Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
“He can’t hurt me on my own turf, kid.”
It started with something simple—or as simple as Paul Andersen could manage. Monday afternoon, he hovered by my desk again, but this time he didn’t bring tea or vitamins, that yoga mat I was waiting for, or any of his awkward peace offerings. He brought… words—or Paul’s finest attempt at them.
“I was thinking…” he began, voice low, like he was afraid HR or his IT mates might overhear vulnerability. “Maybe we should talk, but not here. I don’t know, properly. I want to learn, like, you know… more.”
I glanced up, surprised by how nervous he looked: hands fidgeting and cupping his elbows, weight shifting from foot to foot like the floor was unsteady.
This man, who charmed half the population without even trying, just armed with a smile and a look like he cared, was uneasy.
Around me, of all people, as if I didn’t know him in and out, at his best and absolute worst. I could’ve said no.
I remembered vividly how he’d behaved the last time I wanted to talk.
But something about the way he asked, and because it felt overdue, made me pause and think where and how I would like to meet him, on my terms this time.
“Then let’s talk tomorrow,” I said, closing my laptop. “I’ll pick you up, it’s on the way. Bring a warm sweater and a scarf, Andersen.”
His brows knitted together, but he didn’t argue, nodded swiftly like he knew better than to ask where we were going—he knew anyway.
“Are you sure you want to go there with him?” Adam asked the following morning, echoing Mia’s doubts after I had told her about my plan the previous day. He’d made sure to emphasize him with all the spite his gentle soul could muster.
“If he wants to talk, I’ll let him talk. He can’t hurt me on my own turf, kid.”
“Life’s not always black and white, Adam, you’ll learn that soon enough. Especially with my grandchild on the way,” Dad chipped in, recently more talkative and philosophical than ever.
Then, pure Adam launched his guns. “I don’t know, guys, I still fantasize about kicking his ass all the way back to Oregon or Idaho, or wherever this sorry dude is from.”
Didn’t we all, at least for a moment, I thought.
“Oregon. They have good hazelnuts there.”
My family let out the most genuine, uncontrollable shriek of laughter in weeks and I took that as a cue to take the truck keys and pick up the man who wanted to talk.
Paul was already waiting at the familiar doorstep when I drove in.
Large, red hoodie, almost a size or two too big—or maybe he’d lost more weight—a dark jacket in his hand.
He traced his fingers through his hair when he saw me, a sign I recognized all too well.
Uncertainty. A quiet nod and an exchange of heys.
But he’d gotten in the car, and that’s what mattered.
The drive to the airfield was filled with the kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable—just there. My playlist, Alicia’s Flight Mode, was on, and the Faith No More rendition of Easy (Like Sunday Morning) was echoing through the speakers—the ultimate song about freedom.
When the verses hit, Paul stopped staring out the window and turned toward me. I felt him eyeing me with those big blues, taking in my sunlit profile, glancing at my belly, shyly, probably acknowledging some changes that only he could see.
“Is that seat belt… comfortable?” Paul whispered.
Translation from Paul to English: Are you comfortable?
“It’s fine. I’m not showing much yet, might need to adjust it later.” I answered matter-of-factly, without thinking how that’d affect him. Showing. Later. Perhaps this was the first time it felt real to him.
“Oh.” That’s all he said for another five or so minutes, pretending to listen to another song from my playlist.
And then, after finding the courage like his life depended on it, “I know you have no reason to believe me, but you… look beautiful, Alicia.”
I kept my eyes on the road, letting the familiar curves and stretches of highway calm my nerves. This… was unexpected. When we pulled up, he stepped out slowly, taking in the open sky, the distant hum of a tow plane, the gliders resting like birds waiting for a breeze.
“This is…” he started, but words failed him.
I offered him a small tour of the place that felt like mine, then I just walked toward the fence, knowing he’d follow.
For a while, we just stood there. Watching students prep a glider, laughter carried by the wind, the kind of simple joy that didn’t belong to people like us anymore, and Paul finally broke the silence.
“I told her everything,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “In Portland. My ex. I thought… I thought I could hold it together and keep chasing that clean slate. But she knew something was off—and I cracked.”
I didn’t say anything and just let him speak.
“She left, obviously. Can’t blame her. Another woman whose heart I broke.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Guess I’m not very good at being anyone’s idea of ‘safe.’”
He kicked at a pebble near his boot like it had offended him in some way.
“My mom…” he continued, quieter now. “She told me if I didn’t sort myself out, I’d lose more than just girlfriends. Said I was chasing ghosts and some idea of love that doesn’t exist outside of blues and quotes of drunkards and losers.”
He really was thinner, paler, but there was something else: a rawness like Portland hadn’t just broken hearts—it had cracked open the illusion he’d been living in.
“I’m… trying,” he admitted, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I don’t know what being decent looks like, but I want to try… I don’t know. Not screw this up more than I already have.”
The wind caught his hair, pushing it into his eyes, and he didn’t bother fixing it.
James—Echo—waved at me and sent a playful wink from a distance, but this time didn’t stop for a friendly chat.
Paul just eyed him all the way until he went inside the hangar, part curiosity, part sadness, but didn’t say anything.
“They said it’s a girl,” I said softly, watching a small Cessna begin its ascent, smooth and effortless against the sky. Paul froze, as if he didn’t quite understand where this came from or what it meant.
“A girl…” he echoed, almost to himself. “They know so soon?”
“Yeah, good doctors can tell or make an informed guess, by now. I also did a test last week, and the information was there, so I know for sure. I will torture her with airplanes one day,” I added after a few seconds of silence, looking at the sky with a dreamy smile.
He tried to follow my gaze and see the future I had seen, and after a long moment, he whispered, his honesty bare, almost touching, “I don’t know how to be a dad.”
“I know,” I replied, no judgment in my voice.
“I don’t know how to be a mom, either. And I don’t expect you to be involved, Paul, I really don’t.
When you were gone—and I thought you were gone for good—I realized I have a support system that chooses me.
For me, Paul. Not because they feel obliged to, but because they want to.
Do you understand the difference, Paul?”
We stood there, side by side, two people bound by something neither of us had planned for, staring at a future neither of us could predict. Finally, he turned to me, eyes softer than I’d seen in weeks.
“I get it. I get all of it. I’m a coward. I break things. Before, I broke things for sport. But I really want to try to be better. I haven’t had a sip in four weeks,” he said. “Not for whatever we were. But for her. And for you. Even if I don’t know what that means yet.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing against something fragile inside me.
I didn’t say thank you and didn’t offer comfort, because it wasn’t mine to give anymore.
Instead, I stepped closer, rising on my toes, and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel his breath hitch in surprise.
When I pulled back, I met his eyes and said, quietly but clearly, “I hope you get better, Paul. Not for me. Not for a girl who might look like you and who might break your heart one day. But for yourself.”
His lips parted, but no words came as I let a sad smile curve my lips, my fingers brushing his sleeve, one last time.
“And I say that all out of love, Paul Andersen. Not the one that consumes the soul anymore, not the one that feels like the one, but love—the plain and simple.”
And with that, I turned away, walking back toward the car, the wind at my back, my heart heavy like a stone, but…
free. Just me. I didn’t look back, and he didn’t follow me, just stood there, frozen in space and time.
And as I drove away from the airfield, I realized something profound and straightforward: some storms weren’t meant to be chased twice, and some stories weren’t meant to be rewritten.
It was Paul’s decision whether he wanted to edit his story to be part of hers.
I loved him once, and once was enough for a lifetime.