14. Fragile Equilibrium Too long
FRAGILE EQUILIbrIUM TOO LONG
There’s a strange heaviness in the air when things start getting better after a fight. Not relief. Not tension. Something in between. Like the atmosphere is waiting to see if it should settle or crack again.
That’s where Reid and I have been living lately—somewhere in that narrow space where everything feels a little too breakable.
After that last phone call, the one where we both said stupid things we didn’t mean because jealousy makes smart people act dumb, something in me pulled back. I didn’t mean to distance myself.
It wasn’t a punishment or some dramatic statement. It was instinct—like my heart braced for impact before I even realized what I was doing. And Reid felt it. He didn’t get defensive or pushy about it, not this time. Instead, he did the opposite. He started calling more. Texting more.
Checking in first instead of waiting for me to do it. Sending pictures of whatever he was doing—studying in the library, grabbing lunch with Ben, walking back to his dorm. Little moments that make the distance feel smaller.
He’s been showing up. Not in some grand romantic gesture way. In the small, steady ways that actually matter. But even with that effort, our conversations feel thin. Like we’re stitching things back together one careful thread at a time, afraid one wrong tug will unravel everything again.
“Come on, Liam,” I say as I wrestle his arm through the sleeve of his jacket.
He makes dinosaur growls like he’s fighting for his life, which checks out because he acts like jackets are mortal enemies.
When he finally cooperates, I lift him onto my hip and grab the diaper bag.
My mom found the daycare—touring three places for me because I had back-to-back deadlines at work and Reid was buried in exams. She still calls it “helping,” but I know she did it because she could tell I was overwhelmed even though I kept insisting I was fine.
The morning is cold, and Liam presses his cheek against my shoulder, humming something that sounds like a song but isn’t one. I kiss the top of his head and try to ignore the tiredness sitting behind my eyes. On the drive, my phone buzzes in the cup holder. Reid.
Reid: Good morning. Did Liam sleep through the night?
I smile even though I’m still groggy.
Mostly. He woke up once but went back down.
Three dots appear for a few seconds.
Reid: That’s good. You sound tired. Long night?
Just busy. Presentation today.
Reid: You’ll kill it. Call me after? I want to hear how it goes.
It’s small. It shouldn’t make my chest warm. But it does.
“Dada?” Liam says from the back seat, holding one of his stuffed animals up like it’s a microphone.
“No, baby. That’s Mama’s phone.”
He kicks his feet like he disagrees. When we pull into the daycare lot, I feel the usual mix of guilt and relief. Guilt, because I’m leaving him again. Relief, because I know he needs the socialization and I need the hours to work.
Inside, one of the teachers waves. “Morning, Amelia.”
“Morning.” I sign him in and crouch to take his jacket off.
Liam runs to the play kitchen without looking back. I tell myself that means he’s adjusting, not that he prefers them to me. On the walk back to my car, my phone rings. Reid.
“Hey,” I say as I slide into the driver’s seat.
“You okay?” His voice is warm, soft in that way he gets first thing in the morning.
“Yeah. Dropped Liam off. I’m heading to work.”
“You sound stressed.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, then catch myself. “Okay, maybe a little. I have a big meeting. And I’m tired.”
“You should’ve gone to bed earlier,” he says. His tone is gentle, not nagging. Just a fact.
“I know.”
He goes quiet for a second. “I’m glad you told me. You’ve kinda felt… pulled back.”
I stare through the windshield at the line of cars leaving the lot.
“Not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “Just different.”
“I’m trying,” I say quietly.
“I know you are. And I’m trying too.”
The honesty hits harder than I expect. It’s simple. Real. Not dramatic. Not sugar-coated. Just true.
“Things feel better,” I say. “Not all the way, but better.”
“They will,” he says. “We just have to keep showing up.”
His confidence in us pulls something warm through my chest. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that until he said it.
“I have to go,” I say reluctantly. “Traffic’s getting bad.”
“Okay. Text me later?”
“Yeah. I will.”
“Love you.”
I pause for half a second. Not because I don’t feel it—but because the last few weeks made every expression feel heavier.
“Love you too.”
When the call ends, I sit there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, letting the conversation settle.
Things are better. But everything still feels fragile, like we’re standing on new legs after a fall.
My mom calls as I get onto the main road.
She never calls this early unless she’s checking in.
“You sound tired,” she says immediately.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“That’s what you said yesterday.”
“I have a big presentation today.”
