“Oh my God!” I squealed as the dish slid from my grip and exploded across the floor in a purple tide.
Charlie glanced from his arm to the bruised-blue splatter across the pristine white floor and loveseat, then to my face. When our eyes met, the scowl he’d been wearing eased.
He moved without hesitation, closing the steps between us and steering me away from the mess as gently as possible. “You look like you did before you passed out,” he said. “Can you make it to the couch?”
I, indeed, could not make it to the couch.
***
By the time I came to, I looked like Violet Beauregarde, if she went twelve rounds with Betty Crocker and Betty took the gold. My limbs were trembling, my clothes clung damp to my skin from the cold sweat that washed over me, and the stupid blueberry blast. I couldn’t tell if the chill running down my spine was from the cold tile or the creeping realization that perhaps I did need a babysitter after all.
“Come on now, darlin’, you’re okay,” Charlie whispered, his rough hands stroking my forehead and cheeks. “One of the nurses from the OB’s office is on the line, she’s asking if you still feel dizzy?”
I shook my head and craned my neck to assess the damage. There was blueberry goo everywhere, including all over Nancy since she was snouting around and mashing it into the ground and her chocolate-brown fur.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, trying to sit up. Charlie made a sound into the phone that was half laugh, half fond exasperation. “No, ma’am, that was not an invitation,” he said, then promised the nurse he’d take me to the ER if anything like that happened again and he’d try to keep me off my feet until my appointment.
“I need to clean myself up,” I sighed, looking down at myself.
Charlie helped me to the bathroom, and I tried my best to get it together. The doctor had assured me that this is normal, that it happens, but to take it easy. Probably stress baking over my best friend leaving, my brother’s anal attitude, and my brother-in-law in pain over his mother was not the route to go.
But I never knew how to sit still. That was always the way it went with me.
Charlie was crouched in the living room when I emerged, mop in hand, sleeves rolled past his elbows, hair in full rebellion like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for the past half hour. He looked up long enough to register I was there, then went back to scrubbing and muttering to himself.
I lingered in the doorway longer than I meant to, shame and exhaustion tripping over each other. I’d done worse. I’d been worse. But seeing him there—flannel, boots, and all that quiet, easy helpfulness—undid a knot in me I hadn’t known was there. For a second, I didn’t want to be brave. I wanted to let myself be small, and let someone else carry the weight for once.
And that scared me more than it should have.
“I’m sorry,” I said, voice barely bigger than a breath.
Charlie rose to his feet, brushing his palms on his jeans. He kept his gaze down, and I was grateful for it.
“I’m gonna run down and grab a few things from the studio. Will you be all right?”
I nodded, but this time I meant it. My limbs still felt untrustworthy, my stomach was a minefield, and I could hear the echo of my brother’s worry and annoyance in every corner of this too-big penthouse. But Charlie had helped me without judgment, with that quiet steadiness that didn’t demand anything.
And for reasons I didn’t want to dig too deeply into, that made me feel safer than I’d felt in months.
“Please park your behind on the couch and do not move,” Charlie said, heading for the door. “So help me God if I come back up here and you’re anywhere near the kitchen, your ass is grass, Aden.”
I let out the most pathetic laugh as I pressed a hand to my belly, not for comfort, but for clarity. Trying to remind myself what this was all for. Who I was doing it for.
“I’m trying,” I whispered. “I really am.”
Nancy let out a long, theatrical sigh and rested her blueberry-covered chin on my knee, like she could sense how close I was to crumbling.
I tilted my head back against the back of the couch, letting the silence settle around me. Somewhere under the fatigue and the nausea and the ever-present panic, I could still hear the girl I used to be. The one who dreamed in Technicolor. Who believed in late-night dancing, open windows, and hands that held on when things got hard. Who traveled and searched the world for what she believed could save her, the perfect life—the perfect love.
She didn’t feel close. But she wasn’t gone.
There was still a part of me that wanted to fight for her. Maybe not with fists raised and a battle cry but with more patience. The kind of strength that came from staying. From trying again. From refusing to let go of the idea that there was a place for me in this world. A space that didn’t ask me to shrink or perform or apologize.
A place I’d walk into and recognize—not by its shape or its sound, but by the way it settled in my chest but the way it felt when I finally let myself belong.
A place that felt a lot like home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
