Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She didn’t know why she kept the key, not when he was marrying someone else. She wasn’t sure what to expect from the place. What she thought it would be was not what it turned out to be. The house was small and hidden, tucked away in the forests of Maine and near a sprawling lake with one little lonely pier.

She initially chose to stay in the small guest room, feeling at odds with the fact that this space was not hers. She had set up the bedside table with a tiny, bookended collection of her grandfather’s favorite novels and sat in the window seat with her laptop.

But the sunlight didn’t brighten the room when the sun rose in the mornings, and the view of the snow-covered tool shed wasn’t inspiring.

So, after a week, she moved with her insufficient belongings into the master bedroom. It helped that the housekeeper opened the curtains, stocked the bathroom and kitchen with all her creature comforts, and put fresh sheets on the bed, inviting her into the space. She didn’t question how the housekeeper knew what she liked – it was all him.

The move helped her writer’s block, and words bloomed on the page, flowing as fast as she could type. She didn’t stop to edit; she just wrote and wrote and wrote, pausing only to gaze out over the soothing view.

Sometimes, the frozen water and quiet woods beckoned her, and she allowed herself a stroll down the pier in a warm coat and gloves she found tucked in the back of the hall closet. She didn’t know who it belonged to, but the style was youthful enough that she thought it might be his sister’s.

When she sat at the end of the wooden structure, she felt something shift in her. The world seemed so vast and peaceful; there was no rush to go anywhere or meet a deadline or try to earn money or remake a name for herself. She could just. . . be.

Around about the seventh time she sat, the feelings began to come. Her mother had said they might and to trust the process of grief.

Tears poured over her cheeks before she could stop them. They had been trapped so long inside that she thought she might never be able to get them out. Now, as cliché as it sounded, her emotions flowed like a dam had burst. Sometimes she sobbed, sometimes she laughed, sometimes she longed for something she could never have again.

When she was spent and shivering from the cold, she would wipe her tears, stand on wobbly legs, and head back to the house to warm up. In those times, the writing was slower and more careful, but she didn’t mind because she felt oddly relieved.

She didn’t notice when she missed her period – she was so caught up in the flow of writing and emoting that the realities of the rest of the world fell away.

One day before Christmas, she discovered that the bathroom supplies had been refreshed. When she opened the cabinet for a towel, her fingers skimmed over a new box of tampons.

She lay awake in the bed that night, staring at the ceiling and allowing herself to think about their last night together for the first time in weeks. She honestly didn’t know if what she thought might be happening was possible. When she curled up in a ball and sleep finally came for her, her cheeks and pillow were soaked with tears.

The next morning, she slipped on a sweater and a pair of jeans, sneakers and the coat and drove to the nearest small-town market a few miles away. She bought two tests with cash, added a package of Red Vines and Cinnamon Sugar Pop Tarts to her purchase, and drove back.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub with her hands between her knees, staring at the unopened box for several minutes before she let herself unwrap it.

The results took forever to come, and when they did, she was too stunned to believe them.

She charged and turned her phone on for the first time in weeks, but she quickly became overwhelmed by the number of texts and emails that flew into their respective boxes with tiny, insistent pings. Even her laptop had been cut off from the WiFi, so she wasn’t tempted by what beckoned her from the world, so the reconnection was too much.

Abandoning the bit of technology, she let herself walk like a ghost through the rest of the day, and the next morning, the housekeeper greeted her with a breakfast spread complete with crispy bacon, sourdough toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee. The meal warmed her spirit enough that she returned to her writing. The words were different now as she revisited her past, and there was something about her reality shifting that allowed her to see things from different angles.

For the first time, she let herself miss him, and the sorrow that came from the knowledge that she couldn’t reach out to him left her spinning. The tears came and went inside the house now, but she didn’t chide herself for having them. Plus, she was tired of crying in the icy world outside.

