Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“For the baby?” I ask, voice small because I didn’t plan to talk about the baby this way, in public, where hope could overhear.
“For the baby,” he says.
We find an ornament that says Baby’s First Christmas with a blank for the year and a little space big enough to write “Mystery Peanut” if I’m feeling chaotic. Lucas buys it while I pretend to argue and then pretend to lose. He also sneaks a lemon slice ornament onto the counter and then into my bag because he is a menace who remembers muffins.
At lunch, we split a turkey club the size of my face and a mountain of fries. He takes the seat that lets him see the door and my face. Conversation drifts to ridiculous baby names (he pitches “Captain” as a joke and then we talk ourselves out of it ten minutes later), to whether dogs can sense when a baby is on the way (they can; we decide this is science), to how Asher’s going to react when I buy Charlotte a sweater that says Dog Hair, Don’t Care.
“Name update?” he asks when the server leaves. “We still not finding out?”
I bite a fry thoughtfully. “Still not. I like the surprise.”
He nods, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Me too.”
“Also,” I add, “if the baby is born and looks like a ‘Captain,’ we can revisit.”
He shakes his head. “That’s how children end up as lawyers with yachts.”
We pay (he tries to be sneaky about it, and I let him because I think it makes him feel useful and also because he promised me a Snacks Budget). Outside, the sky has gone that brilliant winter blue that makes everything look like a photo filter. We swing by the florist so I can grab eucalyptus for the bathroom because apparently I am the kind of person who steams like a spa now. Lucas carries my bundles and somehow keeps a hand on the small of my back whenever crowds thicken without making it a thing.
“Gingerbread check?” he asks softly once when we slip between a pack of teens in puffer jackets.
“Cinnamon roll,” I answer, code for “I’m fine but sugar would help,” and he laughs under his breath like he wasn’t already steering me toward the bakery.
By late afternoon, the tree is home and standing proudly in my living room. Lucas does the heavy lifting, and I do the “is it straight?” directing, which feels like the correct division of labor when you're harboring a tenant who kicks your diaphragm as a hobby. He crouches to tighten the stand, and I hand him ornaments from the couch, feet up per doctor’s orders, pretending I’m a queen dispensing baubles to a very handsome court.
And he is so so handsome.
“This one first,” I say, passing him the Baby’s First Christmas ornament. He turns it over in his fingers, expression gone soft around the edges.
“Here,” he says, coming close, lowering so I can write. My hand wobbles, pregnancy carpal tunnel being a festive treat, but together we manage 2025 and a tiny peanut doodle that looks more like a potato and I love it anyway.
We hang it front and center. He steps back, shoulder bumping mine. “Looks right there.”
“It does,” I whisper.
The lights go on in a slow, shimmering wave. My whole apartment exhale smells like pine and oranges and something I haven’t let myself name—hope, maybe.
Lucas reaches up and adds a star like he’s done it a thousand times, and then looks at me to make sure it’s the one I want on top. It is. He smiles, and it makes something inside my chest rearrange into a shape that fits us both.
“Thank you,” I say, not just about the star.
He tips his head. “Sandbags,” he says simply.
“Sandbags,” I echo, and then I lean into his side because it’s where my body wants to be. His arm curves around me, careful of the belly, firm on the fear. The baby shifts, curious. I swear I feel the three of us align for a heartbeat—like a constellation we didn’t know we were drawing.
“Okay,” I say, wiping away a happy tear because this is my brand now. “Hot cocoa and Muppet Christmas Carol?”
Lucas doesn’t even hesitate. “Copy that.”
13
Lucas
I didn’t expect happy to feel like this… like all the furniture in my head finally slid into the right place. The tree glows in the corner, the credits song from Muppet Christmas Carol drifts through the room, and Melanie’s laugh keeps catching me off guard in the best way, like a door opening to fresh air.
I sit there and let myself picture it—Saturdays with grocery lists and strollers, a car seat that lives in the back of my truck, her hand stealing fries off my plate, a small person in a snowsuit shaped like a starfish. It’s a future I don’t know how to operationalize yet, but my pulse settles just thinking about it. I make myself a promise I intend to keep: figure it out. Build the bridge as I walk it. Let her set the pace. Don’t screw it up by sprinting.