Hank laughs, Deacon shakes his head, and Koa sends another text. His phone chimes, and he chuckles as he turns the screen. It’s a selfie of Nalani, flipping me the bird.
“Your wife is adorable, Koa.”
Chapter 8
Tilted
Hildy
Iwake up feeling wrong, like something’s off-kilter in my body. The metallic taste in my mouth is unsettling. My stomach feels both empty and painfully full, a low churn that keeps me still, assessing the situation before I dare to move. Beside me, Lucy breathes steadily, lost in her dreams, and I hesitate to disturb her. Last night was another restless one for her; I had guided her to the bathroom, hoping to prevent another accident, sensing her own unease. We share this bond—both of us taught ourselves to navigate the world without reliable guidance.
I fix my gaze on the ceiling, counting the rhythm of her breath, waiting for the nausea to pass. But it doesn’t. Instead, it swells, creeping up my throat. Fine, I think, steeling myself. I ease out of bed, careful not to rouse her. The floor is cool against my bare feet. I take two tentative steps toward the bathroom, but my stomach lurches violently, stealing the air from my lungs.
I don’t get far. Just as I reach for the door handle, I drop to my knees, retching into the toilet. It’s anything but graceful—mybody revolts, again and again, until my throat burns and tears prick at my eyes. I clutch the cold porcelain, forcing myself to breathe through my nose. Do not wake Lucy. The thought slices through the chaos in my mind, sharpening my focus.
When the waves of nausea finally ease, I lean back against the tub, my head resting on the cool tile. My hands tremble, and a bead of sweat trickles down my spine. What just happened? I shuffle to the sink, rinsing my mouth, studying my reflection as if it might offer some clarity. I look pale, though nothing alarming, but my eyes seem unnaturally bright.
Stress, I conclude. It must be the stress of the move, the new house, the constant awareness of navigating someone else’s space. My body is finally protesting after holding everything together for so long. I step into the hallway, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water and maybe a cracker or two. That’s when I spot it—the spine of a book resting on the counter. I stop in my tracks.
It’s the same book that’s been there since yesterday, but now it feels different. Yesterday, I overlooked the spine, just another object in a kitchen that isn’t mine yet. Custodians of Memory: Private Archives, Public Obligation, and the Ethics of Inherited Knowledge, by Matthias Eberhardt. My stomach flips, and I grip the counter for support as my thoughts spiral beyond my control.
The last time I had sex, the aftermath left me feeling queasy for days—mornings stretching into afternoons. My cycle has always been erratic; I had an IUD inserted just a month before that night, and he used a condom. Intimacy without one has never been part of my experience. I make it halfway back to the bathroom before my body revolts, as if it’s furious, I even dared to entertain the possibility of something being wrong. This time, bile rises, sharp and acrid, forcing itself out with brutal efficiency. Tears spill down my cheeks, more instinctthan sentiment. When it finally subsides, I linger on the cool tiles longer than I should, arms wrapped tightly around my midsection, breathing in measured sips. This isn’t normal. I refuse to let myself complete that thought. Instead, I rinse my mouth again, splash cold water on my face, and rise slowly. The world stabilizes, but the nausea remains, quieter now, like a lurking specter rather than an outright assault.
I shuffle back to the kitchen, intent on finding crackers, but I freeze at the counter when I spot the book. The pages are well-worn and annotated—not aggressively, but with a meticulousness that reveals a careful hand, someone who knows how to convey meaning without wasting a single line. A name is inscribed in the front cover. I don’t need to utter it. I already know it: von Hohenwald. A chill settles in my chest, sharper than the nausea, as memories flood my mind, my gaze locking onto a picture of the team—and him.
“No fucking way.” I shake my head vehemently. “No. Just no.” I turn back to the book, realization dawning—he knew. Of course he did. The truth fits together seamlessly, like a puzzle piece I hadn’t realized I was holding. I snap the book shut and return it to the counter, placing it right-side up, precisely how I found it. This cannot be happening, I think, as I set out to find crackers, water, anything to soothe my stomach before I dash to the store for a test.
Two crackers in, I suddenly realize I can’t just run to the store; Lucy is still asleep. And now, there’s no “it’s okay” to waste money on delivery costs; I need to be even more frugal than before. No, absolutely not. I refuse to accept this because the sheer improbability of sharing the same space with a man who… nope, not going there.
This just can’t be. Maybe he has a brother… a fucking twin? I’ve been in his orbit for two months, in his house for two days now, and I’ve been completely unaware. This is absurd. Add tothat the failure of double protection, and it becomes the most unlikely series of events in what has already been a string of unfortunate circumstances in my life.
The sound of Lucy stirring snaps me back into myself. It’s a tiny sound, the scrape of a foot against sheets, the soft exhale of breath, but it slices through my utter confusion, like a wire pulled taut. I’m moving, retracing the path from the kitchen to the hallway as if summoned by an alarm only I can hear.
I shove the emotions that I feel brewing, because I didn’t sleep through her waking up again.
“Hildy?” she calls out, her voice still thick with sleep. She pronounces my name the way she did when she first learned it—softly, as if testing to see if I still belonged to her.
“I’m coming,” I say, drawing the syllables out into something gentle and bright. I want to sound reassuring—present, not distracted, not sick or spiraling.
I press one hand to the wall, steadying myself against a fresh surge of nausea. It lurches through me, a rogue wave just beneath the surface. Not now. Please, not now.
Lucy is already sitting up, cross-legged in the center of the bed. Her red-gold hair forms a static-bright halo around her head, and the stuffed bunny—her one constant—rests cradled in the crook of her elbow. She meets my gaze with total, unfiltered trust. There’s no judgment, no suspicion, just the implicit faith that I will show up for her, every time. I am the anchor to her world, and I can’t shake the sinking knowledge that I am on the verge of letting her down.
“Morning.” I smile as I perch on the edge of her bed and brush the hair from her forehead. She leans in, pressing her headto my shoulder for precisely two seconds, which is the upper limit of her current tolerance for affection. I let my hand linger on her back, tracing a circle between her shoulder blades. “Did you sleep okay?”
She nods, eyes wide and serious. “You were gone.”
“I just had to use the bathroom. I could hear you the whole time,” I reply. I force myself to say it lightly, as if my absence was no more significant than a passing cloud. “You want breakfast?”
She nods again, this time with more urgency. “Really hungry.”
I scoop her up and hug her tight, she giggles. “Let’s get you fed.”
Lucy watches the pan like it’s a science experiment she did not consent to.
“What are those?” she asks, chin on the counter, eyes narrowed.
“Eggs,” I say carefully, whisking with a wrist that is definitely not steady. “But different eggs.”
