Chapter 18 ARTAN
ARTAN
We're in a baby store and I feel completely out of my element.
The space is too bright, fluorescent lighting bouncing off white walls and pale wood fixtures until everything glows with an almost clinical cheerfulness.
Soft pastels everywhere I look. Mint green and powder blue and the palest yellow, colors designed to soothe and comfort, to create an atmosphere of gentle safety.
Everything is rounded edges and miniature proportions.
Tiny clothes hanging on tiny hangers. Furniture scaled down to doll-house dimensions.
My hands look enormous and dangerous next to the delicate displays, too rough and too used to violence to exist in the same space as receiving blankets and stuffed animals.
But Lily is glowing.
She moves through the aisles with an expression I haven't seen on her face before, genuine joy radiating from every movement.
Her fingers trail over soft blankets, testing textures with careful attention.
She picks up little outfits and holds them up to the light, examining tiny sleeves and impossibly small pant legs with wonder in her eyes.
Her whole face has changed from the tight control she had back at the house, the careful blankness she's been maintaining since last night. That protective shell has cracked open, revealing something tender and unguarded underneath.
This is what happiness looks like on her. Uncomplicated. Pure. Free.
I want to see it more often. Want to be the reason for it.
A saleswoman approaches, middle-aged with a friendly smile. "Can I help you find anything?"
Her gaze moves from Lily to me and back to Lily's stomach, lingering there with knowing warmth. "When are you due?"
Lily blushes immediately, deep pink flooding her cheeks and spreading down her neck. "Oh, no. I'm not pregnant. This is for my nephew or niece. My brother's baby."
The image hits me before I can stop it, vivid and unbidden and achingly clear.
Lily pregnant. Her body changing with that specific purpose, curves becoming softer and fuller, that glow she has now made permanent by biology. Carrying my child. Coming home to her every night knowing we created something together, something that's ours in the most fundamental way possible.
I let myself imagine it for a dangerous moment. A child with her eyes and my determination. The kind of life I stopped believing in years ago.
The kind of life men like me don't get. Don't deserve.
I shut the fantasy down hard, slamming the door on it before it can take root any deeper. That happiness isn't meant for me.
The saleswoman apologizes quickly, professional embarrassment coloring her voice. "I'm so sorry. That was presumptuous of me. When is the baby due?"
Lily pauses, a small line appearing between her eyebrows.
"I actually don't know exactly." She looks down at her phone, scrolling through messages like she might find the answer there.
"I want to get things that are absolutely essential.
So the parents don't have to worry about spending too much on the basics. "
She glances up, meeting the saleswoman's eyes with earnest sincerity. "I already set up a subscription service for diapers and wipes... Things like that will be delivered regularly to their house. But what else do they really need? What can't they do without?"
The saleswoman's expression softens into something maternal and approving.
"You're very thoughtful. Most people just buy whatever's cute.
" She starts walking, gesturing for us to follow.
"Let's see. Baby bottles are essential, you'll want several.
Crib sheets, at least three or four sets because there will be accidents.
Onesies in different sizes because babies grow shockingly fast in the first few months.
Socks. They always need more socks than you think because those things disappear like magic. "
They move through the store together, the saleswoman pulling items from shelves while Lily examines each one with careful consideration. I follow a few steps behind, hands in my pockets to keep from accidentally knocking something over.
I feel like Gulliver in Lilliput. A giant among fragile miniatures.
Everything is so small, so impossibly delicate.
My hands are too rough for this world, too calloused from holding guns and breaking bones and doing the kind of work that leaves permanent stains you can't wash away no matter how hard you scrub.
These hands have killed. Have hurt. Have enforced consequences that left men bleeding or broken or begging.
They don't belong anywhere near tiny socks with little animals embroidered on them.
But Lily doesn't seem to notice the incongruity.
She's focused completely on the task at hand, on choosing the right items, on making sure her family has what they need.
Her attention is absolute, the kind of concentration she brings to everything she does, whether it's cooking a meal or selecting baby clothes or taking care of people who don't know how to accept care.
