"Yeah," I said. "I know."
Cal nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now get your head right before afternoon drills. I need you sharp."
"Yes, sir."
He clapped me on the shoulder as he walked past. A simple gesture. The kind of thing that shouldn't mean much but somehow did.
Saturday morning, and I was in my usual spot at Grace's kitchen table, nursing a cup of too-sweet coffee, when it happened.
The breakfast service was in full swing. Grace moved between the dining room and kitchen with practiced efficiency. Elena handled the front desk. Mrs. Patterson settled in her usual window seat with a paperback and a pot of tea. Everything seemed normal. Familiar.
Grace was serving eggs to the couple in room three when I saw her freeze.
Just for a second. A stillness came over her whole body. Her face went pale. Her hand tightened on the edge of the plate. She set the food down with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, murmured something I couldn't hear, and walked calmly toward the back hallway.
Too calmly. The kind of controlled movement that meant she was barely holding it together.
I was out of my chair before I made the conscious decision to move.
The bathroom door was closed but not locked. I could hear her through the wood. The awful sounds of someone being sick, the gasping breaths between heaves. I knocked once, softly.
"Grace. It's me."
"I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
"I'm coming in."
I didn't wait for permission. Just opened the door and stepped inside.
She was bent over the toilet, gripping the porcelain with white-knuckled hands, her whole body shaking. Her hair had fallen forward around her face, damp with sweat. She looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes, and for a second I saw something that looked like relief flash across her face before she turned back to the bowl.
I didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate. Just stepped forward, gathered her hair back with one hand, and held it away from her face while the other rubbed slow circles on her back.
My mother used to do this when I was sick as a kid. She sat with me in the bathroom and rubbed my back until the worst of it passed.
When it was over, Grace slumped back against the wall, breathing hard. Her skin was clammy, too pale. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than one morning's sickness.
"Sorry," she managed. Her voice was hoarse. "Must have eaten something bad."
I looked at her.
Six weeks since Marcus left. All the things I hadn’t let myself say out loud.
The pieces clicked together with devastating clarity.
"Grace."
Something in my voice made her go still.
"How far along are you?"
The silence stretched between us, heavy and fragile.
Grace stared at me. I watched her cycle through emotions—shock that I'd figured it out, fear of what I might say.And underneath it all, a bone-deep exhaustion that came from carrying this alone for too long.
"How did you know?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I've known you for sixteen years." I crouched down so we were at eye level, my back against the bathroom door. "You think I wouldn't notice?"
