Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He arches an eyebrow, teacher mode engaged. “Let’s hear it.”
I check that the street is empty, as if this is the kind of intel that needs to be whispered. “She’s seeing Stella Moreland’s dad. Stella’s a girl who used to live down the hall from us. I think this new guy is really dominant and he’s got Andie wrapped around his little finger. I mean, I don’t really know, but …”
For a moment, nothing changes. Liam keeps walking, keeps breathing. But then he stops so suddenly the diaper bag nearly swings out of his grasp. He stares at me, all pretense of casual dropped like a mask.
“So she’s dating Thomas Moreland.” His voice is lower now, nearly inaudible. “Are you certain?”
I hesitate, caught off guard by the gravity in his face. “Not one hundred percent, but Stella mentioned something about her dad helping Andie move out at the end of spring semester. Then Andie started showing up with, like, suspiciously expensive handbags. And she’s been to Chicago twice in two months, which just happens to be where he lives.”
Liam’s jaw works, the muscle pulsing like a separate animal. “Andie needs to be careful. Moreland is a huge donor to the school, and on the Board of Trustees.” He trails off, then finds the thread again. “He’s ruthless. In business, sure, but in every other way, too. You don’t get to where he is without some scorched earth behind you.”
We stand there on the sidewalk, Emmy snoring gently, my own heart rate spiking for reasons I can’t name.
“What do you know about him?” I ask. “Besides what everyone can find on Google?”
Liam looks away, scanning the horizon as if expecting Moreland to materialize from the hydrangeas. “Nothing I can prove. But when I was on faculty council, I watched him destroy someone in a meeting. No warning, no compromise. One week the guy was a rising star; next week, blackballed from every campus in the state. There are rumors about non-disclosure settlements, but nobody will talk.”
He starts walking again, more slowly now, his hand resting at my lower back, a steady pressure.
I process this, trying to picture Andie in a world that sharp and unforgiving. “She’s not an idiot,” I say, half to myself.
“No,” he agrees. “But she’s young. And men like Moreland—” he pauses, searching for words “—they know how to find your weak spots.”
We walk a few paces more. Emmy shudders in her sleep, a tiny fist clenching and unclenching at my sternum.
I say, “She’s happy, though. I can hear it in her voice. And she says the sex is fantastic.”
Liam makes a noncommittal noise, but doesn’t contradict me.
We reach the corner where the bakery always smells like caramelized sugar, and I look up at the cloud-patched sky, searching for something light to say. Instead, all I find is the ache of wanting to protect the people I love, even from themselves.
“Should I talk to her?” I ask, unsure whether I want him to say yes.
He shakes his head. “Let her tell you. She’ll need someone in her corner if things go bad.”
He takes Emmy from my chest, transferring her to his own with the practiced efficiency of a dad who’s done this a hundred times. She shifts, resettles, then immediately drools a new stain onto his shirt.
“Classic,” I say, and he grins, his tension ebbing a little.
We keep walking, the late afternoon turning gold around the edges. The world is small for a few minutes—just us, the baby, and the mystery of what happens when girls grow up and start making choices nobody can fix for them.
But I tuck the story of Andie and Thomas Moreland away, a secret for a future day. For now, I just want to walk the long road home with the people who need me most.
Our new house doesn’t have a white picket fence, but it might as well. The front walk is lined with tulip bulbs that I planted when I was newly pregnant and convinced that “nesting” was a real thing, not just the collective hallucination of the baby-industrial complex. There’s a little swing on the porch, and a mat that says WELCOME in bold sans-serif, which makes me smile every time I see it, even though I bought it ironically.
Inside, the evening glows with the soft conspiracy of dimmed lamps and the scent of coconut shampoo rising from Emmy’s head as she fusses through her last feeding. I’m always amazed at how much space a baby can occupy—her playpen blocks the TV, her bottles claim real estate on every countertop, her toys land wherever the laws of entropy demand. Still, this is the life I wanted, even on days when it feels like a beautiful siege.
Liam cleans up the kitchen with the methodical grace of a man who believes in small rituals. He catches me watching from the hallway, and winks, then gestures up the stairs. “Go. I’ll finish here.”