17. Avery
AVERY
Iwatch Marcus from across the room, unable to tear my eyes away.
He’s crouched in front of Darius, patiently helping him tie his sneakers, murmuring something that makes him giggle.
Desmond, perched on a kitchen stool, swings his legs as Marcus slices up strawberries and places them on a plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For the record: it’s not. At least, it didn’t used to be.
Now the boys look at him like they’ve always expected him to be there. Like he’s their constant.
And the craziest part? He is.
I swallow hard, my chest tightening as I take it all in. The small moments. The quiet gestures. The shift that’s happened so gradually over the last few weeks I didn’t even notice it until now.
This is what I wanted.
This is what I asked him for—what I begged the universe for every night after they were born. For Marcus to show up. To be here. To love them.
So why does it feel like something’s still missing?
I lean against the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around myself. The warmth of the morning sun filters through the windows, casting a golden glow over the scene, but there’s a storm inside me I can’t ignore.
He’s their father now. But is he mine in any way that matters?
Does he want to be?
My throat tightens as the thought hits me square in the chest. I wanted him to be here for them, right? I didn’t need him for me.
Except now... I can’t say whether that’s true.
Would he ever want us to be more than co-parents? Or is this all he’s willing to give?
The idea of Marcus filing for full custody flashes through my mind, and I have to blink rapidly to clear my suddenly blurry vision. Would he ever do that? Would he take them away?
No, he wouldn’t. Not Marcus. Not the man who holds Darius with such care. Who ruffles Desmond’s hair every morning now like it’s second nature.
But if that’s not what he wants... what does he want?
What do I want?
A life, together. A partnership. A marriage that isn’t a contract.
The thought both excites and terrifies me. Because what if he doesn’t? What if this, right now, is the closest we ever get?
What if this family we’ve somehow morphed into isn’t enough for him?
Or worse—what if it is?
Because the one thing I know for sure is that Marcus Greyson doesn’t do things halfway. If he decides to stay, really stay, it’ll be for good.
And if he doesn’t?
I feel my heart crack just thinking about it.
“Mom?” Desmond’s voice cuts through my spiral. He holds up his empty plate, wide-eyed. “More strawberries, please?”
I force a smile, pushing my thoughts aside as best I can. “Of course, baby.”
I glance at Marcus as I step into the kitchen, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes meet.
Something registers there but I can’t read what it means.
And I’m afraid to hope.
At work the next day, the library is quiet, save for the drone of the fan inside my aging desktop PC. I stare at the spreadsheet open on my screen—budget projections for the next quarter—and force myself to focus.
There’s too much to do. Updates for the literacy program, new grant applications, the upcoming partnership pitch that Marcus set up with the Baxter Foundation. Their mission aligns with ours and they’ve recently allotted a portion of their budget to nationwide programs.
Marcus.
I shake my head and return to the spreadsheet, adjusting numbers and shifting funds. But even here, in the quiet of my office, distractions find me.
Like the way he placed his hand on my lower back this morning when we all left the apartment for the day.
I tell myself it was nothing. Just polite. A reflex. But the feeling of it... it lingered.
I close my eyes briefly, breathing in the faint scent of paper and old books that always lingers here. I need to stop reading into things.
I run a hand through my hair, glancing at the sticky note stuck to my desk: Confirm meeting with Marcus to finalize volunteer handbook.
He’s been so... present. Asking questions, offering ideas. Noticing things. But maybe that’s just who he is now. The father of my children. My business partner.
Marcus listens when I talk about the program—because it’s important. Because it’s his money helping me expand it. Not because he feels something more for me.
But then there’s the way his eyes linger on me a little too long when he thinks I’m not looking.
I tap my fingers against the desk, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
Am I imagining it? Or is this just what co-parenting looks like?
How the hell do people do this?
Victoria’s couch is just as comfortable as I remember. Too comfortable, really. Like, dangerously cozy. Which is probably why I’m currently laying down, looking at her ceiling, contemplating my entire existence.
Victoria, to no one’s surprise, is unbothered. She lounges at the other end, sipping her flat white latte, waiting for me to speak. When I don’t, she takes matters into her own hands.
“You’re falling for him,” she announces, as casually as if she’s commenting on the weather.
I groan into the pillow. “I live with him, Vic. And he’s been different lately. I don’t have a choice.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs, sitting up. “You do have a choice. You just don’t want to admit you’ve already made it.”
I lift my head just enough to glare at her. “I came here for moral support, not an intervention.”
“In this house, they’re the same thing,” she chirps, unfazed.
I flop back down. “Ugh.”
“You’re just defensive when I’m right,” she fires back, grinning like the devil she is. “So, what did he do this time? Make the boys a box of mac n cheese?”
I roll onto my side, sighing dramatically. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is with you two. Spill.”
“It’s… everything. Little things. Like bringing me my complicated coffee drink without me asking. Or sending me updates before I even request them. And the way he really listens when I talk.” I shake my head. “It’s different now. He’s different.”
Victoria smirks knowingly. “Gentler?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, almost to myself. “Less guarded. More… present.”
I frown, my voice quieter now. “I just don’t know if I’m imagining it. I mean, maybe he’s just being polite. Respectful. Because of the boys. Because we’re working together.”
Victoria snorts. “Marcus Greyson doesn’t do ‘polite.’ Trust me.”
I hug a pillow to my chest, staring at the ceiling. “But what if that’s all it is? What if this is just him… being a decent human?”
Victoria rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “Avery, sweetie, he’s Marcus. He doesn’t give soft smiles or remember coffee orders for fun. If he’s doing that? It’s because he wants to.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “But what if I’m wrong?”
“Okay,” Victoria sits up, looking me dead in the eye. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that he is just being polite. Then what?”
“Then I’m screwed,” I mutter.
“And if he’s not?” she presses. “If all of this means what you hope it means?”
I’m caught off guard. “Then I’m even more screwed.”
Victoria’s grin is wicked. “Exactly.”
I groan, flopping back down. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” she sings. “You hate that I’m right.”