“I know. You’ll do great.” Her voice softens. “I’m proud of you, Amelia. You’re working hard. You’re doing right by that little boy.”
I swallow, because those words hit me every time. “Thanks.”
“If you need me to pick Liam up later, just call.”
“I might,” I admit.
“You’re juggling a lot. Make sure you breathe.”
“I’m trying,” I echo.
She hums approvingly and lets me go. It hits me—it really does take a village, and mine is loud, opinionated, helpful, and sometimes too much.
But I’d crumble without them. By the time I pull into the Nexus Dynamics parking lot, I feel the weight of everything sitting squarely in my chest. Work.
Motherhood. Long-distance love. Expectations.
Recovery after jealousy and emotional distance.
Relearning how to trust he’s not leaving, and how to stop bracing for something that already passed.
We’re getting better. But better doesn’t mean stable.
Not yet. By the time I step into Nexus Dynamics, I’ve rehearsed the opening lines of my pitch twice in the elevator and once in the hallway.
It doesn’t help. My stomach is still twisted.
I haven’t even taken off my coat and Eric is already walking toward me, a notebook in hand, blazer sleeves rolled up like he’s been here since dawn. Knowing him, he probably has.
“Morning, Amelia,” he says. “You ready for today?”
“As ready as I’m going to be,” I mutter.
He gives me a sympathetic look, but not the condescending kind. I hate the condescending kind. Eric’s strength is that he’s supportive without acting like he’s talking to a kid. I respect him for that, especially when the stress is choking me.
“We’ll do a quick run-through in the conference room,” he says. “Just us.”
I breathe out in relief. “Thanks.”
He nods and motions for me to follow. As we walk past the open workstations, one of the older engineers—Mark, the one who always wears cargo pants even though nobody else does—glances up from his monitor.
“Big day for you, Amelia,” he says.
I force a smile. “Trying not to think about that part.”
He chuckles. “You’ll do fine.” Then, under his breath, too casual to be intentionally cruel, he adds, “Doing it all on your own can’t be easy, though.”
My smile flattens. Eric glances at me, reading the shift in my expression instantly.
He doesn’t comment, but his jaw tightens like he wants to.
I don’t respond to Mark. I’m not giving that comment oxygen.
But it sticks, even as I push open the conference room door and take my seat.
Even when Eric passes me the outline. Even when he starts giving feedback on my talking points.
People don’t realize how their words land.
“On your own.”
“Must be hard.”
“Can’t imagine doing this at your age.”
They never mean it as an insult, but it feels like one. Like they’re looking at my life and seeing the weight instead of the strength.
Eric’s voice pulls me back. “Your introduction is solid. But when you get to the part about projected timelines, don’t undersell confidence. You’re the one who actually solved the initial bottleneck.”
“I almost solved it,” I correct.
“You solved it enough for us to move forward.”
His encouragement helps me straighten a little.
I open my laptop and pull up the slides.
We run through the pitch again. Then again.
Eric pauses me every few minutes, adjusting my phrasing, tightening transitions.
He’s good at his job. He’s also patient, and I appreciate that more than I say out loud.
“Better,” he says after the third run-through. “You’re tightening it.”
I give a small smile. “I hope so.”
“You’re doing great, Amelia,” he adds.
I nod, letting the praise settle. I don’t let many compliments stick, but the genuine ones hit different.
The door swings open and Callie from Tech Ops pokes her head in. “They’re ready for you in fifteen.”
Fifteen minutes. My pulse jumps.
“Let’s go over the solution section one more time,” Eric says, already flipping his notes.
We do. I stumble once, fix it, then find my rhythm. By the time he dismisses me, I’m still nervous, but I’m not spiraling.
“You’ve got this,” he says as we step into the hall.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, meaning it.
Just before I reach the presentation room, my phone buzzes.
Reid: You’re going to do amazing. Deep breaths. My chest warms.
I text back quickly.
Trying. I’m nervous as hell.
Reid: You’ve done hard things before. This is nothing compared to that.
Thanks.
Reid: Call me after. I want to hear everything.
Despite the stress knotting in my stomach, I smile.
He remembered. He followed up. He’s trying—really trying.
It eases some of the tension sitting between my ribs.
The presentation goes better than I expected.
I stumble once, but I catch myself. I answer questions without freezing.
I stand tall. I use the tone Eric drilled into me—confident, concise, clear.
When it’s over, I don’t collapse, but I think about it.