Nausea hit her one evening after she ate a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup, and she spent a few hours getting acquainted with the toilet in a way she hadn’t since she drank too much Founder’s Day punch. As quickly as it hit her, the nausea left for good. For some reason, she remembered that her mom had told her she hadn’t been that sick when she was pregnant either.

As time went on, her body continued with its gentle changes. Her breasts were covered in bright blue veins, her nipples changed colors, and her belly started to round.

In all of that, she continued to write and write, heedless of holidays. She made it to his part of her story, and sleep started to come and go in an irregular pattern. Sometimes, the day and night exchanged holds on her conscious. One night in late February, rain poured in sheets, blanketing the house with its comforting rhythm, a nice change from the snow and ice. She made herself some caffeine-free tea – she was trying to right the ebb and flow of her days. The peppermint and warm liquid were soothing and tended to tug her toward sleep.

As she was removing the tea bag from the liquid, she heard a sharp knock on the front door. It couldn’t be the housekeeper or groundsman – they were out of pocket on weekends. With uncertainty, she found herself at the door, flipping on the porch light and peeking out the peephole. Happiness enveloped her chest.

Without hesitation, she opened the door and discovered she could smile. “Colin. What are you doing here?”

He leaned on the doorframe with a smirk on his face. “I was sent to check on you.”

Her heart swooped with hope, and she hated herself for it. “I’m fine. Now, you’ve seen I’m fine. Mission accomplished.”

“Now, is that any way to treat an honored guest? Are you going to let me in, Gilmore? It’s cold out here, and I’m not as young as I used to be. Plus, this place is in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t know if I have the wherewithal to find my way back to the room I rented. The GPS isn’t exactly adept at navigating bits of the country that belong in a Stephen King novel.” His words were grounded in a way she hadn’t heard since he’d had his knee surgery.

She stepped back, appropriately chided. “Of course. Come in.” She closed the door behind him, shutting out the sweep of cold and the damp air. “Do you want some tea? I was just making some.”

He didn’t even pause and went straight to the pantry where the liquor was hidden away. He pulled out a bottle of scotch that she remembered he liked. He held his prize up. “This is more like it.” He retrieved two crystal glasses.

She followed him to the kitchen where he slung the amber liquid into the cups. He set one in front of her even as she picked up her tea to sip.

Perching on a stool, he drank deep and then poured himself another. “You may be wondering why I’m really here.”

She smiled again; he always got right to the point.

“No one’s heard from you in weeks. You don’t call; you don’t text.” He tilted his head. “Worry is not typically in my repertoire.”

“I came here to write.” She inclined her head toward the sleeping laptop.

“Okay, well, send out a signal that you’re okay every now and again. Maybe a flare if you need anything.”

“I thought you didn’t worry. And I talk to my mom.” Her mother called the landline once a week to make sure she was still breathing.

“Well, that’s all well and good, but don’t forget the rest of us.”

“You know it’s not that simple.” She ran a finger over the mug handle. “But it’s nice to know you miss me.”

“Who else am I going to complain to about my rapid march toward middle age?”

She laughed. “I’m sure you have someone else you can vent to.”

He regarded her for a long moment. “Aren’t you going to ask how he is?”

Emotions flooded forth, and her face crumpled before she could stop it from revealing anything.

Her friend slipped off his stool and pulled her into a hug before she could regroup. “Don’t cry, Mother. I didn’t mean to – ” He drew back. He looked her over in a different way, then at the untouched drink on the counter, and then back to her. “You’re with child.”

Her brow furrowed, and she stepped back, crossing her arms over her vulnerable belly. “Yeah.”

“Does he know?” A beat passed. “He doesn’t know. He should know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s married, and I-I don’t know what I want to do.”

“He’ll want to know.” His tone was firm, certain and told a different story than she was anticipating.

She blinked up at him, confusion pulling itself out of the mire of other feelings.

“You haven’t seen the news. Or checked your phone.”

She shook her head.

