Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Vesper
Alberto and Callaway arrive while I’m perched on one of the kitchen barstools. Benji’s ginger-orange juice sits in front of me. I’m halfway through a snack I didn’t ask for but am eating anyway because my body apparently has opinions now and it doesn’t consult me.
Also, Benji swears that if I eat small meals during the day I won’t have morning sickness. So far, I haven’t had any new discussions with the porcelain gods. Maybe he’s right. I guess he is the food expert, being a chef and all.
Cally takes one look at me and his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to grin and failing because there’s an edge behind those beautiful eyes.
“You look less . . .” He gestures vaguely at my face, like he’s searching for the right insult that won’t make me cry. “Flustered?”
“It’s probably all the juices Benji’s been forcing on me,” I say, lifting the cup. “I’m basically one sip away from turning into a juiced-up rabbit.”
Cally’s laugh comes easy.
“What did the doctor say?” he asks at the exact same time Monty says, “Okay, what’s the plan? Are we keeping the baby?”
I stare at him.
This isn’t a polite stare. This is my brain slamming into a wall at full speed and leaving a dent. This is my nervous system pulling the plug. Full-body shutdown. The world quieting except for one sentence that now lives under my skin.
Are we keeping the baby?
Not, are you.
We.
Monty said we like it’s a fact. As if it has been decided and arranged. Like I’m not standing here with a life-altering truth in my uterus and two men in my line of sight who could wreck me without trying.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Because the answer is immediate. Violent in its certainty.
Yes. Of course I am.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t plan for this. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a five-year roadmap, or even a five-minute one. It doesn’t matter that I’m a walking disaster who once killed a cactus because I “forgot” it needed water and not, like, emotional support.
This baby is mine.
That realization doesn’t arrive gently. It arrives like a door swinging open inside me, letting in air I didn’t know I was starving for.
And maybe I should be terrified. Maybe I should be sobbing, bargaining with the ceiling, rewriting every mistake I’ve ever made.
But the fear only lives around the edges, whispering its bullshit list: You’ll screw this up. You’ll fail. You’ll be alone.
It doesn’t change anything.
Then my brain catches up to Monty’s phrasing and my chest does that awful thing where it forgets how to expand.
Are we keeping the baby?
We as in . . . us.
We as in . . . him.
We as in . . . Cally too?
My lungs seize, and of course—because I’m me—I look at Callaway like he’s my emotional translator.
Cally is watching me like he’s bracing for impact. Like he already knows I’m about to bolt.
And Monty . . . Monty looks calm, which is infuriating because he’s never calm. Not really. He’s contained. There’s a difference. His suit is immaculate, jacket smooth, collar crisp, like he stepped into this conversation dressed for war and decided the armor should be expensive.
He doesn’t look away.
It’s too much. Him looking at me like that. Like I’m not a temporary crisis. Like I’m a decision.
My stomach rolls. My palms go slick.
And because I always do, I panic.
I swallow, hard, and my voice scratches out like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Monty—”
I push off the stool so fast it squeaks, and I start pacing toward the window like moving will stop the spiral in my head. My fingers press to my forehead, as if I can physically shove the terror back where it came from.
“This isn’t—” I suck in a breath that won’t settle. “You guys can leave me to deal with this, okay? It’s too complicated.”
The silence that follows is brutal.
Then Cally says, very calmly, “What’s complicated?”
I spin, exasperated, because sometimes he plays dumb like it’s a love language.
“This.” I wave a hand down at my middle, the gesture useless and too big, like I’m trying to point at a disaster I can’t name. “You don’t have to—step in. Fix things. Rearrange your lives because I didn’t have time to get my shot and a condom didn’t do its job. I’m the one who fucked up.”
Monty blinks once. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s forcing patience into his body.
“Who said anything about fucking up?”
I bark out a laugh that doesn’t sound like me. It sounds like a woman trying to pretend she’s fine when she’s not fine at all.
“Come on.”
Something changes in his face. Not softness. Not mercy. Something deeper. Something that makes me want to step back and step closer at the same time.
“You really think that’s what I see when I look at you?” he asks.
The words slip under my skin, and my body betrays me anyway—eyes burning, breath catching, every answer I’ve ever practiced dissolving before it reaches my mouth.
Because I don’t know how to tell him that my brain is built like an emergency exit.
