Her mouth trembled. She tucked her face into my chest and let a few tears go. Quiet. They soaked my skin and the throw, and every one felt like trust I hadn’t earned but would spend a lifetime deserving if she let me.
I held her until the shaking eased. I didn’t ask what the tears were for. Fear. Relief. Change. All of the above. The math didn’t matter; the solution did.
Sometime after, I carried her to bed. She protested on instinct, then melted before the argument could form. I set her down, pulled the sheet up, rinsed a glass and turned off lights like I lived here. When I came back, she was awake, watching me.
“Stay,” she said again, though the first one would’ve done.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I slid in behind her, fit her against me, hand on her stomach without thinking. She covered it with hers and kept me there. It felt like a promise we hadn’t spoken yet.
Her breathing evened. I stared at the ceiling in the dark and did something I hadn’t done in a long time: let the wordlovesit in my mouth without spitting it out as dramatic. It didn’t feel dramatic. It felt exact. Like the right formula for a problem I’d overcomplicated.
Grandma would say call a thing by its true name and you’ll stop being scared of it. Okay. I wasn’t scared of it.
I loved this woman. I loved the way she played—on felt, in life—eyes open, jaw set, daring the rail to be crooked. I loved her stubbornness and her softness and the way she tried to hide the second because the first kept her safe. I loved that she could joke with my sister and respect my grandma and cuss me about the Steelers in the same breath. I loved that she made me forget to count and then taught me a new rhythm.
And I hated—quiet, private, bone-deep—that she’d been sick all week and hadn’t called me. Not because myego needed it, but because care unshared is a weight that crushes.
Still, the thought pressed at me—louder than I wanted. If she was… ifwewere—what would that mean? For her dreams, for mine, for us? Would she feel trapped? Would she think I’d stop being the man who made her laugh and turn into one more responsibility she had to carry?
And me—what did I know about being a father? Mine wasn’t around. I’d pieced manhood together from Grandma’s backbone, from Jada’s roastings, from coaches who cared until the season ended. I could teach formulas, hold a woman’s trust like glass in my palms—but raising a life? Being dependable when I’d never had that modeled? That question lived deep, sharper than I wanted to admit.
Still, I couldn’t stop the image from flashing—some kid with her fire in their eyes and my stubborn jaw, hands wrapped around a cue or a pen, looking at us like we were enough. The thought scared me. It also carved something new into my chest.
“Quentin,” she mumbled, almost asleep.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not asking questions I’m not ready to answer.”
My throat went thick. “Whenever you are, I’m here.”
A beat. “I know.”
She slept. I didn’t, not for a while. I listened to the city, the occasional car, the sound of the furnace turning on before the air blew warm, the small noises of an old building doing its best. I thought about Sunday at her father’s—the way Darren’s side-eye softened into respect,the way Mr. Whitaker’s handshake tightened when I said yes, sir. Rayna’s mom’s bob catching light when she laughed at some dumb story Uncle Leon told, the look she gave the man she never stopped loving when he mentioned going on the cruise with her.
People talk about momentum like it’s unstoppable. It isn’t. You can stop anything with enough opposing force. The trick is deciding what you resist and what you let carry you. Lying there with Rayna’s breath warming my wrist, I knew I wasn’t resisting this. I was choosing it.Choosing her.
In the morning, she woke first, slipped out of my arms, then came back fast like the floor moved. “Don’t go,” she muttered, and I smiled into the pillow because she didn’t realize she said it out loud.
“I won’t,” I said, and meant it..
Chapter 24
Parallel Lines
The stick had been cruel—two lines, no hesitation, edges so plain they felt like a verdict. Shawna stood in my bathroom with her arms folded, holding me steady by sheer presence.
“Well,” she said, her voice soft. “There it is.”
I stared at the test as if I could blink it away. “Could be faulty,” I whispered, even though we both knew it wasn’t.
Shawna shook her head slow. “You took two. Both said the same.”
