Chapter 8 Owen
Owen
Something was wrong with Grace.
I knew it in the same way I knew when a fire wasn’t really out yet—when the smoke thinned but the heat was still there, waiting.
I knew her moods. Knew the way her shoulders crept up toward her ears when she was stressed, like she was bracing for impact.
Knew the particular tightness around her mouth when she was holding something back, when words were stacking up behind her teeth with nowhere to go.
I knew the difference between her real smile and the one she put on for guests, the one that never quite reached her eyes.
Something had changed. More than just the breakup.
She was drinking tea instead of coffee. Grace had been a coffee person since college—three cups a day minimum, the stronger the better, the kind that could strip paint.
Now the pot sat untouched on the counter while she nursed chamomile like it was medicine.
Like something she needed instead of something she wanted.
She was pale in the mornings. Not just tired pale—everyone was tired—but that faint greenish cast that meant something wasn’t sitting right.
I’d catch her slipping away between breakfast courses, hand pressed flat to her stomach like she was steadying herself, disappearing into the bathroom and coming back with damp skin and a smile that asked me not to notice.
So I noticed. And said nothing.
She was wearing looser clothes. Grace had always dressed practically, but lately everything hung off her like she was trying to take up less space. Oversized sweaters. Flowy blouses. Nothing that showed the familiar lines of her body. Nothing that invited questions.
I watched. Cataloged. Filed it all away the way I did with everything that scared me.
Didn’t ask. Not yet.
Because asking would make it real. And real meant consequences. Real meant I couldn’t pretend I didn’t already know what the math was pointing to.
The knowledge sat heavy in my gut, a low, constant pressure I couldn’t shake. A suspicion I didn’t want confirmed. Because confirming it would mean facing what it meant—for her. For Marcus, wherever the hell he was now. For whatever came next, barreling toward us whether we were ready or not.
Six weeks since Marcus left. Six weeks since I’d found her on the kitchen floor, shaking and hollow-eyed, telling me about eleven years ending in a single conversation.
Six weeks.
The math wasn’t hard.
I kept showing up anyway. Saturdays like always.
Sometimes during the week, when my shifts lined up just right.
I brought groceries she forgot to buy. Fixed things that didn’t really need fixing.
Sat with her in the kitchen while the clock ticked and the space between us filled with all the things neither of us was saying.
Maybe I was waiting for her to tell me in her own time. Maybe I was afraid of what would happen when she did.
Or maybe I just didn’t know how to ask without blowing everything open.
At the station, I was falling apart in ways I couldn't hide.
Tuesday morning drill, and I was half a step behind on everything. Missed the timing on the ladder truck deployment. Fumbled the coupling on a hose connection I'd done a thousand times. Moved through the exercises like my body was there, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.
It was. My mind was forty minutes away, in a white Victorian kitchen, watching a woman I'd known half my life slowly unravel.
Cal found me after, when the rest of the crew had dispersed to clean equipment and prep for the next shift.
I was standing in the apparatus bay, staring at the engine without really seeing it, replaying the morning Grace had burned the cinnamon rolls because she'd been too busy throwing up to set the timer.
"Owen."
I turned. Cal was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that steady gaze fixed on me. The one that made you feel like he could see straight through to whatever you were hiding.
"Captain."
"You got a minute?"
It wasn't really a question. I followed him to the small office off the bay, the one that always smelled like coffee and paperwork. He closed the door behind us. Not a good sign.
"You good?" he asked.
"Fine."
Cal raised an eyebrow. "Try again."
I looked away. Through the window, I could see Murphy checking equipment, laughing at something Kowalski said. Normal. Easy. The kind of simple I used to be before everything got complicated.
"You've been off for weeks," Cal continued. "Since the wedding. Maybe before." He paused. "I'm not asking as your captain. I'm asking as someone who gives a damn."
"Just got a lot going on," I said finally.
"Want to talk about it?"
I thought about Grace. About the pregnancy I suspected but hadn't confirmed.
