Page 20 of Ghost's Obsession

She hesitates. Then picks up a slice of apple and holds it like she’s not sure what to do with it. She doesn’t take a bite. Just sets it back down after a second and goes back to pretending the blueprints need her full attention.

“Did you sleep okay?” I ask, peeling the label off my water bottle.

“Fine,” she tells me without looking up.

She didn’t sleep well. I saw the light under the garage door at two in the morning. I watched it from my window while the house stayed quiet and dark around me. She hadn’t moved, but she hadn’t slept either.

We get to work. She measures. I hold the frame steady. She mutters something about insulation spacing. I answer without really hearing.

I’m too focused on her hands and her movements in general. It’s now glaringly obvious that she’s carrying something, and I already know what.

She’s wrapped in her own storm, and I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.

We fall into the rhythm of work again. She scribbles in her notepad, measures a section of floor joists, then squats to check alignment. I hand her the tape without being asked, just like I always do. But today, my mind is a thousand miles away.

Every time she lifts a board, I flinch. Every time she strains to reach overhead, I want to stop her. Every time she winces or leans against the wall like her legs need a break, I have to swallow the urge to drag her inside and make her sit down, make her eat, make her breathe.

Is she sleeping enough? She sure as hell doesn’t look like it. When was her last full meal? Is she even taking vitamins? Has she been to a doctor? The questions slam through me, one after another like hail on a tin roof, relentless and loud. I can’t get the thoughts to stop no matter what I do.

I want to ask her about it, talk to her about how to move forward, but I don’t know if it’s my business to ask. Every time I decide to talk to her about it, I start second-guessing myself. But fuck if I can keep pretending it doesn’t matter. Because it does. Because she matters more to me than I like to admit.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she moves towards the back wall to measure the width for the cabinet framing. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, then pauses, like she’s a second too dizzy or a second too tired to keep moving.

She shakes it off and keeps going. But I see it. I see everything now. She’s not just keeping a secret. She’s carrying it. In her body. Every breath. Every step. And she’s doing this all alone.

I grip the stud I’m bracing a little too hard, the metal biting into my palm through the gloves.

This was never supposed to be personal. She was supposed to be a contractor. A professional. In and out. But somewhere between those first sketches and the way she looked at me the night I scared off that club girl, I started thinking about her too much.

And now I can’t stop. I don’t care who the father is. I don’t care what the story behind it is. I care that it’s hers. And I’ll be damned if I let her keep breaking under the weight of it alone. Even if she doesn’t want me to carry it yet. Even if she won’t let me.

She’s wiping down her worktable, organizing tools that are already organized, when I almost say it.

The words build up in my mind and I feel like I’m about to blow a fuse. I want to tell her that I know she’s pregnant, that she doesn’t have to do this alone. But I swallow them because she looks up at me in that exact second, and her eyes are soft, tired, and trusting.

If I push too hard right now or say the wrong thing, I’ll end up breaking that trust.

And I can’t break her trust. Not when she’s this worn thin. Not when her walls are already barely holding together.

So instead of pushing, I pivot. “Are you done for the day?” I ask, voice low and respectful.

She nods, pulling her sleeves down over her wrists. “Yeah. Just need to grab a shower.”

“You want me to get dinner started? I’ve got some leftover chicken in the fridge. I’ll heat it up.”

Her brow lifts, surprised. “You cook?”

“Does the microwave count?”

That gets me a smile from her. It’s tiny but genuine. “Okay,” she says softly. “I’d love to dine with you.”

She heads towards the side door, and I turn away like it’s no big deal. Like I haven’t just rearranged my entire evening around the unspoken fact that she probably hasn’t eaten a full meal in days.

While she showers, I pull together dinner. I keep it simple. No strong smells. Just rice, plain chicken, steamed veggies. Nothing that might trigger the nausea I’ve seen her trying to hide all week.

I set her plate out, then add a bottle of water and a fresh packet of saltines I keep in the cabinet now. Not for me. For her.

And tomorrow she’s not lifting anything heavier than a pencil if I can help it. I’ll do all the heavy lifting. She can sketch, point, direct. Anything to keep her on her feet but not wear her out.

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