“Oh, the two of you are the most. . .” He rolled his eyes and polished off his second drink, the glass clattering on the counter afterward. Retrieving her laptop, he nudged it to life and handed it to her. “Go on. Log on to the ole internet and take a gander.”

With shaking hands, she logged onto the Wifi and opened a browser for the first time in what felt like forever. She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, so she typed his name into something besides her memoir. A flood of articles swept over the screen as she grasped the edge of the granite. Words escaped her almost like the wind had been knocked out of her lungs.

Her guest gestured at the writing. “You see? He didn’t get married. He broke it off. She moved back to France, and he – ”

She somehow found her voice. “How is he?”

In a rare moment of discretion, he said, “You should talk.”

Long after hours of catching up, the wayward traveler passed out drunk on the sofa, soft snores issuing forth. Setting aside her empty teacup, she uncurled her legs and stood to retrieve her cell from where she left it hidden away, quietly charged and on standby waiting for her to reengage.

Turning it on, she let the messages come, and then, ignoring everything else, she pulled up his name and pushed the text button.

Her body found the nearest place to sit as she stared at the blinking cursor. Her heart was tap-dancing in her chest, and she inhaled deeply to try and clear her mind. What could she possibly say that wouldn’t be the most awkward message she’d ever written?

She decided the answer to that question was nothing.

So, she typed. “Hi. It’s me. How are you?” She hoped beyond hope that he wasn’t on his phone. Her mind still calculated the difference between his time zone and hers as effortlessly as breathing. He was probably awake.

Three dots came alive. He was there. . . the way he was always there for her when she needed him.

Her fingers flew over her keyboard in hopes that she could finish before he did. “I’m sorry it took so long to tell you, but Colin’s here, and I’m realizing how dumb it was for me to wait. I’m pregnant. And I don’t expect anything from you, but you should know.”

The three dots disappeared just before the phone vibrated in her hand.

His name took over the screen; he was calling her.

Her anxiety thundered in her ears. She couldn’t talk to him. Not yet.

She felt so stupid.

She powered down the phone and stumbled to bed, not even bothering to put on her pajamas. She clung to the small device and cried until she was so exhausted that her body took over and guided her to sleep.

Three days passed, and she settled back into the familiar rhythm of writing. The world was warming up enough, and she allowed herself longer breaks to walk the nature paths around the house. The bark was rough under her hands, and she sometimes briefly lost her bearings, but she searched until she found a tree that reminded her of her tree at Yale. She laid out blankets and sat beneath the large branches to write. The tone of her tale shifted again into one with more hope and less aching sadness, and she discovered that she was able to write about what made her grandfather happy. . . his love of literature, Yale and a good prank, a round of golf, Grandma, and Cuban cigars.

As she headed back toward the house with a smile on her face, she saw an unfamiliar car in the drive. She hadn’t seen what Colin drove. Maybe he’d returned. But what if it was someone else – someone who would be very unhappy that she was using a house that wasn’t hers to use?

Hesitant, she hugged the blankets and laptop and headed through the side door.

“Hello?” she called into the quiet house, trying to circumvent her fear with a tone of confidence.

He appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, his warm brown eyes full of emotion. “Hey, Ace.”

Her heart ached so much that she thought it might break in two. “Logan. What are you doing here?”

“You can’t just text a guy like that and then not let him respond.” His words were so full of hurt that she had to hold back from reaching for him. He wasn’t hers to reach for even if he had called off his engagement.

“I-I’m sorry. I was just scared.” Her heart started to rabbit now, and she internally scolded her tears to keep them at bay.

“I understand that.” He always had compassion at the ready for her even when she didn’t have compassion for herself. “I’m scared, too.”

He took a step toward her, and she took a step back.

“I thought you were getting married.” She couldn’t believe the news until he told her.

His lips pressed together slightly, and he shook his head, his gaze drifting away. “No. I couldn’t. Not after. . .” He trailed off, and she remembered the tears in his eyes – his sorrow when they said goodbye to each other at the bed and breakfast.

