Chapter Twelve
973 Words
OLIVIA'S POV
Ethan stood on the stairs. He'd known for four days. I'd told him myself, sitting on the edge of his bed after school, keeping it simple. I was moving to my own apartment but staying in New York. I would see him. That part wasn't changing.
He nodded like he was processing a forecast. Then: "Is it because of the baby?"
"Partly. Babies need their own space to come home to."
"Dad's baby is coming too. In four months."
"I know."
"That's going to be weird." He said it plainly, without cruelty. Just a child doing the math. "Two babies. Different moms."
"Life gets complicated sometimes."
"Yeah." He'd picked at a thread on his comforter. "Will your baby know me?"
"Your dad and I are going to make sure of it."
That had settled him enough to sleep.
Now he stood on the stairs watching me load the last box and I could see him working hard at being okay with it.
"I'll be at your school thing Thursday," I said. "The borough project presentation."
His face shifted. "You remembered."
"Of course I did."
He came down the stairs and hugged me fast and hard and then went back up before either of us could make it into something bigger. I stood in the foyer and collected myself.
Damien was by the door.
"The building manager knows you're coming," he said. "The unit's been cleaned. There's a grocery store two blocks north."
"You've been there."
"I drove past."
I picked up my bag. "Thank you. For the apartment connection."
"You're paying market rate. You don't need to thank me."
"I'm thanking you anyway." I looked at him. "I have a prenatal appointment next Wednesday. Sixteen weeks. You can come if you want."
Something in his face shifted. Carefully. "What time?"
"Ten in the morning. I'll text you the address."
"Okay."
I went to the door. "Damien."
"Yes."
"Don't make me regret staying in New York."
He held my gaze. "I won't."
*************************
The apartment was small and clean and entirely mine. I stood in the middle of the living room after the door closed and just breathed it. No contract. No guest house with Emma's lights on. No walking on the careful line between employee and something else. Just walls and windows and the low noise of the city outside.
I put the ultrasound image on the kitchen windowsill where it would catch the morning light.
Then I sat on the floor because there was no furniture yet and ate crackers and called Grace Tucker, the retired teacher down the hall who'd introduced herself in the elevator with a directness I'd immediately liked.
"You're settled in?" Grace asked.
"Sitting on the floor."
"I have a folding chair. Come get it."
"I'm fine."
"You're pregnant and sitting on a hardwood floor. Come get the chair."
I laughed for the first time in what felt like weeks. "Give me ten minutes."
Grace was seventy-one and had the energy of someone half her age and the opinions of someone who'd stopped filtering them decades ago. She'd asked me in the elevator whether I was married, I'd said it was complicated, and she'd said that was the most useless word in the English language and handed me her card.
I liked her immediately.
I spent the first evening in my apartment sitting in Grace's folding chair eating soup she'd brought over uninvited, telling her more than I'd planned to. The contract. The pregnancy. The decision to stay.
She listened without interrupting, which was rarer than it should be.
"This man," she said when I finished. "He told you sleeping with you was a betrayal."
"Yes."
"And you're co-parenting with him."
"Trying to."
"And you still have feelings for him."
I looked at my soup. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." She refilled my cup. "The question isn't whether you have feelings. The question is whether you trust your own judgment around him."
"I don't. Not entirely."
"Good. That's honest." She sat back. "Keep Marcus between you and any major decisions. Don't let sentiment move faster than evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"Evidence that he's actually different. Not just sorry." She looked at me steadily. "Sorry is easy. Different takes time. Watch what he does when it's inconvenient. When he's tired or stressed or when the grief comes back. That's when you'll see who he actually is now."
I thought about that long after she went home.
Wednesday came quickly.
I texted Damien the clinic address Tuesday night. He replied with one word: *Confirmed.*
He was there when I arrived. Standing outside, not pacing, just waiting. He'd dressed like he was going to the office, which was probably habit, but he'd left the jacket in the car.
We went in together without touching each other.
The waiting room was the same one I'd sat in alone four weeks ago. Different this time with him beside me, not better or worse, just different.
When they called my name he stood automatically, then paused, looked at me.
I nodded.
He followed me in.
The technician was cheerful and professional and didn't ask questions about our situation. She applied the gel and turned the screen.
The baby was bigger. Visibly a baby now, not just a curved shape. Hands visible. Profile clear.
Damien sat in the chair beside the bed and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the screen with an expression he wasn't managing.
"Everything looks excellent," the technician said. "Strong heartbeat. Good growth. Do you want to know the s*x?"
I looked at Damien. He looked at me.
"Next time," I said.
He nodded once, agreement without pressure.
"Thank you," he said. "For letting me be there."
"Thank you for showing up."
We stood another moment. Then we went our separate ways.
- Writer
