Chapter 29 Lindsay
Chapter twenty-nine
Lindsay
Istare at my phone longer than necessary.
No new messages. No replies. Nothing.
At some point, I realize I’m not waiting for a response anymore.
I’m waiting for proof that I still exist.
I tell myself to take it well. Arthur is stressed. Arthur is protective. Arthur is… Arthur.
He is a man who believes emotions are liabilities and words are tools.
But I translate the silence anyway.
You're optional.
I walk through the house with the phone in my hand, trying to shake it loose. I open a window. I close it. I straighten a pillow that doesn't need straightening.
I pretend I'm someone who doesn't care. The one who laughs it off. The one who understands that men like Arthur don't always communicate. The one who isn't waiting for scraps of belonging like it's a meal.
I consider reaching out again.
Then I picture the message being received by someone else first.
Categorized. Filtered. Deferred.
I lower the phone instead.
I hear Quinn downstairs taking a call, voice crisp, competent. She mentions the financial advisor that I chose earlier in the week.
"Yes. We'll be there."
When I come down, she is prepped and ready. "I got us a meeting with Billings Financial. He's available this morning, if that works for you."
I nod, grateful for something that needs me.
Arthur hasn't asked for anything at all.
I could tell her. I could let her be protective on my behalf.
But this isn't a staff problem.
This is a heart problem. And I'm not sure I'm allowed to admit that.
***
Quinn doesn’t slow as she approaches the reception desk.
“Good morning,” she says, crisp and efficient. “We’re here to see Mr. Billings.”
The receptionist smiles, checks a screen, and nods. “He’s expecting you.”
I stand beside Quinn, hands folded loosely in front of me, taking in the space while we wait. Clean lines. Neutral art. The kind of office designed to put people at ease without asking them to feel anything in particular.
Billings Financial.
It doesn’t feel intimidating. It feels… contained. Like problems come here to be sorted, not judged.
A man steps out from behind a glass door a moment later. Mid-fifties, tailored suit, glasses perched low on his nose. He smiles easily.
“Mrs. Dupree,” he says, offering his hand in turn. “I’m Tyrone Billings.”
His handshake is firm and professional.
We’re ushered into a conference room with a table that seats six and a view of the city that feels deliberately unromantic. Tyrone gestures for us to sit and takes his place across from us, already opening a slim folder.
“Congratulations,” he says. “I understand there’s been a significant change recently.”
I smile. "Thank you."
“I’ve reviewed the information you provided,” he says, looking at me now. “Your money is currently sitting in a few accounts. We’ll put it to work for you while keeping it protected.”
Something in my chest loosens just a fraction.
He continues, explaining his approach—oversight, transparency, independence. He speaks plainly, without jargon, pausing when my expression shifts like he’s checking to make sure I’m following.
I am. Mostly.
But my thoughts drift anyway.
Tyrone’s voice brings me back.
“I'm glad you chose us. Your interests will be properly protected,” he says calmly.
I nod.
Quinn asks a few sharp questions. Tyrone answers them easily.
“You’re doing fine,” he tells me near the end, meeting my eyes. “There’s no emergency here.”
No emergency.
The words settle over me like permission to breathe.
We wrap up quickly. No pressure. No urgency. Just a clear sense of order.
As we stand to leave, Quinn gathers her tablet. Tyrone hands me a card.
“If you need anything,” he says, “you call. Otherwise, we’ll check in next quarter.”
Outside the building, the city feels louder than it did before. More immediate.
Quinn glances at me as we walk. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. I just… needed to know things weren’t falling apart without me noticing.”
“They’re not,” she says. “You’re doing exceptionally well.”
I smile faintly at that.
On the drive back, I stare out the window, watching familiar streets slide past.
If things feel distant between Arthur and me, maybe it’s because they are.
But maybe there is something I can do.
When we pull into the driveway, I unbuckle and turn to Quinn before she can get out.
“I need you to get some groceries for me,” I say.
***
By noon I'm in the kitchen. I need something I can make with my hands. Something that turns the invisible work of being in this house into something real and undeniable.
Lasagna is not subtle. Lasagna is labor. It's time. It's heat. It's layers. It's the kind of dinner that says I planned for you.
I tell myself I'm doing it for Henry. He likes cheesy things. He's a growing boy. It's nice to have a meal that feels normal.
But underneath it all, I want to give Arthur something he can’t outsource.
The afternoon becomes a slow, determined march. I make fresh noodles. I chop onions. I brown beef. I stir sauce until it thickens and the whole kitchen smells like my mother's house, like comfort, like home.
