Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
“Would you like some pasta?”
Some days slipped by without leaving a mark.
No exhilaratingly great days, but no bad ones either.
I found a strange comfort in that lately: the quiet hum of routine wrapping itself around me like a blanket I didn’t ask for but wasn’t ready to shake off.
It had been a week since the airfield, since I told Paul goodbye without really saying the word.
Since then, I realized that life, even pregnant life, wasn’t always dramatic: sometimes it was just answering emails, remembering to eat, and pretending that ginger tea became my personality trait.
I was still working late at Tommo, not because I had to, but because being home too early gave my thoughts too much room to stretch.
Nanaimo felt almost too quiet, minus the occasional seagull screaming bloody horror.
Most tourists moved back to the Mainland, and business was slow.
It seemed everyone had already left. The office lights were dimmed to that awkward after-hours glow, and the only sound was the occasional hum from the printer that no one had turned off.
I closed my laptop with a sigh, rubbing a hand over my face.
My body felt heavier these days, like every cell was working overtime, which, technically, it was.
I’d started showing, just a bit, but I covered it up neatly with layers—lucky for me, it was getting colder by the day.
I reached for my puffer coat when I felt it, that subtle shift in the air.
He didn’t say anything at first, simply appeared near my desk, pretending to redo some cables behind my monitor, like he couldn’t wait until morning. I glanced up, catching him in the act.
“Screen’s still working fine, Andersen,” I said, my voice lighter than I expected.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Never hurts to double-check, King.”
He hesitated, like he wanted to fill the space between us with something: a joke, a memory, maybe even an apology he didn’t know how to phrase.
But instead, he said the weirdest thing: “Would you like some pasta?”
Which reminded me I was famished and hadn’t eaten anything since the questionable croissant Mia had given me around noon.
He just gave a slight nod and walked away, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little less tense than they used to be.
And then he came back, two minutes later, with a Styrofoam box filled to the brim with garlicky goodness.
I forgot to thank him. Just dove straight in with a plastic fork, pasta sauce spilling everywhere, including on his shirt.
“You look good when you eat like that.” He took a napkin to remove a small pasta stain from my cheek, but stopped halfway.
There was a time I would’ve leaned into that touch.
Now, I was grateful he was here, and that he knew exactly what I craved: a box of the finest spaghetti a la Andersen. Progress, I guess.
“He fed you pasta?”
Mia’s voice cut through my focus like a well-aimed dart. I looked up from my screen to see her leaning against my desk, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in full mom-friend mode.
“He didn’t feed me pasta,” I deadpanned. “He had pasta, and I was hungry like a wolf for the first time in weeks.”
Mia watched me, not with pity, but with that quiet assessment she mastered over the years.
“You’re holding up,” she finally said, “better than I thought.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. I know you. I’m so proud of you, babe. Even if you still suck at feeding yourself. And, by the way, I should be offended you preferred his pasta over my quinoa salad.”
I let out a soft laugh. “One day at a time. And the body wants what it wants, Mia. Carbs win.”
She winced and then leaned in, lowering her voice. “What about him? What’s his game now?”
“You never know with him, but I don’t think there’s a game anymore,” I said. “Still orbiting, I guess, in his weird, silent-satellite way, communicating through food and clumsy gestures that would have been cute in different circumstances.”
Mia nodded like that was exactly what she expected. “Let him orbit. Just don’t let him pull you back into his gravity .”
Saturday mornings used to mean sleeping in: now, they meant budgeting spreadsheets, prenatal vitamins, and pretending I wasn’t going to miss Adam when he left for Stanford, although that was still a few months away.
I sat at the kitchen table, hair messily tied up in a scrunchie, scribbling notes about expenses while Dad read a book and Adam scrolled through his phone, probably texting his new and mysterious future university sweetheart.
It all felt normal and peaceful, my silent refuge.
Then the doorbell rang: Adam groaned but got up to answer it.
I was certain we weren’t expecting anyone.
A minute later, Paul’s voice drifted in.
“Brought those groceries… wasn’t sure if you still needed almond milk or if that was just a phase.”
I shook my head with a small smile, hearing Adam’s sarcastic reply. “She’s too polite to tell you she prefers oat milk.”
When Paul stepped into the kitchen—blushing and embarrassed—he didn’t linger, only placed the bags down, gave Dad a nod, gave me a peck on the cheek, and muttered, “Call if you need anything.”
“Do you want to stay for breakfast?” Dad put his book down on his knees.
Paul looked at me, confused, looking for the correct answer written on my face, or a safety net, but I had absolutely no clue myself.
Adam chipped in instead. “Dad, seriously? Do we really need to do this?”
“I appreciate that,” Paul said. “I do. But I was checking in on Alicia and… I’d better go now. Some other time, maybe.”
And just like that, he was gone again. It was strange how ordinary it had become, this quiet rhythm where Paul showed up in small ways, but never too close or long enough to stir things up.
I leaned back in my chair, letting my hand rest absentmindedly on my stomach.
Twelve weeks. The future still felt like an abstract painting, shapes I couldn’t fully define yet.
Adam would be gone, Paul was trying, but still a question mark; Dad was in relatively good health, with some off days here and there, but generally happy, especially since Hannah—I believed—had become someone more than just a caretaker.
But for now, things felt steady. Or so I thought.