“When,” I interject, causing her to nudge against my chest.
“Oh my god. Listen, I’m being serious,” she says, voice stubborn. “If we decide to have kids someday, I hope they’re just like you. I hope they get your brain. Your kindness. The way you try so fucking hard, even when you think no one’s watching or worth it.”
The words burrow through me, molten and sharp, and for a heartbeat I can’t breathe at all. The thought never occurred to me—that I could be the template for someone, that I could give a child something other than anxiety and awkwardness and the genetic echo of disappointment.
A latent panic rises up inside me, thinking of all the difficulty and trauma that’s shaped my life. I always swore I’d never pass that on. But being with Audrey, seeing her with her family, knowing her brain works a lot like mine—I wonder, maybe it wouldn’t all be so bad. Maybe at least one generation of Whitmans could get it right.
“That’s…” I swallow, aware my arms are holding her a little too tightly now. I don’t know how to reply. My mouth works, but nothing more comes out except a choked laugh, and then she’slaughing with me, water sloshing everywhere, and I bury my face in her hair so she doesn’t see the tears skating down my cheeks.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” I murmur, kissing the top of her head once I can trust my voice again.
“You existed.” She turns fully now, water cascading over the edge of the tub as she straddles my lap, her hands finding my face, thumbs brushing along my jaw. “That’s all you ever had to do.”
I kiss her then—slow, reverent, tasting lavender steam and the salt of my own tears. Her body presses against mine, warm and slippery and perfect, and the kiss deepens into something that feels less like desire and more like a promise.
“Bed,” she whispers against my mouth. “Take me to bed.”
We don’t bother with towels. I lift her out of the tub, both of us dripping across the tile, across the hardwood, leaving a trail of water and laughter all the way to the bedroom. She pulls me down onto the sheets, still damp, still tangled together, and when I slide inside her, it’s not desperate or frantic.
This is slow. This is deliberate. This is every word I don’t know how to say poured into the way I move with her, the way I hold her gaze, the way I whisper her name like it’s the only prayer I’ve ever believed in.
Afterward, she curls into my chest, her breath evening out into sleep almost immediately. I stay awake a little longer, stroking her hair, watching the city lights paint shadows across the ceiling.
Kids like me.She wants kids like me.
For the first time in my life, that doesn’t sound like a curse.
CHAPTER 28
Audrey
“She saidwhat?” Layla’s latte freezes halfway to her mouth. “To your face? At dinner?”
“To my face. At dinner.” I take an aggressive bite of avocado toast. “She implied I was after his money and suggested he’d eventually tire of ‘slumming it’ and find someone of ‘appropriate stock.’”
“Stock,” Serena repeats flatly. “Like you’re cattle.”
“Like I’m cattle.”
“I’m going to kill her.” Layla sets down her mug with a decisive clunk. “I’m going to find this woman and I’m going to kill her with my bare hands.”
“Get in line,” Jenna mutters, and we all turn to look at her.
She’s sitting at the end of the table, looking slightly less uncomfortable than the last time Layla strong-armed her into a group outing. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she’s wearing what I’ve come to recognize as her work uniform—tailored trousers, a silk blouse in dove gray, minimal jewelry. She looks like she wandered out of a catalogue for women who bill four hundred dollars an hour.
This is the first time we’ve had brunch since I got back from Sweden. Between the project consuming every waking hour and my relationship with Logan consuming most of the others, our regular catch-ups have fallen by the wayside. But today—the day after our breakthrough—Logan insisted I get out of the lab and take a real break while he babysits the simulations.
“Go,”he’d said, practically pushing me toward the door.“I’ll call if anything explodes.”
So here I am, one eye on my phone in case the lab needs me, trying to remember how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve encryption protocols or FDA benchmarks. It’s harder than it should be. My brain keeps drifting back to the simulations, running variables I can’t control from our favorite table at The Velvet Spoon Cafe.
“You’ve met Logan’s mother?” I ask Jenna, surprised by her comment.
“Unfortunately.” She cuts a piece of chicken. “I met them at a charity gala two years ago. Caroline spent fifteen minutes telling me about the importance of ‘maintaining standards’ while looking at my dress like it had personally offended her ancestors.”
“What was wrong with your dress?” Serena asks.
“Nothing. It was Valentino.” Jenna puts down her cutlery and takes a sip of her sparkling water. “But I made the mistake of correcting her when she thought my surname meant I belonged tothePembertons of Main Line Philadelphia. But I grew up in Queens, so clearly she decided I was an infiltrator after that.”