Flour dusts my hands. Heat warms my cheeks. I move around the space as if I belong here.
The door opens, and Henry barrels through it.
“It smells like a restaurant in here,” Henry announces, backpack thumping to the floor.
“Homework,” I say without turning around. “Now.”
He groans, dramatic and long-suffering, but retreats down the hall anyway. “You’re cruel,” he calls. “Cruel and cheesy.”
Staff drift in and out. They offer help. I smile and say no. I don't want help. I want this to be mine.
Henry reappears long enough to steal a shredded-cheese casualty from the counter.
“Go,” I say, pointing with the spoon. “Algebra before carbs.”
He salutes and disappears again.
When the lasagna finally goes into the oven, I set the table. Plates. Napkins. Water glasses. Everything lined up like a promise. I even light a candle and immediately feel ridiculous for it, but I leave it anyway. If I'm going to be brave, I might as well be all the way brave.
Arthur gets home as the timer goes off. I hear the front door.
His footsteps. The subtle shift in the air that always happens when he walks in—like the house reorients around him.
My pulse jumps before I can stop it. I wipe my hands on a towel and step into the entryway with a smile that's a little too bright.
"I made dinner," I say. "Lasagna."
Arthur pauses. Looks past me toward the kitchen, scent reaching him.
His expression softens, just slightly. Appreciation flickers there, real enough to hurt.
Then he says, casual, almost apologetic, "I ate already.
On the way back from the office." He nods toward the kitchen. "But hey. It smells good."
I keep smiling because that's what you do when you're trying not to be a problem.
But inside, something goes very quiet.
"No problem," I say, voice too bright. "Henry will probably want some later."
Arthur nods, already turning toward his study. "I have a few calls to finish."
And just like that, he's gone. The door to his study closes with a soft, final click.
I stand alone in the hallway, holding a dish towel like a shield.
The candle flickers on the table, steady and unnoticed.
The house feels suddenly larger than before, the ceilings higher, the walls further apart.
Like someone took all the spaces that were starting to feel comfortable and stretched them back into unfamiliarity.
I walk back to the kitchen. Turn off the oven. Cover the lasagna. Put away the extra plates. Blow out the candle.
By the time Henry wanders back into the kitchen, homework finished, I've regrouped.
I've put my phone away. I've washed my face. I've become someone who can ask about his day without making it about me.
"Dad's working?" he asks, glancing toward the closed study door.
"Important calls," I say lightly. "Are you hungry?"
He grins—a real smile that makes his whole face light up. "I can't wait."
We eat at the kitchen island, just the two of us, leaning against the island. Henry tells me about school. About how Jenny got paired with him and didn't even roll her eyes this time.
I listen. I ask questions. I pretend.
"Dad's been weird lately," Henry says suddenly, fork paused mid-air.
I keep my face neutral. "Weird how?"
He shrugs one shoulder, thinking. "Quiet. More quiet than usual." He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. "Work stuff, probably."
Henry shakes his head. "No. It's different."
I nudge his plate. "Eat your vegetables too."
Henry makes a face but obeys. "The lasagna's really good," he says, mouth full. "You should make it every week."
My chest tightens. "Thank you."
After dinner, after Henry's homework, after he disappears into his room, I find myself drifting through the house again. Restless. Unsure where to land.
Arthur's study door is still closed.
I pause outside it, hand raised to knock, then let it fall back to my side.
I made dinner and you hurt my feelings by not eating it? I'm trying to belong here and you keep reminding me I don't? I think I might be falling in love with you and your silence made me feel two inches tall?
I walk away before I can change my mind.
The house settles into nighttime quiet. Lights dim. Staff move efficiently through final tasks before disappearing into their own quarters. I shower, brush my teeth, change into pajamas that still feel new—like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
When I climb into bed, my phone is waiting on the nightstand. I check it out of habit.
A text from my mom.
A notification from Quinn about tomorrow's schedule.
Nothing from Arthur.
I set the phone face-down, turn off the lamp, and lie in the dark. The ceiling above me is blank and endless.
You’re optional.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Force the thought away. Replace it with something kinder: He's afraid.
Not of me, specifically. But of this. Of what happens when you let someone new into your life. When you create space for them to matter. When you acknowledge that caring makes you vulnerable.
I roll onto my side, pulling the covers tighter.
In the morning, I'll try again.
Sleep comes slowly, reluctantly.
And somewhere between awake and dreaming, a thought surfaces—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore:
If I'm nothing to them—what am I doing here?