Chapter 43 Rhea
FORTY-THREE
RHEA
“I don’t need rescuing. I need to be treated like a partner, not a project.”
His mouth tightens. “Got it,” he says, and looks away. Just two words. Quiet. Clipped. But I see it in his eyes—I’ve hurt him.
Too blunt. Too cold. Not grateful enough.
But the truth is, I’m holding on by a thread. And all I want right now is to get inside my house, crawl into my bed—maybe even pull Esme in beside me—and sleep. For a night. For a lifetime.
The week of sleepless nights and hallway pacing, of cafeteria food and adrenaline-fueled worry, settles heavy in my bones. My arms ache from carrying her, my head pounds from saying and feeling too much.
Spencer grabs the bags—mostly things he conjured in Boston like some kind of travel fairy godfather—and carries them to the door.
I shift Esme on my hip. She’s asleep again, warm and heavy against my chest.
“May I?” he asks, reaching for her.
“Of course.”
He takes her with such care, like she’s made of porcelain and gold. Then he kisses her cheeks—one, then the other—and pulls her close, resting his cheek against hers.
His voice is soft, almost breaking. “Ton papa t’aime, ma petite.” Your daddy loves you, little one.
And Esme, eyes still closed, presses her lips against his jaw and whispers, “Papa.”
Just one word. But it lands like a miracle. And I see the tears form in his eyes.
I have to look away. Because it’s beautiful and intimate and more than I can handle without breaking once again.
He gently lays Esme on the couch, tucking a throw blanket around her like he’s done it a dozens of times before. Then he turns to me, his voice low. “I better get on the road. Let the two of you settle in.”
He says it as if he’s resigned to the fact that he’s the one on the outside.
I nod, not able to summon the energy for anything more.
He steps closer and kisses the top of my head—tender, careful. I reach for him, wrap my arms around his waist, and pull him in. We hold each other for a long moment, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking.
Our lips don’t meet. Instead, our bodies seem to speak, softly, and honestly.
This could be something good. But it just feels so damned hard right now.
He rests his chin briefly on the top of my head and then lets go.
“Thanks again for everything,” I whisper.
And then, he’s gone.
I find a slice of week-old pizza in the fridge and eat it cold, washing it down with a glass of tap water. No ceremony. No dishes. Just survival.
I carry Esme to her bed—her own bed, her own sheets, her familiar stuffed animals—and tuck her in without waking her. She barely stirs.
Then I crawl into my own bed, and when I wake, it’s light out again.
It’s the next morning.
And from down the hall, I hear it—her voice, clear and insistent.
“MaMa! Sant! Sant!” She’s running into the room, cloth croissant in hand, like we’ve never skipped a beat.
I pull her into bed and kiss her warm, round cheeks.
“Papa?” she asks, eyes wide and hopeful.
And my heart lurches—because somehow, in just a handful of days, this little girl has already grown used to having her Papa close.
I grab my phone, hoping for a message from him. Instead, it’s Laney:
How’s our little shining star doing? Good to be home? Call me.
So I do.
“You told him you don’t need rescuing?” she says, drawing out her words. “Interesting.”
“Well, of course I don’t. The whole damned thing is so patriarchal I can’t stand it. I’ll be home full-time with Esme baking pies and ironing handkerchiefs while he jets back and forth from the city? It’s bullshit.”
“Oh, totally,” she deadpans. “He’s such an ass. All that crap he pulled last week—the consult, the medivac, planting himself at the hospital—classic patriarchy at work.”
“Come on. That’s different.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe, in his eyes, you do need rescuing. It’s not impossible that you’re sending some mixed messages, my friend.”
“So what would you have me do? Give up my job? My house? You? All to build his version of some happy little family by the sea?”
I hear it as I say it—how overblown I sound. Defensive. Tired.
“Is that really what he asked you to do?” she asks calmly. “Or did you hear it that way because you’re scared?”
“Scared of what?” I snap, but the bite is more fear than fight.
“Of letting yourself need someone. Of sharing choices. Of not being the only one in charge. Scared of admitting that—although you can do it alone—it’s not really what you want.”
Ouch. Truth hurts the most when it lands square.
I take a breath.
“She called him Papa yesterday,” I whisper. “When he dropped us off.”
Laney waits a beat, her voice softer now. “And…?”
“And yes—it thrilled me. And terrified me. And confused the hell out of me.”
“Sounds about right.” She laughs. “Rhea, everything worth having comes with a cost. The trick is figuring out whether the price of having it is higher than the price of walking away.”
I’m crying now.
“I’m scared of leaving you, too,” I say. “You’re my only true family.”
“Well,” she says, her voice warming. “Unlike you, I have zero pride. So before you go running off with Mr. Money, I’ll need a pre-nup that says he’ll fly me and my family out as often as needed to wherever you are. Non-negotiable.”
That’s Laney. She calls me out. Makes me cry. Sets me straight.
And somehow, still manages to leave me laughing.