Ross gives me a questioning look when I ask for my break early. "Family," I explain, and he nods.
I grab my coat and Trevor and I head outside. We sit at one of the small tables on the sidewalk—the ones that are always empty this time of day because it's too cold for most people.
"You're too skinny," Trevor says, pushing the sandwich toward me. "Eat."
"I'm pregnant, not dying."
"You look exhausted. Are you sleeping?"
"Define sleeping."
He watches while I pick at the sandwich. I manage three bites before nausea wins.
"Bay." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep going like this."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're running yourself into the ground."
"What choice do I have? I need this job. I need the money. The baby—"
"I know." He covers my hand with his. "I know. I'm just worried about you."
We sit in silence for a moment, cars passing on the street, the sound of the espresso machine drifting through Luna's window. The question burns in my throat. I shouldn't ask. Shouldn't care.
"Have you..." I try to sound casual. "Have you heard from him?"
Trevor studies my face. "Daniel?"
"I'm just curious. He was so desperate to talk and now... nothing."
"He's respecting your space. Like you asked."
Something in my chest tightens. "So you have talked to him."
"A few times. Nothing deep. Just checking in."
"And?"
Trevor hesitates. "He's still going to therapy. Twice a week. Has been for almost a month now."
The information sits. A month of therapy. Twice a week. That's not performative. That's actual work.
"Do you think..." I stop. Start again. "Is he actually changing?"
"I don't know." Trevor's voice is honest. "I hope so. But that's not for me to decide."
"It's for me to decide."
"Only if you want to." He squeezes my hand. "You don't owe him anything, Bay. Not your time, not your forgiveness, not a second chance. Nothing."
I nod, but the words sit heavy in my stomach.
Therapy. Real therapy. For a month.
What does that mean?
***