“After what?” She thought she knew the answer, but she needed to hear him say it after they’d danced so much around it at the tango club.

“After that night.” His eyes found hers again. “I don’t want to lose you.” When she didn’t respond right away, he flinched. “I know you might not feel the same way.”

She searched her heart. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Nothing is too complicated that we can’t figure it out.” He had that glint in his eye – the one that said he wasn’t giving up. He was always so good at convincing her.

“I don’t want you to sacrifice your life just because I got pregnant.” She couldn’t let him give up everything he had for her.

His hurt was covered with a flash of anger. “Do you really think how I feel about you is only because we’re having a child?”

“No, but – ”

“Rory, I love you. I know you haven’t believed me before. I followed you around with coffee carts and every kind of thing I could think of to get you to understand how I felt. . . how I feel. I agreed to the Vegas thing, but I didn’t want you to ever think that I don’t think of you when we’re not together. I don’t know how to convince you that what I feel is real,” his fist went to his heart as tears glazed over his eyes, “and deep, and after all these years with you, it’s not going anywhere. How can I convince you that none of the rest of what’s going on in my life matters if you’re not in it? How can I convince you that you’re worth loving and not being left – ?”

She couldn’t see anymore because tears were coming hard and fast, racing down her cheeks like snow melting in the hot sun. She cast aside the blankets and computer and wrapped her arms around him before he could finish his question. His arms came around her – warm and familiar. They clung to one another like they were engulfed in icy lake waters with only each other as life preservers.

She laid her head on his shoulder. “How can I convince you of the same?”

“Do you love me?” She hated that he had to ask.

“I said it first, remember?”

“I remember.”

“And I never stopped. Not even when we were apart. Not even when I was fumbling around or grieving.” Rory kissed his shoulder.

He laid his cheek on her head. “I never stopped loving you.”

After a minute or two, his hand moved around. “Are you okay if I – ?”

She drew back with a smile on her face and took his hand in hers, pressing it on her small baby bump. “Yes, it’s real.”

“Have you been to the doctor yet?”

She shook her head. “I’ve. . . I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

His thumb gently rubbed her belly. “Can we go together soon?”

She nodded. Maybe part of her had been waiting for him. “Together is good.”

“Good.” The happiness he felt crinkled around his eyes. “Can we sit and talk?” He scooped up her laptop and the blankets. “You’ve been writing?”

“Yes. Do you want to read what I have so far?”

“I want to hear about it first.”

Now a smile graced her lips. “Okay.” She bit her lip. “I want to hear about you.”

“Okay.”

He led her to the living room and pressed his lips to her temple when she settled onto the sofa. He made a pot of coffee and brought them each a steaming mug – the scent filling her nose and giving energy to her heart and mind. He joined her, and they talked and talked about everything. . . her writing and the enormity of her grief, the end of his engagement and his move back to the States. They shared their feelings. . . the fear and love, the sorrow and joy. When her stomach rumbled, she took him to the kitchen, and they made one of their favorite meals, eating and teasing and laughing.

When the plates were empty and tucked into the dishwasher, she ran her fingers over his cheek and kissed him so tenderly that she felt him tremble.

“I love you,” she whispered.

As before, they tumbled up the stairs to the bedroom, and they made love, opening themselves up again to something they’d both thought was long gone but had really been there all along. He spent a long time paying gentle, reverent attention to every part of her body that was changing as their child grew within her. When they finally came together, they held onto each other as they rode the waves of their passion, and she cried when they both finished.

“Don’t go,” she said when they lay tangled together and spent at the end.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He gathered her up in his arms, adjusting their pillows and the blankets. “But we’ll have to leave eventually. Face the real world.”

She nuzzled his neck and closed her eyes. “Can we at least wait until spring?” She had more writing left to do.

He kissed her head. “Yeah, Ace, we can.”

