“I know. But for once, you could just focus on Esme without being pulled in a dozen directions. Without worrying about work or logistics or daycare drop-off times. Just… space to breathe. For all of us.”
She turns to the window. The silence stretches. Shefinally speaks, just as I pull up in front of her house. But her voice is cool. Her words measured.
“I love being Esme’s mom, Spencer. But I’m more than that. I thought you understood that about me. My work isn’t just how I pay the bills—it’s part of how I stay whole. And I’m sorry, but I can’t—won’t—be the woman waiting in some beach house for you to return from the city.”
I’m totally caught off guard.
Stunned, actually.
And then she adds, “I don’t need rescuing, Spencer. I need to be treated like a partner, not a project.”
FORTY-THREE
RHEA
“I don’t need rescuing. I need to be treated like a partner, not a project.”
His mouth tightens. “Got it,” he says, and looks away. Just two words. Quiet. Clipped. But I see it in his eyes—I’ve hurt him.
Too blunt. Too cold. Not grateful enough.
But the truth is, I’m holding on by a thread. And all I want right now is to get inside my house, crawl into my bed—maybe even pull Esme in beside me—and sleep. For a night. For a lifetime.
The week of sleepless nights and hallway pacing, of cafeteria food and adrenaline-fueled worry, settles heavy in my bones. My arms ache from carrying her, my head pounds from saying and feeling too much.
Spencer grabs the bags—mostly things he conjured in Boston like some kind of travel fairy godfather—and carries them to the door.
I shift Esme on my hip. She’s asleep again, warm and heavy against my chest.
“May I?” he asks, reaching for her.
“Of course.”
He takes her with such care, like she’s made of porcelain and gold. Then he kisses her cheeks—one, then the other—and pulls her close, resting his cheek against hers.
His voice is soft, almost breaking. “Ton papa t’aime, ma petite.”Your daddy loves you, little one.
And Esme, eyes still closed, presses her lips against his jaw and whispers, “Papa.”
Just one word. But it lands like a miracle. And I see the tears form in his eyes.
I have to look away. Because it’s beautiful and intimate and more than I can handle without breaking once again.
He gently lays Esme on the couch, tucking a throw blanket around her like he’s done it a dozens of times before. Then he turns to me, his voice low. “I better get on the road. Let the two of you settle in.”
He says it as if he’s resigned to the fact that he’s the one on the outside.
I nod, not able to summon the energy for anything more.
He steps closer and kisses the top of my head—tender, careful. I reach for him, wrap my arms around his waist, and pull him in. We hold each other for a long moment, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking.
Our lips don’t meet. Instead, our bodies seem to speak, softly, and honestly.
This could be something good. But it just feels so damned hard right now.
He rests his chin briefly on the top of my head and then lets go.
“Thanks again for everything,” I whisper.
