Him curled toward me.
Me staring at the ceiling.
Wondering what the hell I was doing.
Chapter 16
Hadley
Two and half months in this house and I still wake up reaching for the old alarm clock that used to sit on the card table back in Vegas. My hand hits nothing but cool white sheets. The room is too big, too quiet, too clean. I roll onto my side, hand automatically finding the small, firm swell of my belly.
Fifteen weeks. The bump is undeniable now, round enough that I’ve given up on jeans. Loose dresses only. Flowy cotton things I ordered online because nothing in Cal’s guest closet fit anymore. I don’t look pregnant in the mirror yet, not really. Just… softer. Tired. Like my body’s decided to hold on to every ounce of water and worry.
Eli’s drawings are taped to the wall above the dresser, bright crayon trains curving across construction paper. He did them last week during homeschool. Online tutors come three times a day now. Math, reading, science. All train-themed when I can swing it. He asks every afternoon when we’re going home. I say “soon” and hate how the word tastes like a lie.
He’s adjusting okay, better than I expected. He likes the tutors. Likes the routine. But he misses the old apartment. Misses Zariah popping in with takeout. Misses Vegas, even if he doesn’t say it outright.
The house is quiet this morning. Cal’s wing is on the other side of the mansion, far enough that I usually don’t hear him come in. But I always know when he does. The front door slams at 3 or 4a.m. Sometimes giggles follow. Sometimes heels clicking across marble. Sometimes nothing but his boots hitting the floor like he’s angry at the ground.
I’ve stopped counting the girls.
Some nights I hear them, moans, bedsprings, laughter that cuts off into gasps. The walls are thick but not thick enough. I lie there staring at the ceiling, hand on my bump, wondering if the baby can hear it too. Other times I see. One morning last month I walked into the living room at 6 a.m. to get water for Eli and there was a girl asleep on the sectional. Naked except for Cal’s black band tee. Legs tangled in a throw blanket. Makeup smeared.
Blonde hair fanned out like she’d passed out mid-laugh. Cal was gone, probably already out running or at the studio. I stood there staring until my stomach turned. Then I went back to my room and dry-heaved over the toilet. Eli asked why I was pale at breakfast. I lied. Said I ate something bad.
Another night, 3 a.m., I think...I came downstairs for crackers because the nausea was back. Kitchen light on. Cal had a girl bent over the island. Her skirt hiked up. His hand in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back.
He was thrusting slow, deliberate, like he had all night. She was moaning his name, Cal, oh God, Cal, like it was a prayer. He looked right at me when I froze in the doorway. Eyes dark. Didn’t stop. Just smirked. Slow. Like he wanted me to see. Like it was a message. I turned and ran. Threw up in the hallway bathroom. Eli slept through it. Thank God. But I lay awake after, hand on my belly, whispering to the baby that this wasn’t normal. That this wasn’t what fathers did.
Syd’s worse.
She’s everywhere now. Wearing Cal’s hoodies around the house like uniforms, oversized, sleeves rolled up, smelling like his cologne. Sitting in his lap during the forced “family” band meetings Ron makes me attend for optics. Laughing too loud at jokes I don’t get. Touching his arm. His neck. His thigh. Right in front of me. Like I’m not there. Like the bump doesn’t exist.
Yesterday she walked into the kitchen while I was making Eli a sandwich. Leaned against the counter in Cal’s old tour shirt, nothing underneath, hem barely covering her thighs. She looked at my bump and smiled that slow, knowing smile.
“Getting big,” she said. Casual. Like we were friends. “Cute. But Cal likes his women flexible. Hope you can still keep up. Pregnancy changes things.”
I didn’t answer. Just kept spreading peanut butter. Knife scraping the bread.
She laughed, soft, almost pitying. “Don’t worry. He’ll get bored soon. He always does with the new ones. You think the baby will keep him? It won’t. He’s not the family type.”
Eli came in then. Saw her. Stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing. He’s thirteen, not a kid anymore. He sees more than I want him to.
Syd crouched down to his level. “Hey, little guy. You like trains? Holland told me you’re obsessed.”
Eli didn’t answer. Just stared at her. Pressed his back against the wall like he wanted to disappear into it.
She straightened. Looked at me. “Adorable. Really. But kids aren’t his thing. Neither are stretch marks. Just a heads-up.”
I gripped the knife harder. Felt the handle bite into my palm.
She left. Hips swaying like she owned the kitchen.
Kei’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m taking up space I don’t deserve.
He comes by most afternoons. Brings Eli new train books or coloring pages, stuff with high-speed rails and subway maps. Sits with me on the patio while Eli sketches in the yard. Asks how I’m feeling. Really asks. Not the polite version. The “tell me the truth” version.
Today he found me in the kitchen after lunch. Eli was napping, tired from homeschool math, fractions kicking his ass again.
