Chapter Twenty-One—Riley
Yesterday there was a sleeve of crackers propped against the coffeemaker when I came out of my room. I asked Liam why the coffee needed a bodyguard.
“They're not guarding it,” he said, not looking up from his phone. “They're supportive. Big difference.”
Ethan made a grocery run and came back with ginger tea, three kinds of fruit, and the exact brand of saltines I'd been hiding in the closet. He unloaded all of it without a word, like the haul spoke for itself.
“You went shopping,” I said.
“We were low.”
“We had a full box.”
“You had a hidden box. Behind the towels, second shelf.” He folded the bag into a neat square. “There's more now.”
Liam grinned into his phone. “He alphabetized your snacks.”
“I did not alphabetize her snacks.”
Nobody expected anything from me all day. I answered emails from the couch. They left me alone. It was the least dramatic thing that could have happened, and I keep waiting for that to feel wrong.
It doesn't.
Andrew still doesn't know. That's the part I've been circling since I woke up.
Every version of this ends differently.
In one, he walks out.
In another, he shuts down—polite, controlled, unreachable.
In the worst one, he stays.
Not because he wants to.
Because he feels obligated.
I spent twenty minutes in my bathroom going over what Ethan would say. Simple and factual. The version that lands cleanest. Twenty minutes didn't make it easier to hear in my own head.
Ethan, Liam, and I sit at the kitchen table. Just the three of us and the city waking up outside the windows.
My hands won't stay still. I press my palms flat against the table like that might stop the shaking.
Liam's knee brushes mine underneath—barely there, a reminder that I'm not alone. I don't move away. Neither does he.
Ethan stays perfectly still on my other side, but I feel him tracking everything.
The door swings open harder than usual.
Andrew comes in the way he always does—earbuds in one hand, shoes held by the heel in the other, slightly damp along the collar. He's already reaching for the cabinet where the glasses are before he actually looks at us.
Then he looks up. Stops short.
“Sit down,” Ethan says.
Andrew's eyes go straight to mine.
I don't look away.
He pulls out the chair across from Ethan and sits.
Ethan's voice stays steady.
“Eight weeks,” he says. “Bloodwork confirmed. We've already scheduled the follow-up.”
Ethan keeps his voice flat, clinical. Exactly the way I'd practiced hearing it.
Andrew doesn't interrupt, doesn't ask questions. His fingers curl slowly against the edge of the table, knuckles whitening one notch at a time. His jaw tightens halfway through whatever Ethan is saying. He looks down once, just once, like if he looks too long something inside him might break.
When Ethan finishes, the room goes quiet. My stomach drops when Andrew doesn't move toward the door.
For a long second he just sits there, shoulders tight, like he's physically holding himself in place. His gaze flicks to Liam, then to Ethan, then back to me. Something raw crosses his face, gone before I can name it.
He walks toward me.
Liam shifts slightly behind me, his heat pressing in at my back.
Andrew crouches down in front of my chair so he's below eye level, looking up at me, arms resting on his knees.
Up close, I can see it now. The thing I couldn't read from across the table. His hands, resting on his knees, are not quite steady.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. His voice is careful the way it gets when something matters too much.
“I definitely have morning sickness. I’m tired all the time. But overall…I’m okay.” I say. My throat burns saying it out loud.
He closes his eyes, jaw tightening as he breathes through his nose—the face of someone who learned young not to fall apart in front of people.
When he opens them the composure is back. But I saw it. The crack before he covered it.
He scrubs a hand over his mouth, slow, like he's buying time.
“I know why you didn't tell me,” he says quietly. “That doesn't make it hurt less.”
I want to apologize. I start to, and he shakes his head once.
“Don't.” His voice is rough around the edges. “I'm not asking you to be sorry. I just—” He looks away for a second, then back at me. “Years I've been trying to fix this. And you still thought I'd bolt the second things got hard.”
“I didn't know which way it would go,” I say. “I still don't.”
“Yes you do.” He holds my gaze. “You know me, Riley. You've always known me.”
He reaches forward and takes my hand.
My first instinct is to pull back.
Not because I don't want him touching me.
Because I do.
But wanting him to stay has never ended well for me.
I look at his hand around mine.
“I'm staying,” he says. “I need you to hear that. Whatever this is, whatever happens next—I'm not disappearing. You set whatever distance you need. I'll stay behind it. But I am not going.”
I don't know if I believe him yet.
Part of me still wants to pull away. The rest of me is too tired to fight it.
But I don't pull my hand back.
His thumb moves once across my knuckles.
Slow. Tender. Like he's testing whether I'm going to pull away.
I feel it everywhere. Not just in my hand. In my chest. In the tight space behind my ribs that's been braced for weeks.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
For a second, the room feels too quiet. Too still. Like everything is balanced on the edge of something that hasn't happened yet.
His fingers tighten slightly around mine.
Not trapping.
Holding.
“Okay,” I say.
He holds my gaze a moment longer. Checking. Then he nods once and stands. He looks at Ethan, then at Liam.
“Okay,” he says again. Firmer this time. This time it sounds like a decision.
Ethan meets his eyes across the table. Something passes between them—brief, wordless, settled.
Choosing us.
Nobody moves for a few seconds, like we're all waiting to see what just shifted.
My hand stays where he left it.
Warm.
Real.
I'm almost afraid to breathe.