Page 62 of Afterglow

“You mentioned knowing Becca since she was little…” She takes another bite of her bread, giving me space to elaborate if I want to.

“Yeah. She was eight when I came to live with the Davenports. I was fifteen. They were my foster parents until I turned eighteen.”

“Oh” is all she says, and the tone makes a sticky discomfort climb my throat. I don’t want her thinking there was anything weird about me and Sarah.

“I know it sounds kind of incestuous, but I promise it wasn’t like you’re thinking. Sarah and I became fast friends, but we never felt like siblings—not like Becca and I do. I think I fell for Sarah the first day I met her, but I knew I could never pursue her out of respect for Alex and Delia. So, we were friends. Until junior year of college. That was when everything changed for us.”

“And Alex and Delia, they didn’t… They were okay with it?” she asks, walking into the living room to stand in front of the fireplace.

I follow her and take a seat in my leather armchair. “Yeah. I was terrified they would think I wasn’t good enough for her, but Alex said he always thought we’d get there in the end. He said he respected me for never making a move while we lived under the same roof, for being a friend to Sarah all those years when he could see I wanted more. He knew his daughter well enough to know she did too.”

“That’s… Wow. You were together a long time then…” she says, turning to face me and warming her hands behind her back.

“Yeah.”

This is the most we’ve talked about Sarah—about my past—since I first told her two months ago that I was a widower. And it’s the closest we’ve come to there being an opening to talk about Sam—about the pregnancy and how I lost them both. But once again, it doesn’t feel like the opportune time, not right before she has to meet Alex and Delia. Not when things are going so well.

She must read my reluctance to talk about this further and changes the subject. “So, I talked to my boss and HR yesterday.” She takes a seat on the far end of the couch.

Why does it feel like she’s purposely putting space between us?

“Yeah, how’d it go?” I ask, moving to sit on the opposite end and closing the gap somewhat.

“Pretty well, I think.”

“How much maternity leave will you get?” I ask, crossing my ankle over my knee and leaning back into the cushion.

“Twelve paid weeks, but I can take another twelve unpaid or partially paid if I apply for disability—which I plan to do.” She stares into the fire, the wheels clearly turning inside her head. “I’m the head of my department,” she states, not really talking to me but working her thoughts out aloud. “I have a team that works under me, but the contact between the venues, the clients… is all me. As supportive as Vivian is, I can tell she’s unsure of how they’ll run my region while I’m on leave.”

“And you can… Can you afford those twelve weeks unpaid?”

We’ve never really talked about money before and I don’t want to push, but if I can help her to have that time, I’ll do anything I can.

She narrows her eyes and I fight not to shrivel under her stare. God, this woman. “Yes, I can afford it. I have savings and more than enough time accrued. It’s more a matter of having a job to go back to after six months off.”

“They can’t fire you for getting pregnant,” I scoff. I’d like to see them try.

“No, they can’t. But they can bring someone in to do my job while I’m gone, and it’s always possible they’ll prefer them when it’s time for me to go back. Honestly…” she starts, then puffs out a breath, like she’s not sure how to continue with whatever thought she has in mind.

“What? Tell me.” I reach across the back of the couch, trailing my fingers across her shoulder.

She shivers under my touch, and her hazel eyes dance with the firelight when our gazes lock. “Honestly, I’m having a hard time imagining what happens after six months off. I love my job, and it’s been my primary source of joy for a long time.”

“But you have a new source of joy now…” I interject, and her lips tip up in a smile.

She caresses her stomach under the heavy sweater she’s wearing. I watch her hand move across it in a subtle rhythm. “Yeah, I do,” she responds softly. “And you know better than most that working in events is time-consuming. It’s a lot of nights and weekends, and those aren’t standard childcare hours. I don’t know how it’s going to work with a baby.”

We’re skirting awfully close to a conversation I was hoping to have today. So I gather my courage to ask one of the many questions I’ve had bouncing around in my head lately.

“Leanne,” I say cautiously, not wanting to spook her. “What do you see this looking like, after the baby’s born?”

She freezes, her swallow audible.

I don’t cower. “I want to be there for you and the baby as much as possible. I want… I want to be more than a part-time dad.” The idea of not being there for every moment kills me.

She chews her lip, and a sheen of sweat gathers on my brow.

“I know you do,” she says on a scant breath. “I know you’re in this and I know we need to talk about it. I guess I kept thinking the answer would magically present itself the longer I waited, but it hasn’t.”