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)
“Always,” he promises. He kisses my forehead, then the knuckles of the hand I forgot I was holding up like a tiny, defiant flag. “Back soon.”
The door clicks, the wedge slides back into place with a small, stubborn thunk, and the apartment exhales into a quiet that’s too big.
Amelia arrives with grapes, the gossip, and a tote full of things she claims I need (“nipple cream,” she whispers like it’s contraband, and I die, twice). She clocks the missing-Lucas-ness immediately.
“Where’s Captain Safety?” she asks, dropping onto the couch and tucking her feet under her like she owns the place, because she sort of does.
“Check-in,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the world. “Work.”
She nods, then side-eyes me with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile. “Spill it.”
“I’m falling for him,” I blurt, because there’s no reason to hold out with Amelia. “Like… falling-falling. Like, ‘let’s monogram towels’ falling.”
Her grin is instant and mean in the loving way. “Did we not already know?”
“I knew attraction,” I say, clutching a grape for dear life. “I knew… warm. This feels like… furniture. Like the inside of my life is rearranging itself to fit him. And I don’t know if that’s stupid because—” I point in the vague direction of Colorado “—he lives there.”
“Don’t assume geography decides everything,” Amelia says, stealing my grape. “Maybe he moves. Maybe you move.”
“I don’t want to leave,” I admit, small. “You. Mom. My clients. The bakery that knows my Friday order and calls me Baby Lady are all here. This is my home.”
“So don’t,” she says. “We’re not centaurs tied to our home forest. People do long-distance and then they don’t. People relocate and thrive. People do hybrid. There are options that don’t involve you packing your heart into a checked bag.”
“Yeah, but… he’s got that job,” I argue, hearing the wobble I hate. “The one with radios and routes and sandbags. He likes his work. He’s good at it. And I—” My hand flies to my belly, to the soft press from the inside like a question mark. “What if this is just borrowed Tuesdays? What if after the New Year he goes back to Denver and I’m the cautionary tale who fell for the holiday boyfriend?”
Amelia leans forward, elbows on knees, straight into therapist mode without the degree. “Then you’ll be okay. Because you’ve got you. And also maybe… talk to him before you write the epilogue?”
“I hate being reasonable,” I mutter.
“I know,” she says sweetly. “It’s so off-brand. But maybe try it. Ask him what he wants. Tell him what you want. Don’t let fear write the script.”
“I could also not ask,” I counter, flopping back onto the couch. “I could enjoy the time I have, and postpone the possible heartbreak until it’s seasonally appropriate. Like January. When everything is already gray.”
Amelia chuckles, then softens. “Do what keeps you breathing. Just… don’t confuse waiting with not wanting.”
We decorate the bottom third of the tree, which is the only portion of the tree I can reach without a step stool and an OSHA waiver. We talk about baby names we’ll never use. She tells me a story about a woman at the bakery who tried to pay with a gift card to a hardware store and then made it everyone else’s problem. We laugh until I hiccup and my hiccup makes the baby hiccup and then we both cry a little, because biology is a comedy.
When she leaves, the apartment goes quiet again in that way that highlights every ice maker thunk like a plot twist. I try to answer emails and get distracted by the ornament we bought—the Baby’s First Christmas one with the lopsided peanut doodle. I picture it on our tree next year with a date under the date, and my throat gets tight.
My phone buzzes:
On my way. Fifteen.
Then,
Need anything?
I stare at the text bubble. I type clarity and delete it. I type candy canes and add a candy cane emoji because I’m a coward. He sends back a green check and a heart in the exact shade of the pine needles. I press the phone to my sternum like it can sear answers into my bones.
The knock comes exactly when he said it would. Of course it does. I stand, realize I care about how I look, and immediately hate that I care about how I look. I shove my hair up, then down, then up again. The baby chooses that moment to attempt a somersault. “Be cool,” I tell both of us.
“It’s Lucas,” he calls through the door, and my smile arrives before I open it.
He’s wind-chilled and bright-eyed, a paper bag with candy canes and cocoa mix in one hand, his other hovering like he’s always prepared to catch what I drop. “Hi,” he says, and the word lands warm.
I don’t let him finish anything else. I curl my fingers into the front of his coat, rise onto my toes as far as the belly permits, and pull him into a kiss that says you’re here and don’t talk yet and I like you more than my fear. He makes a surprised sound that becomes a yes in under a second, one arm circling my waist with practiced care, the other steady at my shoulder. He kisses back like he was already halfway to me.