“But love isn’t enough, is it? Love doesn’t guarantee that I won’t hurt her. Love doesn’t mean I’ll be a good father figure to Ash or uncle to Henry. Love doesn’t fix all the ways I’m broken from growing up without anyone who wanted me.”
The self-doubt feels familiar, worn smooth by years of practice. It’s easier to assume I’ll fail than to risk trying and proving myself right.
I sit in silence for a long time, holding Amy’s hand and listening to the machines keeping her stable. The coffee I brought her has gone cold, untouched on the bedside table, but I’ll bring her another one tomorrow. I always do.
“I miss you,” I tell her finally. “I miss having someone who knows me well enough to call me on my bullshit. I miss having someone who believes I deserve good things even when I don’t believe it myself.”
When visiting hours end, I kiss Amy’s forehead and promise to be back tomorrow. But as I walk to my car, I can’t stop thinking about what’s waiting at home.
And whether that’s a good or a bad thing.
CHAPTER 22
ALEXA
Henry’s happy babbling fills the quiet of Jordan’s living room as I stack his wooden blocks into a tower that he immediately knocks down with delighted giggles. It’s our third round of this game, and his enthusiasm hasn’t waned, which makes one of us happy today.
The past week has been a careful dance of professional politeness and strategic avoidance. Jordan leaves for his daily hospital visits just as I arrive in the mornings, and I’m usually back home with Henry before he returns. When we do cross paths, our conversations are stilted and formal, all business, about feeding schedules and diaper supplies.
It’s exhausting, pretending that the air doesn’t crackle with tension whenever we’re in the same room. Pretending that I don’t replay that almost-kiss every night before I fall asleep. Pretending that his rejection doesn’t sting a little more each day.
The sound of his key in the front door makes my stomach tighten. I glance at the clock on the mantel. Right on time for the evening handoff.
“How’s he been?” he asks as he enters the living room, not quite meeting my eyes as he hangs his jacket on the back of a chair.
“Good. He ate all his lunch and had a solid nap.” I stand up, brushing imaginary dust from my jeans. “We’ve been working on his fine motor skills with the blocks.”
“That’s great.” His voice has that carefully neutral tone he’s perfected over the past week. “Thank you.”
We both look at Henry, who bangs a green block on the carpet. It’s easier than looking at each other.
“I wanted to remind you that I’m headed back to work tomorrow,” he says, finally meeting my eyes briefly before looking away again. “Have you had a chance to plan for the schedule change?”
“Of course.” I’ve actually been dreading this conversation. “I’ll be here by seven thirty, if that works.”
“Seven thirty is perfect.” He crouches down to Henry’s level, receiving an enthusiastic squeal and outstretched arms in response. As he lifts Henry, I see some of the tension leave his shoulders. “I’ve changed my schedule to more regular hours. Ten hours max instead of the fourteen-hour shifts I used to pull.”
“That’s good. Henry will appreciate having more predictable time with you.”
“I hope so.” He bounces Henry gently, and for a moment his expression softens. “I want to be around as much as I can. I know this transition won’t be easy for any of us.”
The way he says “us” makes my heart stutter. There is no “us” anymore, not the way there was before. Now there’s just Jordanthe employer and Alexa the employee, with careful boundaries and professional distance. No more fun outings. No sitting up at night talking after the kids have gone to bed.
All of that turned to dust.
“I’m sure we’ll all adjust fine,” I say, gathering my purse and jacket while carefully avoiding any accidental contact with him. “I should head home. Ash gets out of school soon. He’s started riding the bus.”
But Jordan wouldn’t know that, wouldn’t know that Ash asked to start with the bus since some of his friends ride it. Wouldn’t know that because we’ve barely talked this last week.
“Of course.” He takes a step back, as if ensuring there’s adequate space between us. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow then.”
“Bright and early,” I confirm, the words feeling forced and unnatural.
The goodbye is painfully awkward. We both move toward the door at the same time, then both step back. He reaches for the door handle just as I do, our hands nearly touching before we both jerk away like we’ve been burned.
“Sorry,” we say simultaneously, then stand there in uncomfortable silence.
Finally, he opens the door, and I escape into the fresh air, feeling like I can breathe again only once I’m on my front porch.
