Chapter 40 - Lucy
The nurse tells me to sit for ten minutes after the injection, just to be safe.
I nod and do as I’m told, even though I’ve done this enough times now that my body barely reacts anymore.
A dull ache in my arm. A familiar heaviness low in my abdomen.
A quiet, steady reminder that time is always doing something to you, whether you’re ready for it or not.
Eleven weeks. That’s how long it’s been since the last shot.
I stare at the pale blue wall across from me and do the math without trying to. I’d talked to my doctor this morning, really talked this time, not just nodded and agreed and swallowed down questions because everything else felt more urgent.
“This can be your last one,” she’d said gently. “It can take months for things to level out. Sometimes longer. On average, women need about nine months before their cycle fully regulates again and they are able to conceive.”
Nine months.
I pull my phone out of my bag and type a note to myself instead of texting Julian. Talk to him tonight. Not because I’m afraid of his reaction, this is something we have talked about, but because I want the moment to be real. Face to face. Grounded.
The nurse checks on me once more, then waves me out with a smile.
At the front desk, the receptionist asks whether she should book me for eleven weeks.
A small smile tips the corners of my mouth up, and I say. “No, this should be my last one for a while, but the doctor said she put in a note on my file that if I change my mind, I can be booked in.”
I’m about to meet Julian and his parents for lunch.
That fact still feels surreal enough that I have to repeat it to myself as I walk toward the restaurant, the city buzzing around me with early spring energy.
The air smells different now. Less sharp.
Less brittle. Like something is thawing.
He has kept us separate, something I feel has been intentional.
They’re already seated when I arrive.
All three of them.
Julian stands immediately when he sees me, relief flickering across his face so quickly I almost miss it. Elaine watches me with that careful, unreadable look she’s perfected. Richard barely looks up from his phone.
“Oh,” Elaine says mildly. “She’s allowed to be late.”
I freeze for half a second before smoothing it over.
“My apologies,” I say warmly. “My doctor was running behind. You know how that goes.”
Julian’s hand brushes my lower back as I slide into the chair beside him, grounding and familiar. The gesture settles me instantly.
The server arrives, menus already in hand. I scan mine out of habit, then set it aside.
“I’ll just have water, please.”
Richard looks up this time.
“Good news from the doctor today?” he asks, casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
What?
Does he know?
Did Julian tell them?
Why would he?
Julian answers before I can. “Lucy, did you want to start with something lighter?”
It’s a redirect. Clean. Intentional.
Elaine watches us both closely.
Lunch orders are placed. Conversation shifts to neutral ground, Northwell expansion plans, a donor event in June, and Elaine’s charity work. I answer when spoken to, polite and present, but I feel slightly off balance, like I stepped onto a moving surface without realizing it.
Then Julian says it.
“Lucy’s been offered a position,” he says, and I hear it before I process it, the pride in his voice. “She’s been asked to head the Whitaker Foundations.”
Elaine’s brows lift, and Richard scoffs. He doesn’t look at me. Not once.
“A North,” he says flatly, turning his attention fully to Julian, “even one married into the name, does not work for a Whitaker.”
The words sting more than I expect.
I open my mouth to respond, but Julian beats me to it.
“That’s Lucy’s decision,” he says evenly.
Richard waves it off. “Image matters. Alignment matters. What does it say that she has to go work for another man? What will people think?”
I push my napkin aside carefully. “I appreciate the concern,” I say calmly. “But I don’t believe my professional work diminishes the North name.”
Richard finally looks at me then. There’s a calculation there. Disinterest. Something colder.
Lunch arrives before he can respond.
My phone vibrates against the table.
Once.
Twice.
I glance down and see the treatment facility's number.
“Excuse me,” I say, already standing. “I need to take this.”
I don’t wait for permission. The hallway outside the dining room feels too narrow. I press the phone to my ear, heart racing.
“Yes?”
“Lucy,” the nurse says, voice careful. “Your mother is experiencing complications. We believe it may be a reaction to the medication adjustment. The doctor would like you here as soon as possible.”
The floor tilts.
“I’m on my way,” I say, already moving.
When I return to the table, Julian is on his feet before I speak.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s my mom,” I say, voice tight. “I have to go.”
“I’ll have the car meet us out front,” he says instantly, already reaching for his jacket.
“She can go,” Richard snaps. “We still have business to attend to.”
Julian doesn’t look at him.
“Business can wait,” he says calmly. “If Marianne is sick, that cannot.”
He turns to me. “Let’s go.”
I don’t miss the way Elaine looks at him then. Not in shock or disapproval, this is something softer. Something like pride, a tinge of sadness or maybe even grief.
Richard is still talking as we leave, his voice dripping with irritation, but Julian doesn’t slow.
“Lunch is on me,” he says over his shoulder.
Julian stays by my side through everything, and that act alone feels like it changes everything. He doesn’t check in and leave. He doesn’t make calls from the hallway and disappear. He settles in beside me at the facility like this is where he’s meant to be.
Claire brings clothes, food and chargers. A blanket for Emily.
Julian works from the chair in my mom's room when he has to. Pushes everything else aside.
When I fall asleep against his shoulder at three in the morning, he doesn’t move.
When my mom stabilizes again, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.
Days pass.
Then weeks.
Time stretches and folds in strange ways, marked by medication schedules, Em's school exams, and quiet dinners at home. Spring creeps in through the windows. Emily finishes her first year of med school, exhausted and glowing, and we plan a celebration like it’s a promise.
Mom improves, not enough for her to be able to leave, but enough that the doctors are happy and are back to telling me to be patient.
Julian keeps saying, “We’ll get there.”
He encourages me to take the job with Graham.
“You’re good at this,” he says one night, when we’re eating dinner on the couch, my legs draped over his lap. “And if it ever becomes too much, we’ll adjust.”
“We?” I tease.
He smiles. “We.”
Later, half-asleep, he jokes about me being too busy raising his babies to run foundations, and my heart stutters so hard it takes me a full minute to breathe again.
Because Julian made a joke, and that in itself feels monumental, but he is openly talking about our future, our babies.
Not in numbers or agreements or terms. But with joy in his voice and a softness in his eyes that does things to me.
Spring settles in fully, and we settle with it. And somewhere in all of that, between hospital visits and shared calendars and the way he still kisses my forehead before bed, I realize I’m no longer waiting for this to end. I’m building something with him.