Page 85 of A Note Not Mine

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“Wait.”

He stopped by his truck. “What?”

“You replacing me?”

He leaned against the door. Sighed. “No, man. I’m not.”

“Then what?”

“You’re not being replaced. You’re just not showing up the way she needs.”

The words gutted me. Clean slice.

I swallowed hard. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” He opened the door. “But trying isn’t being there. Every time. Without the walls.”

He drove off.

I stood there. Sun beating down. Mansion looming behind me.

That night I watched Hadley sleep. Curled on her side in our bed, king-sized, sheets tangled around her legs. Moonlight from the French doors cut across her face.

I slid my hand over the bump. Felt a soft nudge.

Whispered, “I’m trying. I don’t know if it’s enough.”

The baby kicked again.

I closed my eyes.

Fear tasted like metal.

Chapter 23

Cal

Mom didn’t ask. She told.

Three weeks after the industry party she called while I was in the studio trying to salvage a verse that refused to rhyme. The beat looped endlessly through the monitors, bass thumping like a headache behind my eyes.

“Family vacation. Bahamas. One week. You, Hadley, Eli, the whole crew. I already booked the villa. Non-negotiable.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, spinning slowly in the studio chair. “Mom, I’ve got sessions lined up. Ron already...”

“Sessions can wait. Your child cannot. And your siblings haven’t seen you in months. Lucinda’s bringing Kylie. Malcolm’s twins are finally sleeping through the night. We’re doing this. End of discussion.”

I stared through the glass panel separating the booth from the lounge area.

Hadley was curled into the sectional, barefoot, one hand absentmindedly resting on her bump while she scrolled through her phone. She looked comfortable there. Like she belonged in my space now, which still felt strange to admit.

Eli sat in the armchair nearby, headphones clamped over his ears, fingers moving rapidly across his tablet screen. Completely locked into whatever digital world he was building.

I sighed into the phone. “Fine. When?”

“Next Friday. Pack light. Sun and sand. No excuses.”

The call ended before I could protest further.