That the moment I feel wanted, I start searching for the fire.
This is why I stay away from anything and everyone.
It could be the loss of my mother or the trauma I experienced after giving them everything and having our world implode.
Who knows? But now . . . I do what I do best.
I deflect.
I drag my hands through my hair, forcing a laugh into my voice like I’m putting on mascara with shaking fingers.
“I mean, I knew you two had a hero complex, but this is next-level.” I widen my eyes, go full Vesper-the-Entertainer.
“Do you ever just sit back and let people handle their own disasters? Or do you have, like, a schedule?”
Neither of them smiles.
Not even a little.
Cally’s expression goes still, and that’s when I know I’ve pushed too far. Sunshine Callaway, the man who can joke his way out of anything, looks at me like I just punched him in the ribs.
My stomach drops.
He exhales slowly. “You really think we’re here because we feel obligated?”
I hesitate, because I don’t want to say yes.
But my whole life has taught me that people leave when it gets hard. People stay until you stop being convenient.
So I whisper, “Aren’t you?”
Cally steps closer, and his voice goes calm in a way that scares me more than anger.
“I’m here,” he says, “because you matter to me. You’re my best friend. And when I need you, you’re there—no matter the time, no matter the reason. Also, I fucking love you. I never stopped.”
His gaze locks onto mine, and something inside me goes liquid, like I could dissolve right here.
Because I want to believe him.
God, I want to, so bad. But belief feels like standing on a ledge with no railing.
Cally glances at Monty, and the air changes.
“Not sure why he would stay,” Cally says, and his smile is small and sad, “but I know how much he loves you too.”
Monty’s jaw tightens, like the word love is both a truth and a bruise.
Cally keeps going, voice softer now. “We both do. No matter how hard you push. We’re waiting for you to . . . let us.”
The last part isn’t said like a demand.
It’s said like a plea, but does that mean he’s asking me to choose?
My chest hurts, and I hate that it hurts, because pain means hope has already moved in.
“I can’t fucking choose,” I crack, because my voice is my only weapon and it’s failing me. “Not like this.”
“No one is asking you to choose,” Monty says, and he moves closer.
God, he moves like he owns space. Like the world shifts to accommodate him, and when he’s near me, I feel it—this pull that makes my skin remember things I try to forget.
He takes my hand.
Not gently. Not like I’m fragile. Like I’m his.
His lips press to my open palm, and the kiss is so intimate, so quietly obscene, it makes my knees go weak. Heat slides through me, wrong timing, wrong place, right man.
“We’ll focus on you,” he says against my skin, voice low, “and the baby.”
“That’s not fair,” I breathe, because my heart is sprinting and my brain is screaming. “To either one of you. You two should be—”
“Stop,” Cally cuts in, and his voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it. “You know how you hate when we decide what you should do with your life?”
I blink at him.
“It goes both ways,” he says. “If I wanted to move on, I would’ve. Years ago.”
His hand lifts, fingers brushing my chin with a tenderness that makes my eyes sting all over again.
“You can’t move on,” he adds quietly, “when you’ve already surrendered your heart and your soul.”
The words hit like a confession and an accusation all at once.
“That summer,” Cally says, “I gave everything. I don’t want it back.” His smile turns crooked, self-deprecating, like he’s trying to make this easier for me even while he’s bleeding. “Sure, I’m selfish. Sometimes I beg you to choose me instead of him.”
He glares at Monty like it’s a reflex.
“I’m selfish and . . .” He exhales. “That’s a problem we need to solve so we don’t hurt you. Or the baby.”
Then he leans close, breath near my mouth—close enough my body reacts before my brain can intervene—and he kisses the tip of my nose.
A soft, ridiculous kiss that feels like a promise.
I stutter like an idiot.
Monty watches me with that contained intensity, like he’s taking notes on every tremor in my face. Like he’s memorizing me in case he needs to fight for me.
And I hate it. I hate how safe it makes me feel because safety is addictive, and I have never trusted anything that feels good.
This is too much.
He should leave. They both should. We should pause this conversation and resume in eighteen years when I’m no longer actively falling apart.
When I can point at my life and say, See? I did it. I didn’t need anyone.
I swallow. “Cal. Monty . . .”
“You should think about moving in with us,” Monty says.
The words land like a punch to the lungs.
My laugh bursts out, startled and disbelieving. “What?”