Chapter Text

He could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever allowed tears to slip over his cheeks. He’d learned at a young age what happened when he or his sister were overcome with emotions too big for their little bodies to contain. He didn’t like to think about that very much, so he didn’t, and he didn’t let himself cry.

Even the day he left her standing in the bed and breakfast, he covered up his sadness with the blurry airiness of alcohol and laughter with his trio of friends. They were a balm for all the moments that made his stomach drop with dread and that made him want to hide from the excruciating shame of his failures.

Even the crispy bacon and fluffy waffles with homemade maple syrup couldn’t alleviate his pain. She was supposed to be at the diner with them, laughing and teasing him, eating everyone under the table, and helping him believe that maybe something would shift and one or the other would find the wherewithal to fight for them.

The night he’d meticulously planned for her had passed far faster than he’d thought possible.

For the first time in a long time, he had felt like himself, and as quickly as he’d rediscovered what made his heart sing, she was gone, whisked away by an ordered car and dismissal of everything they had as a wild ride that had to end. She’d dressed the sentiment up with Mr. Toad, and he’d responded in kind with a crooked hat and an attempt at a smile, but he knew it was more than that.

Despite her keeping the key, everything was done. He had a career and life to go back to, and she had a memoir to write.

Their chapter was finished.

On his father’s jet on the way back to London, he opened up his computer with the intent of doing the delinquent work he would be drowning in when he arrived home. But his mind wouldn’t focus long enough to form words for emails or write reports for impending meetings he’d pushed to be with her.

And yet? He would do it all again.

He’d heard in her voice that she needed him, and he’d heeded her call.

The scotch was easier than responsibilities. So was the blessed oblivion that followed.

His father found him on the plane, waking up long after he’d landed. The disappointment in his father’s eyes was hardly new, but he didn’t ask questions. He never asked questions beyond whether his son was going to make deadlines or was going to smooth things over with colleagues in Tokyo or Paris. His father never owned the messes that he made, not even the mess he’d made of his marriage. The irony of this was not lost on his son.

His apartment was empty when the company driver dropped him off. His fiancé was in Paris, making some preparations for their upcoming wedding. She’d said something about cakes with a particular baker and bridesmaids' dresses with a meticulous designer. There was relief in knowing that she was away because he wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face if she were here. Not like before.

His spirit was too cracked for even her not to know.

Lost in memories of the past, he wandered around the residence where she’d stayed every time she came to London. He tried not to imagine her perching on the sectional to tell him all about the article she wrote for the New Yorker, tried not to envision her in the bathroom brushing her teeth with the spare toothbrush he kept for her because she never had one, tried not to visualize her standing in front of the open fridge searching for a midnight snack with only his unbuttoned shirt around her shoulders.

Even though his fiancé lived with him, all he could see was the woman he’d left behind.

Still, he refused to let himself feel anything. A nightcap only strengthened his waking dissociation, but then, his dreams betrayed him because they were filled with her – ever-present but just out of reach.

The next day, he roamed the hallways at his office like a phantom, made it through meetings with the aplomb of years of pretending that what he did mattered without her, and realized maybe he had convinced himself that his wounds were healed. She’d never been to his office, and even here, she haunted him.

At home, he found his fiancé curled up on the sofa with quiet knowledge in her eyes and a manila folder in her lap. How she knew, he wasn’t sure, but a different kind of relief grazed his heart. Here was the off-ramp he didn’t realize he needed. For the moment, he was glad he was sober; she deserved that much.

He sat with her and took her hand in his, and they talked – really talked – for the first time. It was frightening to him that they had made it this far without being real and vulnerable, and how much easier it was for him to be open when he knew she would soon be leaving. He held her when she cried and was steady when she yelled at him and told him to go to hell.

Hours passed of him owning his piece in all of it, and somehow, she calmed before dawn. She was as aware of public image as his mother, and he told her she could choose the narrative for the media and take any of the funds he’d saved for a life he didn’t want. She was charitable and took only what she needed to cover her costs.

