“Why don’t you cook for me in Boston?” she asks, her tone hard to read.
“I thought you preferred going out.” He shifts, glances at me, back to his soup.
“Speaking of going out, is anyone interested in hitting the tavern tonight?” Ivy surveys the room.
The table quiets. Margaret raises her brows, exchanges a look with Gary, but says nothing. I glance toward Mason, half-expecting him to offer to go with her. But he’s lost in his phone.
“Feel free to go,” James says, still not looking up. He stirs his soup with careful precision. “But I’d rather stay in on Christmas Eve.”
What I wouldn’t give to rewind to yesterday.
If I’d swallowed it down. Not opened up to Jules. Not let her ask that damn question:Are you happy?I could have kept up the well-practiced version of myself, going through the motions and grateful for this family above all else.
But that question led me to try. I asked Mason about the questionnaire. To connect. I put myself out there only to be met with the same old dismissal. And thenJamesfucking arrived, riding in like some White Knight who reads, cooks, and takes care of you. Someone who instinctively understands what those questions were meant to do. A man who doesn’t need a list.
Twenty-four hours of quiet moments replay like an old black and white movie, scenes from a life I’m not living—a glimpse through a doorway into another version of me, one who made different choices. I look up, and his eyes meet mine.
What if it’s not too late?
“Ahh, Bell, get your nose off my lap!” Leo yells, yanking me back to the table and out of my head. A much safer place to be. “You can’t have my dinner roll!”
The table erupts in laughter as the golden retriever's tail thumps eagerly, still watching for crumbs. Conversation shifts back to lighter things with the kids taking center stage, talking about Santa and last-minute wish lists.
Jules leans in, a look on her face that has me holding my breath. “You got sick a few times, and it passed?”
“Pretty much. Why?”
“Have you had this nausea at other times? Dizziness?”
“I’ve been dizzy, yeah. Nausea for a couple of weeks.” My stomach drops to the floor as realization dawns. The thoughts I’ve been pushing down rush forward as the pattern crystallizes.
“When was your last period?”
“What the fuck, Jules?” I whisper-shout as water sprays from my mouth.
“Sorry, babe. But these are classic morning sickness symptoms. You should take a test. I’ll run to the pharmacy if you want.”
“No. Fuck. No.” I stand, grabbing a napkin to blot the water from the table. Raising my voice to its normal level, I turn to the rest of the table. “Sorry, everyone. My stomach’s not great again. I’m going to bed.”
Upstairs, I yank out my phone, scrolling through my calendar. Trying to remember. What was happening the last time…?
Everything blurs. The room spins, fast and unrelenting.
We’ve talked about kids, but I’m still on the pill. I’m not even sure I want children. Mason’s insistence that this is the next step has been a common argument over the past few years, as if this is just another item to check off his to-do list.
Looking at my calendar, one entry jumps out: a doctor’s appointment after I’d fallen during a race and scraped my knees badly. He prescribed antibiotics and gave a warning that they might interfere with my birth control. And a few nights later—too much wine, numbing myself during another exhausting fundraiser. I didn’t think about using backup protection. Didn’t think at all.
Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.
I pull the covers over my head, slip in my earbuds, queue up some white noise, throw on an eye mask, and hope to lull myself to sleep and wake up from this nightmare.
Six
3:17a.m.
My phone blasts the dark room out of its shadows. The remnants of the dream that startled me awake are hazy, edging into focus like a kaleidoscope.
A baby in my arms.
