Something about her expression made me pause. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head at first, as if brushing it off, but then she let out a long sigh. “It’s silly. I shouldn’t even…” She stopped herself, biting her lip. “Greyson and I have been trying. For a baby.”
The words hung in the air. My heart squeezed.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she tried to blink them away. “It’s not happening, Maddie. Every month I get my hopes up, and every month it’s the same. I feel broken. Like my body doesn’t know how to do the one thing I’ve always dreamed of.” Her voice cracked. “I want to be a mom so badly, and it feels like it’s slipping further away.”
I crossed the room and sat beside her, taking her hand in both of mine. “Blair, listen to me. You’re not broken. You’re one ofthe strongest, most loving people I’ve ever known. And when the time is right, however it happens, you’ll be an amazing mother.”
Her tears slipped free, and she leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder. “I just feel like I’m failing Greyson.”
“You’re not,” I said firmly. “He loves you. He’s not measuring you by whether you can give him a baby. And even if it takes time, or if the path looks different from what you imagined, you’ll find your way. You always do.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “How are you the one comforting me when your whole house is torn apart?”
I squeezed her hand. “Because you’re my best friend. That’s what we do.”
We sat there in silence for a while, the kind of silence that wasn’t heavy but grounding. Blair eventually wiped her eyes, hugged me tight, and promised Olive a pancake breakfast before heading home.
When the door closed behind her, the guesthouse felt too quiet. I cleaned up the cups we’d left on the coffee table, turned off the lamps, and finally slipped into bed.
But sleep didn’t come.
I laid awake staring at the ceiling, listening to Olive’s even breathing down the hall, my mind spinning. The image of the insurance adjuster’s disinterested face, Seth’s steady hand on my back, Blair’s tears, all of it crowded together in the dark.
The worst part was how easily Olive had taken to Seth, and how quickly I was starting to lean on him, too. It scared me. People I cared about didn’t stay. My parents, the man I thought would co-parent with me, even the life I thought I had under my own roof, they had all slipped through my fingers.
And now, here I was, in Seth Cunningham’s guesthouse, with his shadow stretching into my life in ways I hadn’t expected.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, willing myself to breathe, to let it go. But the thought echoed, sharp and unrelenting. I couldn’tafford to let Olive get too attached to him. And I couldn’t afford to let myself believe he would stay, either.
Because when people left, and they always did, it hurt worse than the storm ever could.
Chapter 22
Seth
The house was quiet when I walked in, the kind of quiet that echoed.
I dropped my keys on the counter, and the sharp clatter filled the space for a second before the silence swallowed it back up. Sometimes I thought this place had grown too used to being empty. The walls had no memory, no warmth, just cleanlines and cold surfaces. Everything was in its place. The fridge hummed. The clock ticked. But it wasn’t living.
Through the kitchen window, I could see the glow from the guesthouse across the lawn. A warm square of yellow spilled onto the grass, softer than the harsh light I left on in my own house. Madison’s shadow moved across the curtain, slow and steady, probably making sure Olive had her stuffed Bunny tucked against her cheek.
I told myself that was all this was. Just me checking to make sure they were settled, safe. I was a landlord, of sorts. Responsible. Nothing more.
But my chest tightened in a way that didn’t match the excuse.
I took a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap, and leaned against the counter. The first sip was bitter. I stared out the window longer than I should have, my eyes drawn to the small motions of life inside that guesthouse, things I couldn’t hear but could almost imagine. Madison’s low voice, Olive’s giggle, the soft rustle of a blanket. A home.
That word tasted foreign in my mouth.
I’d made sure the houses I built for other people felt like homes. Warm wood tones, big kitchens, and porches where families could sit at dusk. But me? I’d built myself a fortress instead. A place with walls so high nobody could climb them.
Because letting people in meant giving them the chance to walk out again. And I didn’t know how to survive that kind of loss twice.
It wasn’t that I was incapable of connection. I could sit across from a client, talk them through design choices, and reassure them that everything would come together on time. I could laugh with my crew at the end of a long day, buy the first round, make them feel like I was steady ground.
But those things were surface level. Practical. Controlled.