What followed was some rendition of all his childhood interactions with his parents. The message was that he was always a failure and never good enough. He’d slowly become the fuck up they expected him to be, and that he was still learning to own even now.

On the surface, he fell into line as they expected him to, but there was something about that night at the tango club and how she’d asked him about whether he intended to stay on the path laid out for him. Something in her eyes and the hint of sadness in the way she said it had led to a small shift within him – a shift that was growing.

His parents gave him six months to get his act together, but he wasn’t sure what act he wanted, so he stayed in his apartment, taping up boxes and the walls of his heart so he didn’t fall apart. The liquor bottle called him less, which he supposed was progress compared with the last time he’d lost her.

Two days later, his sister arrived on his doorstep.

“Hello, little brother.” Her tone was effervescent and warm, and when she smiled at him, he felt his whole body relax. He hadn’t even realized how much tension he was carrying.

Her hug was long and solid the way only the hug of a sibling who understood unspoken family pain could be. “Honor. You’re here.”

“I’m sorry it took so long.”

“Hey, you have a husband and a kid with a broken leg, and you live a whole ocean away.”

“True. But you needed me. Besides, I was tired of being at an eight-year-old’s beck and call. There are only so many times a day I can bring her water or a snack or recharge her iPad before I want to pull my hair out. Josh needs a turn at parenting.” She nodded past the doorway and rolled her suitcase in front of her. “Are you going to let me in, or are we going to stand here all day?”

Running his hand through his hair, he pulled aside to allow her entry. “So, you’re staying?”

“I can stay for a week.”

He couldn’t believe she would stay so long for him. “Okay with me. I have nothing else going on.”

She gazed at the chaotic cardboard city he’d created in the living room. “Packing is something.”

Mostly because he hadn’t bought groceries, he ordered them lunch via Deliveroo – Sticks and Sushi because his sister loved their Aka Ebi house roll. After food, they got down to the business of sorting and arranging and packing.

Somehow, his sister being there made the job feel less chaotic and impossible.

When they finished their work that evening, they sat at his kitchen table and picked at somehow still edible leftovers, too tired to move. But not too tired to talk.

“What are you going to do?” his sister asked, poking at the lukewarm edamame with wooden chopsticks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re a pariah in London.”

“Thanks a lot.” But she was right. The news media was camped outside his building. He slumped back in his chair. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

Her gaze was unwavering. “Have you talked with Rory?”

His heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t expecting to hear her name so casually coming out of his sister’s mouth, so words escaped him. He shook his head.

“She’s borrowing the family house in Maine. The one no one ever uses,” his sister stated.

“How do you know that?”

“Finn told me. Don’t worry, I didn’t spill the beans to Mom and Dad even though they blew up my phone asking if I knew anything.” He had no idea Finn knew his sister’s phone number, and he must have looked confused because she added, “After Costa Rica. I put my number in all of their phones. In case my boneheaded little brother got another bee in his bonnet and ran off without someone to look out for him. Someone with their head screwed on correctly.”

“Last time I checked, I don’t own any bonnets, and I’m nowhere near any unusual species of killer bees. Not in London at least.” He was a monumental failure at nonchalance.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s not a good thing.”

“I thought you just got done saying you were hopeful that I wouldn’t take unnecessary risks with my life.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You torpedoed your engagement to Odette to see Rory for a night in Stars Hollow. If you’re not going to call her, what did you do it for?”

“Finn told you everything, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” She leaned forward to touch his forearm. “You obviously did it for a reason. You’re not happy here. I haven’t seen you genuinely happy for God knows how long. I love you, Logan. You deserve to be happy.”

The way his sister said she loved him made something about the walls he’d carefully constructed feel paper thin. His heart ached at the memory of her face when they’d said goodbye. He couldn’t look at his sister, so he stared at
the table. “Rory. . . she and I are over.”

“It’s not over if she accepted the key to the house.”

“I don’t know, Honor. She was pretty clear.”

