Hadley smiled. Real. “Yeah. Kicks like a mule.”
I watched the screen. The blur of limbs. Head. Spine.
On the way home I stopped at a bookstore. Came out with a bag.
Hadley eyed it. “What’s that?”
“Books.”
“Books?”
“Yeah.” I handed her the bag when we got inside the mansion. The foyer echoed our steps, too big, too empty.
She pulled one out. “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”
“Figured I should know what’s coming.”
She traced the cover. “You’re reading this?”
“Trying to.”
That afternoon I sat in the living room, massive sectional swallowing me, flipping pages. Sections on trimesters. Nutrition. Labor signs.
Hadley walked by with laundry. Stopped. “Find anything interesting?”
“Yeah. Says the baby can taste what you eat through the amniotic fluid. So no more spicy Thai?”
She laughed. Soft. “I’ll try.”
I set the book down. Looked at her. Really looked. “What was your childhood like?”
She froze. Basket on her hip. “What?”
“Your childhood. Before Eli. Before Vegas.”
She set the basket down slowly. Sat across from me on the ottoman. “Why?”
“Because I don’t know. And I should.”
She studied me. Long. “It was… chaotic. Foster homes mostly. Some good. Most not. I learned early to keep my head down. Take care of myself.”
“Anyone stick?”
“One couple. For two years. They had a garden. Taught me to plant tomatoes. But they moved states. Couldn’t take me.”
I nodded. “Sounds hard.”
“Yeah.” She waited. “What about yours? Besides the dinner we saw.”
“Structured. Dad’s rules. Mom’s quiet fixes. Band in high school was my escape.”
She reached over. Squeezed my knee. “Thanks for asking.”
“Yeah.”
But the words felt wooden in my mouth. Actions I could do. Vulnerability? That stayed locked.
She appreciated it, I saw it in her eyes. But the loneliness lingered there too. Like she was waiting for more.
