Chapter 12 Grace
Grace
Marcus was saying all the right things.
“I was an idiot,” he said, sitting across from me at Gran’s kitchen table.
“Emma was… I don’t even know what she was.
An escape, maybe. Things between us had gotten so routine, and she was new and exciting, and I convinced myself that meant something.
” He shook his head, expressing regret. “But losing you—really losing you—it made me realize what I’d thrown away. She wasn’t you, Grace. No one is.”
His hand reached across the table and covered mine. Warm. Familiar. Eleven years of muscle memory told me this was comfort, this was love, this was home.
But his touch felt wrong.
I couldn’t explain it. His hands were the same hands that had held mine a thousand times before. But now I noticed things I hadn’t before. How soft his palms were. Manicured nails, smooth skin—the hands of someone who’d never built anything with them.
Owen’s hands were calloused. Rough from work, from hauling hose and sanding wood and fixing things that needed fixing. When Owen touched me, I could feel the history in his skin. The labor. The care.
I pushed the comparison away.
Marcus’s cologne drifted across the table, something expensive and unfamiliar. He’d never worn cologne when we were together. This was new. Emma’s influence, maybe. Or some post-breakup reinvention I wasn’t part of.
Owen smelled like soap and sawdust and coffee. Like the carriage house. Like safety itself.
Stop it, I told myself. Stop comparing them.
“Grace?” Marcus squeezed my hand. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I pulled my hand back and reached for my tea. “Just tired.”
“You should rest more.” His voice was gentle, concerned. “The baby needs you healthy.”
The baby. Not our baby. Just the baby—like it was a project we were collaborating on.
I was seven months pregnant. Marcus was the father. I told myself I owed them both a chance to be a family. Didn’t I?
“I’m being careful,” I said. “Doc Martinez says everything looks good.”
“I want to come to the next appointment.” Marcus leaned forward, earnest. “I’ve missed so much already. I want to be there for everything from now on.”
Everything from now on—like the last seven months hadn’t happened. Like he could just pick up where we’d left off, before Emma, before the engagement, before he’d erased me from his life.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “The next one’s Thursday.”
Marcus smiled. That familiar smile—the one that used to make my heart flip. Now it just made me tired.
“Thank you,” he said. “For not shutting the door.”
I thought about all the doors he’d closed without looking back. The calls that never went through. The emails that bounced. The weeks I spent talking to silence.
I nodded and didn’t say what I was thinking: I haven’t decided anything yet.
I started testing him.
Not on purpose. Not at first. I just started watching and paying attention the way Gran always told me to pay attention. People show you who they are, Grace. You just have to be willing to see it.
I watched Marcus with the guests at breakfast. He was charming, of course. He’d always been charming. He told stories about his work, asked questions about their travels, and made Mrs. Patterson laugh with an anecdote about a client in Tokyo.
But I noticed the edge to it now. The way his warmth felt performed rather than felt. The way his eyes kept drifting to his phone—even mid-conversation—like the people in front of him were placeholders for something more important.
Owen never looked at his phone when he talked to someone. Owen gave you his full attention every time, like whatever you were saying mattered to him too.
I watched Marcus when I asked for help with the dishes.
He said yes immediately, rolled up his sleeves, and stood beside me at the sink.
But between plates, his hands kept drifting to his pocket.
I caught him texting someone, thumbs moving quickly, a small smile on his face that had nothing to do with me.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Work.” He pocketed the phone. “Sorry. Where were we?”
Work. Maybe. Or maybe not. I didn’t have the energy to push.
I watched his face when I talked about the future—my future. The B&B, the renovations, the plans I’d been making for the baby’s first year.
Marcus smiled. Nodded. Said encouraging things. Something in my chest warmed. He was trying. He was saying the right things.
Then: “I actually reached out to a hospitality management firm last week. A friend of mine runs it. Once the baby comes, they could take over the day-to-day operations so you’re freed up.”
The warmth curdled.
He’d already reached out. Already made calls. Already started planning what to do with my grandmother’s house without asking what I wanted.
“I like doing everything myself,” I said carefully. “That’s kind of the point.”
Marcus’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course. I just mean, with a newborn, you might want options. I’m not saying we have to do anything. I’m just laying groundwork.”
Laying groundwork. For a future he’d already started building without asking where I wanted to live inside it.
I smiled back and said nothing.
But I was paying attention now.
Over dinner that night, Marcus painted a picture of our future.
He’d ordered takeout—his choice—from the new French bistro in Millbrook. Rich sauces and heavy creams that made my pregnancy stomach turn. I’d mentioned just last week that anything too rich sent me running for the bathroom, but he’d ordered coq au vin and beef bourguignon anyway.
“They had incredible reviews,” he said, spooning sauce over his plate. “Figured we should treat ourselves.”
I pushed a potato through the sauce and let him talk.
“There’s an apartment complex near my office,” he said. “Two bedrooms, great light, walking distance to everything. The schools in that district are excellent.”
“Schools.” I set down my fork. “The baby isn’t even born yet.”
“It’s never too early to plan.” Marcus smiled—that confident smile that used to make me feel safe. Now it just made me feel managed. “And once we’re settled in Denver, you won’t have to worry about the commute. I know how much you hate driving in the city.”
