efforts this month?” he suggests.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“The internet has a lot of advice,” he says, as though that explains what he means.
“And?”
“Sixteen hours might be too narrow of a window.”
“What does the internet suggest?” Though I’m sure I already know.
“Try to prime the area before ovulation.” He squints at me when he says it like he thinks I’ll hate the idea.
“Have sex the day before I think I’ll ovulate.”
“And then hit it hard.”
“Oh my god. Your phrasing.”
“You’re the one who thinks we need to keep it all clinical.”
“There’s clinical and then there’s shop talk—prime the area, hit it hard.”
“Baby, I’m going to grease those wheels so hard, you’ll never recover.”
He delivers the line with such false bravado that I can’t help but laugh. He flashes the cookie box at me again, and I take another one.
“Okay,” I say. “We have a deal. The day before I suspect it’ll happen, and the day of.”
“Yes!” He pumps his fist. “My shop talk worked.”
I laugh again and sit up more in bed, pulling the covers around me.
“I’m taking Amir to have his genetics tested next week.
I still don’t know if I’ll be able to look at the results, but I think you were right before.
It’s hanging over me like it’s true—like he has it.
I might as well know for sure. And when I talked to the genetics counselor, they said even if he has the genetic mutations, it’s not a guarantee that he’ll get ALS.
It’s not one hundred percent, but more likely. ”
Which isn’t soothing—it just feels like another thing that’ll hang over my head.
If he has the mutations, whether he gets full-blown ALS at some point will be a not-so-fun surprise.
Letting myself think about that too long sends me on an emotional spiral, so I’m keeping all those thoughts buttoned up.
“What can I do?” Trent asks, plucking out another cookie.
“The counselor said the results are mailed from the genetics lab.”
“Same with mine when I got it done,” he says. “You want me with you when you open it?”
“Will you? If it’s bad, I just…” I shake my head. “I think I’ll be a mess.”
“I’ll hold your pieces if you fall apart,” he says, his gaze earnest when it connects with mine. “Whatever you need, I’m there.”
I absorb his words for a beat before I say, “I’m really glad that you’re the guy. That you’ll be the guy.”
“It’s an honor,” Trent says, and he slides the box of cookies on my nightstand before heading for the door. “I’ll see you after work.”
The next day, I’ve recovered from my pity party, and I’m meeting a potential new client at their house to assess their property.
It’s on the outskirts of Little Falls, and it has huge acreage.
Lorna and Robert are old money in the area, but they’ve decided to move to Florida to retire and be closer to their kids.
When I get there, Lorna gives me a tour of the house and all the outbuildings they have. I take photos and careful notes of everything.
Then we sit in their kitchen, and I pull up a few comparable listings on my tablet from memory. I go over what their place has or doesn’t have in comparison to the other sales, and then I let them know that I’ll have a firm number for them in a couple of days.
When we’re done talking real estate, Lorna says, “I heard Trent Castillo took over Bruce Mullen’s shop.”
“He did,” I say. “Are you looking to get some work done?”
“No,” she says, glancing at her husband whose expression seems slightly perturbed. “I also heard he’s living in your house. Are you with that man?”
The way she says “that man” as though he’s a toxic substance gets my back up in a way that’s never happened to me before. Well, maybe not never, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt such a strong desire to not just defend someone but flatten the person making the accusations.
“He’s renting a spare room from me while he gets his business off the ground,” I say, trying to maintain a polite facade for the sake of business. Their property, if I was able to list and sell it, would be a huge commission.
“So you two aren’t dating?” Skepticism coats each word.
“No, we’re not.”
“I told you, Robert. These Sullivan girls aren’t stupid enough to get mixed up with him twice.”
“There’s a lot of chatter about it round town,” Robert says. “Your daddy’d be rolling over in his grave if you got mixed up in that like Maggie did.”
“To be clear,” I say, measuring my tone, “Maggie wasn’t mixed up in anything the first time, and there’s nothing to be mixed up in this time. Mullen Mechanics is a legitimate business.”
“It was ,” Robert says, sliding a glance at his wife.
“You know,” I say, rising to my feet. “I don’t think I’m the right real estate person for you.
I have no interest in working with or representing people who believe someone is exactly the same person at thirty-four that they were at nineteen.
It’s ludicrous, actually, and I think you should both be ashamed for being so gossipy.
My father,” I say, my rage barely controlled, “would be proud of me for keeping an open mind and giving people a chance to prove they’ve changed. ”
“It’s a real shame,” Lorna says, “that you’re going to let Trent Castillo drag down your reputation like this.”
“Florida seems like it’ll be a really great fit for you both,” I say, gathering my things and storming out of the house. I throw my car in reverse to turn around, and once I’m at the end of their long laneway, I pause to take a few deep breaths.
I should have said more, defended Trent more. But while I have dealt with a few thinly veiled comments since Trent moved in, no one has been that blunt.
No one has ever spoken to me like that at all.
And I realize now that part of that was probably the buffer of my doctor father and my lawyer mother.
The Sullivan name did mean a lot in Little Falls, and it makes me irrationally angry that Trent, who is such a good man, is being cast as a villain, someone who deceives the Sullivan women and drags them down.
The reality is that he’s only ever lifted me and Maggie up.
Next time someone tries to confront me about Trent and his past, I won’t hold back.