About Sarah's voice still echoing in my head, telling me I was too available, too predictable, too easy to leave.
About standing in Grace's kitchen week after week, watching her struggle, wanting to help but not knowing how.
"Not really."
Cal studied me for a long moment. I waited for him to push, the way I would have pushed if our positions were reversed.
He didn't.
"Alright," he said. "But whatever it is, you know we've got your back, yeah? That's what the crew is for. You don't have to carry everything alone."
Something shifted in my chest. A loosening I hadn't expected.
I'd spent my whole life being the one who showed up for others.
The reliable one. The steady one. The one you called when things fell apart because you knew he'd be there, no questions asked.
I'd built my identity around that. Built relationships around it.
And lost those relationships when being needed wasn't the same as being wanted.
But Cal wasn't talking about needing me. He was talking about being there for me. The same way I tried to be there for everyone else.
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
Cal nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now get your head right before afternoon drills. I need you sharp."
"Yes, sir."
He clapped me on the shoulder as he walked past. A simple gesture. The kind of thing that shouldn't mean much but somehow did.
Saturday morning, and I was in my usual spot at Grace's kitchen table, nursing a cup of too-sweet coffee, when it happened.
The breakfast service was in full swing. Grace moved between the dining room and kitchen with practiced efficiency. Elena handled the front desk. Mrs. Patterson settled in her usual window seat with a paperback and a pot of tea. Everything seemed normal. Familiar.
Grace was serving eggs to the couple in room three when I saw her freeze.
Just for a second. A stillness came over her whole body. Her face went pale. Her hand tightened on the edge of the plate. She set the food down with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, murmured something I couldn't hear, and walked calmly toward the back hallway.
Too calmly. The kind of controlled movement that meant she was barely holding it together.
I was out of my chair before I made the conscious decision to move.
The bathroom door was closed but not locked. I could hear her through the wood. The awful sounds of someone being sick, the gasping breaths between heaves. I knocked once, softly.
"Grace. It's me."
"I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
"I'm coming in."
I didn't wait for permission. Just opened the door and stepped inside.
She was bent over the toilet, gripping the porcelain with white-knuckled hands, her whole body shaking.
Her hair had fallen forward around her face, damp with sweat.
She looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes, and for a second I saw something that looked like relief flash across her face before she turned back to the bowl.
I didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate. Just stepped forward, gathered her hair back with one hand, and held it away from her face while the other rubbed slow circles on her back.
My mother used to do this when I was sick as a kid. She sat with me in the bathroom and rubbed my back until the worst of it passed.
When it was over, Grace slumped back against the wall, breathing hard. Her skin was clammy, too pale. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than one morning's sickness.
"Sorry," she managed. Her voice was hoarse. "Must have eaten something bad."
I looked at her.
Six weeks since Marcus left. All the things I hadn’t let myself say out loud.
The pieces clicked together with devastating clarity.
"Grace."
Something in my voice made her go still.
"How far along are you?"
The silence stretched between us, heavy and fragile.
Grace stared at me. I watched her cycle through emotions—shock that I'd figured it out, fear of what I might say. And underneath it all, a bone-deep exhaustion that came from carrying this alone for too long.
"How did you know?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I've known you for sixteen years." I crouched down so we were at eye level, my back against the bathroom door. "You think I wouldn't notice?"
She laughed, but it came out broken. More like a sob. "I thought I was hiding it better than that."
"You were. But I pay attention."
Grace closed her eyes. Leaned her head back against the wall. For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Just breathed. In and out.
"Seven weeks," she said finally. "Maybe eight. I haven't been to a doctor yet."
Seven weeks. The timeline confirmed what I'd already calculated. This was Marcus's baby. Conceived before he left, before Emma, before everything fell apart.
"Does he know?"
Grace opened her eyes. The look in them made something twist in my chest.
"He blocked my number." Her voice was flat. Hollow. "Changed his email. I tried for three days to reach him, and he's just… gone. Like I never existed."