The joy on her face is genuine. Uncomplicated by resentment or calculation. She's thinking about someone else, caring about someone else, putting their needs first without any expectation of gratitude or return.
It's beautiful. She's beautiful.
Not just physically, though she is that too. But the way she moves through the world, the way she offers care like it's the most natural thing, like it costs her nothing even though I suspect it costs her everything.
She picks up a board book at the last minute, black and white geometric patterns designed for newborn vision.
Runs her fingers over the thick cardboard pages.
"This too," she says, adding it to the growing pile in her arms. "It's not strictly necessary but I want the baby to have something more than just practical items. Something for joy. "
Something for joy. Like joy is a commodity you can purchase and wrap up and give to someone you love.
Maybe it is. Maybe that's exactly what she's doing.
We make our way to the cashier, Lily's arms full of carefully chosen items. I reach for my wallet automatically, the instinct to pay deeply ingrained.
"No," Lily says firmly, shifting the pile to free one hand and block my reach. "I'm paying. This is from me."
"Let me—"
"Artan." She looks at me directly, blue eyes serious and determined. "This is important to me. I want to do this myself. Please."
The please undoes any argument I might have made. I back off, nod, let her have this victory even though every instinct in me wants to take care of it for her, wants to make her life easier in whatever small ways I can.
She pays with her card, the total significant enough that I see her hesitate for half a second before confirming the transaction. But she doesn't back out. Doesn't second-guess the decision.
We load everything into my car. The Audi RS6 Avant looks absurdly out of place parked in front of a baby store, all aggressive lines and matte black paint, the kind of vehicle that announces danger rather than domesticity.
"Where to next?" I ask once we're both settled inside, the bags carefully arranged in the back seat.
Lily hesitates, her hands twisting together in her lap. "I was thinking of taking these to my brother. But I don't want to impose on your time. You've already done so much."
"It's no imposition." The words come out automatic, immediate, entirely true. "I'd like to see where you grew up."
Uncertainty mixed with something warmer crosses her face. "Okay. Thank you."
She gives me directions and we drive in comfortable silence, just the low hum of the engine and the occasional direction murmured from the passenger seat.
The neighborhood changes as we go. Less polished.
More lived-in. The kind of area where people actually know their neighbors, where front porches have chairs that get used instead of just serving as decoration.
Trees line the streets, old enough that their roots buckle the sidewalks, creating that particular kind of urban imperfection that comes from decades of growth.
"That one," Lily says, pointing to a modest single-family home halfway down the block.
I park in front. The house is older construction but was clearly well-maintained at some point. Now the yard needs attention. Grass too long. Hedges overgrown.
This was Lily's home. The place she grew up. The place her aunt left to her because she trusted Lily to take care of it, to preserve it, to honor the memories built into the walls and floors.
And she gave it away. Handed it over to her brother because he needed it more.
We get out. Lily gathers the bags, several of them. I take most of them from her without asking, leaving her with just one.
She rings the doorbell, the chime audible even from outside.
A man answers after a long moment. Early thirties, I'd guess. There's a resemblance to Lily in the bone structure, the shape of the eyes and the line of the jaw. But his expression is harder. More guarded. The kind of face that's been disappointed too many times to expect good news.
His eyes go immediately to me, assessment automatic and hostile. Suspicious of my presence, of my size, of the expensive car parked at his curb.
"Henry, this is Artan," Lily says quickly, her voice pitched higher than usual with nervous energy. "My boss. Artan, this is my brother Henry."
Boss.
The word lands wrong in my chest, settling there like a stone. Heavy. Cold. Creating distance I don't want.
I don't want to be her boss. Don't want that hierarchy, that imbalance of power, that professional separation that reduces what we are to an economic transaction.
But I keep my face neutral, extend my hand with practiced courtesy. "Nice to meet you."
Henry shakes briefly, his grip weak and slightly damp. Uncertain. His eyes keep darting back to me like he's trying to figure out if I'm a threat.
"Come in," he says without much warmth, stepping back to let us pass.