“She was? She said, ‘Logan Huntzberger, we are done. I don’t want to ever see you again’?”

“Well, not exactly.” There had been tears in her eyes. Maybe. But she’d also said the ride had to end sometime, and that was something he couldn’t bring himself to say to his sister.

She lifted her hand palm up to him. “There you go.”

Misery was suddenly lodged in his throat, and he and his sister sat in silence for several seconds before, she added, “Even if you don’t want to talk to Rory, come back to the States with me. Get out of London and away from the oppression that is Mom and Dad and all things press-related. Ship your stuff over. You can stay with me and Josh in New York. Help me with catering to every whim of your niece. She’d love that. She loves you, too.”

“I miss her.” He wasn’t sure who he was referring to.

“Come.”

And so, after staying to tie up loose ends at the London office, he turned in his resignation to his father and joined his sister and her family in New York. He still hadn’t shed a tear.

New York was easy and calm compared to the madness he left behind in London, and over time, the stress of his former life loosened from his muscles and heart until he found himself laughing about something his sister teased Josh about and smiling when his niece beamed at him. He didn’t know when his life ended up so opposite of what he dreamed about but being away gave him new perspective. His sister was right; he had been profoundly unhappy.

Christmas in his sister’s house was messy and informal – a contrast to the household of their youth, and he bought gifts for everyone even the staff. For once, he had time to think about the kind of thing he used to always consider. His sister used to say gift giving was his love language.

Watching his niece hobble around the living room and open presents from Santa was the highlight of the day, and he found himself wondering if he would ever have the joy of experiencing that with his own child.

Just before the new year, his former fiancé texted him, asking to talk.

He closed himself in the guest room, and they revisited their earlier conversation with less angst and greater honesty. He saw now why they would never work, and he was grateful she did, too. After he hung up the phone, his heart hurt more than it had hurt in a long while, and he wasn’t sure why.

His days were soon filled with job hunting, and he discovered that the search pushed him back into spaces he hadn’t considered.

The job offers came faster than he expected. He narrowed down his picks to companies outside of the news industry, including some that reminded of his old passions about the internet and digital products. To his surprise, he found himself writing out multiple pro/con lists well into the night. He almost texted her a photo of all his lists strewn out in a row, but his heart pounded so hard with the belief that she would see his message and never reply that he set his phone aside.

While his sister went back to her own job, he spent hours with his niece. Her laughter was a balm to his soul, and she was constantly trying to coerce him into going along with her schemes to get out of her bed. He acquiesced on several occasions, scooping her up and carrying around the house to raid the fridge or play pranks on her dad or get fresh air until her leg ached and she needed to rest.

After they were both properly scolded, his niece settled on asking him to read to her. He told her it was reader’s choice, to which she grudgingly agreed, and he chose Charlotte’s Web.

She begged him to do all the voices, so with uncertainty at first, he considered each character and discovered distinct voices for each of them. His niece loved Wilbur and Charlotte, was excited about the goslings, and would laugh so hard she couldn’t breathe at her uncle’s rendition of Templeton’s antics.

Days passed, and he finally reached the part of the story where Charlotte died. His niece began to cry and asked him why Charlotte had to die and leave Wilbur. Unsure what to say, he landed on the truth – that all things eventually come to an end and that spiders, even magical ones who wrote messages in webs, had short lifespans. His eyes stung watching her cry when Wilbur cried.

With soft tissues, he blotted her tears away and continued the story at her urging.

When Charlotte’s babies were born and they all started to fly away, his niece sat up from where she was leaning against him.

“Uncle Logan?” Her eyes were earnest as she wiped away more tears.

“Yeah?”

“How come you aren’t crying? It’s so sad.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She patted his arm. “It’s okay to cry, you know. Mom says so. She’s been to therapy.”

His niece was so serious that he didn’t laugh. Instead, he hugged her and said, “I’ll work on it.”

He went to bed that night more confused than ever. Why couldn’t he cry? He thought he knew the answer, but surely, he could overcome his family’s legacy that emotions were weak and useless. He just didn’t know how.

