Chapter 34 Andrea #2
I also thought about Finneas. About what he told me on the porch steps that night, his mother in the hospital bed, the dying wish, the guilt.
He did it wrong. He should have told me, should have let me be part of the decision instead of shutting me out.
But the reason underneath the terrible execution wasn’t cruelty.
It was a man who thought his mother was dying, who had been raised to believe that family duty was everything, who made a choice under pressure that ripped both of us apart.
I wasn’t ready to forgive him. But I could understand him, and understanding was enough to share a city with.
Three days later, I told him.
He was on the bench after breakfast, coffee in hand. I stood at the railing with my back to the garden and my hands in my pockets because they needed to be anchored somewhere.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “I’m going back to Atlanta with you.”
His coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. He stared at me.
“The baby needs both parents. I can’t raise him here with you flying back and forth, and you can’t keep running your life from a café. It doesn’t work for either of us.” I kept my voice even. “This isn’t me forgiving you. This is a practical decision for our son. We’re co-parents.”
“Andrea...”
“That’s what this is. Co-parents. Clear?”
He put the coffee down. He laughed, a real laugh, one I’d heard maybe twice in my life. Before I could process it he was off the bench, across the porch, his hands on my waist, lifting me up and spinning me.
I yelped and grabbed his shoulders. “I’m literally pregnant, put me down!”
He put me down. He was grinning, the full one, teeth and all. I’d seen it maybe three times in the entire time I’d known him and every time it transformed his whole face into something I couldn’t look away from.
“Stop smiling like that.”
“I can’t.”
“You look deranged.”
“I don’t care.”
I tried to scowl. The baby fluttered at the sound of his voice, which was a betrayal I was going to bring up with my son later.
His grin faded into something more serious. “You’ll stay at the estate. There’s more than enough room, and I want you close in case you need anything.”
“I’m not moving into your house, Finneas.”
“It’s not about us. It’s about the baby. The estate has security, space, staff if you need help. Getting your own place means finding somewhere, setting it up, doing everything alone.”
“I’ve been doing everything alone for months. I’m good at it.”
“I know you are. That’s not what I’m saying.”
I chewed on my lip. He wasn’t wrong about the logistics. Apartment hunting while five months pregnant in a city I’d fled sounded exhausting, and the estate was massive enough that we could live there without being on top of each other.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll stay. For now. But this isn’t permanent. If I want my own place later, I’m getting one, and you don’t get a say in that.”
“Okay.”
“And if it’s not working, if living there feels wrong for any reason, I leave. No arguments, no guilt, no twelve hours on a lawn.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “No lawn sitting. Got it.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. Whatever you need, Andrea. Your terms.”
My terms. I’d hold him to that.
Saying goodbye to Whitebrook was harder than I expected.
I told Grandma that evening over tea. She was quiet while I explained, stirring her cup, and I braced myself for the pushback.
“Good,” she said.
“Good?”
“You can’t raise a baby in a town where his father’s parked outside in a rental car. Go home. Build something. If it doesn’t work, this house isn’t going anywhere.”
That was Grandma. No drama, no guilt. Just the truth, served with chamomile.
I packed my room while she hovered in the doorway pretending she wasn’t crying.
I folded clothes into the same suitcases I’d arrived with, took the books off the nightstand, stripped the bed.
The quilt my mother sewed I left on the mattress.
I ran my hand over the stitching before I pulled away because it belonged in this house, not in Atlanta.
“Grandma, I’m not dying. I’m moving back to Atlanta. You’ve been there.”
“I know.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I just liked having you home.”
“Finneas said he’d fly you out whenever you want. Monthly, if you want. He’s annoyingly serious about it.”
“Good. I’ll hold him to it.”
We hugged in the doorway. I breathed in lavender, garden soil, the smell that had been home since I was fifteen.
The therapy group goodbye was chaos. Adela crushed me so hard my ribs creaked. “If he screws up again, call me. I will drive to Atlanta.”
Hallie was crying with mascara running down her face. “It’s allergies.”
“Hallie, your mascara is on your chin.”
“I have sensitive eyes. It’s a medical condition.”
Tara handed me a bag that weighed more than it should have. Inside was a first aid kit, six months of prenatal vitamins organized by week in labeled bags, a folder of baby-safe recipes, and a handwritten note. Call me anytime. I mean it.
Finneas drove. Grandma waved from the porch until we turned the corner. I watched in the side mirror until the house disappeared behind the trees.
The highway hummed under the tires. Mountains flattened into farmland, farmland into suburbs. My hand was on my belly, the ultrasound photos in my bag, Atlanta getting closer with every mile.
“Thank you,” Finneas said. “For giving me this chance.”
“Don’t waste it.”
“I won’t.”
I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. The baby was pressing on my bladder, my back ached. I fell asleep somewhere on the highway with my hand on my stomach and the sun warm on my face, heading back to the city I’d left in pieces.
Not sure if I was brave or stupid for going back. I’d figure it out when I got there.