Settled in Denver.
The words landed like stones in my stomach.
“You want me to move to Denver?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? My work is there. The apartment I’m looking at is ten minutes from the office. And with the management company handling the B&B—” He waved his fork like it was already decided. “You could come back on weekends. Check in. Make sure everything’s running smoothly.”
Weekends. My grandmother’s house, reduced to weekend visits.
“And a nanny,” he continued, warming to his vision. “At least part-time. So you’re not overwhelmed.”
I stared at him.
He was building an entire life—apartments, nannies, management companies—and I was just a piece he was fitting into place. Quietly. Efficiently. Without asking if I wanted to belong there.
Owen had made himself scarce since Marcus arrived.
I saw him leaving for shifts in the early morning, his truck pulling out of the driveway before the sun was fully up.
I saw lights in the carriage house late at night, the warm glow through the dormer windows that meant he couldn’t sleep either.
I saw him crossing the yard sometimes, head down, moving like a man trying not to be noticed.
But he didn’t come for breakfast anymore.
Didn’t show up with takeout on the nights I was too tired to cook. Didn’t appear with his toolbox to fix things that didn’t need fixing. Didn’t text to check if I needed anything, the way he had every day for months.
The absence felt like a wound.
I told myself it made sense. Marcus was here now. Owen was giving us space, giving me the chance to rebuild something with the father of my baby. That’s what a good friend would do.
But the house felt emptier without him. The kitchen felt too quiet. The nursery—with its yellow walls and handmade crib—felt like a monument to someone who’d disappeared.
I missed him.
The realization hit me in the middle of Marcus’s monologue about pediatricians. He was comparing practices in Denver, pulling up reviews on his phone, talking about wait times and specialties, and which hospitals had the best nurseries.
And I was thinking about Owen.
Not just his help. Not just the groceries and the repairs and the rides to doctor’s appointments.
Him.
The way he looked at me like I was worth seeing, not managing. The way he listened without interrupting, without already planning what he was going to say next. The way he remembered things I’d mentioned once, months ago, and turned them into yellow walls and rocking chairs by windows.
The way he’d kissed me back in this kitchen. The way his hands had felt on my face—calloused and careful. The way he’d said I’m not going anywhere and meant it.
“Grace?” Marcus’s voice cut through the fog. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry.” I blinked. “I’m tired. What were you saying?”
“The pediatrician on Sixteenth Street has an opening for new patients. I can call on Monday.”
“We should find someone local,” I said. “In case of emergencies.”
Marcus frowned slightly. “Local meaning here? Grace, the medical facilities in Denver are much better. For the baby’s sake—”
“The baby is going to be born here,” I said. “Raised here. I want a doctor who’s close.”
Something flickered across his face. Frustration, maybe. The look of a man whose plans were being inconvenienced.
“We can discuss it later,” he said. “You’re tired.”
He reached over and patted my hand—gentle, absent, already moving on.
I thought about Owen’s hands. The way they’d held me when I cried. The way they’d made me feel safe.
What was I doing?
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Marcus was asleep beside me, his breathing deep and even, one arm thrown across the pillow where his phone was charging. He’d checked it three times before falling asleep. Work, he’d said. Always work.
The baby was doing acrobatics—kicks and rolls and sharp jabs against my ribs that made me catch my breath. I pressed my hand against the movement, feeling the solid reality of this child.
The child who tied me to Marcus, no matter what I wanted.
That meant something, didn’t it? Bloodline. Obligation. The weight everyone said I was supposed to carry.
But did blood alone make a family?
I thought about Gran, who’d raised me when my own parents couldn’t. Who’d taught me to bake and balance books and stand up straight when the world tried to push me down. She wasn’t my mother, but she was my family—the only family that had ever felt real.
I thought about Owen. Sixteen years of Saturday mornings. Sixteen years of showing up, of being there, of building something steady and true without ever asking for anything in return.
He wasn’t the father of this baby. But he’d been more present in the last seven months than Marcus had been in the last seven years.
Marcus shifted beside me and mumbled something in his sleep. His hand brushed my arm, and I flinched.
I didn’t love him anymore.
Maybe I never really did—not the way love was supposed to feel. I’d loved the idea of him, the stability he represented, the future he promised. I’d loved being chosen by someone confident and successful and sure of himself.
But I’d never felt seen by him. Not the way I felt seen by Owen.
Owen, who’d pulled away since Marcus arrived. Owen, who was probably lying awake in the carriage house right now, fifty yards away, giving me space I hadn’t asked for.
Owen, who felt like the piece that was missing. The gravity that kept me centered.
The baby kicked again, harder this time.
I pressed my hand against the movement, grounding myself in the solid reality of this child. Marcus’s child. The reason I was lying here, trying to convince myself that obligation was the same as love.
But when I closed my eyes, the hands I imagined holding this baby weren’t Marcus’s.
They were calloused and careful and belonged to a man who’d built a crib at three in the morning because he couldn’t sleep.
What did that mean?
I lay in the dark, listening to Marcus breathe, and let the question sit in my chest like something waiting to be answered.