Around four in the morning, his phone pinged at him, and half asleep, he reached for his phone and saw a text from the person he thought he’d never hear from again.

He sat up so abruptly the headboard banged against the wall and his sheets fell away.

His heartbeat was as loud as a windstorm in his ears as he opened the message.

“Hi. It’s me. How are you?”

His fingers found the keyboard before he could fully register the message. He typed two or three responses and erased them. Then, a second message from her came through.

“I’m sorry it took so long to tell you, but Colin’s here, and I’m realizing how dumb it was for me to wait. I’m pregnant. And I don’t expect anything from you, but you should know.”

His heart skipped a beat and his stomach plummeted. Before he could register what he was doing, he was calling her, the line was ringing, and. . . then she was gone again.

All at once, his walls completely crumbled. His heart was as raw and painful and wounded as the day she turned down his proposal. A tidal wave of emotions so immense he couldn’t contain them wracked his body, and tears reclaimed their rightful place in his expression of grief.

His sister found him the next morning, his body, heart, and mind wasted from the flood. When she sat on the bed and asked what was wrong, he handed her the phone. She hadn’t ordered him to call her again like he expected. Instead, she let him be in his sorrow, let him figure out what he wanted to do without pressure, bringing him food and water to keep him afloat.

After two days, he packed a suitcase and booked a flight to Maine.

The flight was uneventful, but he almost forgot his way to the house and the GPS was less than helpful. He’d only been once or twice, but daylight was on his side, and he caught a turn that the back of his mind remembered. Before he knew it, he was pulling into the drive.

The house’s side door was unlocked, but as soon as he walked into the space, he knew it was empty. Panic almost took hold of him, but then, he saw a book on the coffee table and a freshly rinsed plate in the sink. Knowing she was still here made him hesitate to explore the rest of the rooms. Guilt shot through his belly at invading her space, and he wondered whether he should have come at all.

Still, he had to see her. He had to know. There was a baby, and he didn’t know what that meant for them if it meant anything at all.

As he waited, the pain he felt earlier returned, less sharp but still vibrant. He paced in the kitchen. Why did she wait to tell him she was pregnant? Why had she ended his call before it ever started? Why wouldn’t she let him be there for her?

“Hello?” He heard the hesitancy in her tone.

He found his way to the doorway, heart pounding, and saw her for the first time in months.

Her hair was slightly askew from the breeze outside, and her arms were full of belongings. There was a lightness in her blue eyes that he hadn’t seen the last time he’d seen her. He thought he should be angry with her, but all he felt was relief that she was okay and an aching knot in his throat.

“Hey, Ace,” he somehow managed.

What followed was something he never dreamed he’d have again. They’d talked and made love, and he’d marveled at the beauty of her changing body and of the chapters she’d written about her life. She’d been amazed by his journey back to the States and toward a new family legacy with his sister and niece.

They hid away in the house until almost summer, falling into a beautiful routine together that he didn’t want to lose. Their love deepened again as she shared all the secrets she’d discovered at the water’s edge and in the forest and as he helped her smooth out and polish the edges of her writing. He slowly started to believe that she wasn’t going to hop off at the next exit, that she saw that the wild ride was best done with him.

They had regular visits with the OB in the small nearby town with the grocery store where she told him she’d purchased her pregnancy tests. Their baby grew and grew. He didn’t want to miss a moment, so he chose a job with a company that wanted him so badly that they let him work from Maine.

One evening, he was preparing tea for them, and she called out for him, panic in her voice.

His stomach dropped in fear, and he rushed to her side just as the tightening in her belly passed. He held her and rubbed her arm as they did a computer search together. Braxton Hicks contraction was the answer the search engine gave them. She gave him a look that said her anxiety wasn’t going to go away. In that moment, they both knew. It was time to go.

They packed their bags, boarded a plane, and flew back to New York to face the rest of the world together.