Page 64 of Stick Fight

Not just the softness of a sleepy child or the sweetness of lullabies, but the life. The love. The kind of messy, beautiful chaos that comes with family. And it hits me hard. I envy what the WAGs have. The partnerships. The babies. The belonging.

But I’m not one of them. I’m not Roman’s girlfriend. Not really. We said it ourselves. This was temporary. Convenient. A clear line drawn between what we are and what we’re not. So why does that truth feel unbearable now? Why does it leave me emptier than I was on New Year’s Eve, when I ran from everything my life had become?

I press one last kiss to Stella’s forehead and quietly make my way downstairs, arms wrapping around my middle, anything to hold myself together. The house is quiet, filled with the kind of warmth that settles in your bones. For a moment, I just stand in the kitchen, letting it all sink in. Back in New York, Cass’s apartment was cold and echoing. Sleek. Expensive. Empty. I used to talk to myself just to fill the silence. But here, even the stillness feels full. Alive. Loved.

I brush off the ache lingering in my chest and head into the craft room. My fingers instinctively reach for the fabric I brought with me. I even bring my own sewing machine every day, even though Maeve told me it wasn’t necessary. But Roman bought it for me, and because of that, everything I make feels more meaningful, like his quiet support is stitched into every seam.

As I trace the fabric’s edges, thoughts of Tanner’s parents, of Maeve’s parents stir memories of my own. I miss them more than I let myself admit. I'd love to visit, or have them come here, but the shadow of Cass still looms. I’m not ready for that confrontation. Not yet.

God, how did I let them manipulate me so easily?

I sigh and sit at my machine, the baby monitor humming softly beside me. As the needle begins to hum, I feel my heart lighten. This is my happy place. Designing. Creating. Breathing life into fabric and thread.

I haven’t shown anyone what I’ve been working on, other than Maeve. And every evening, when she comes home and sees what I’ve made, her excitement is contagious. It’s the quiet kind of encouragement I didn’t know I needed. But shouldn’t I be chasing runways? Designing wedding dresses that grace magazine covers and fill bridal shops?

Soon enough Stella’s babbles filter through the monitor, and I wrap up my work before heading upstairs to get her. “Well, hello there, beautiful,” I say, scooping her up from her crib where she’s gripping the edges like she’s about to climb out. There’s a little bed in her room, and eventually they’ll be transitioning her to it. I can’t help but smile at the thought.

I change her quickly and carry her back downstairs, where she starts babbling again, a soft “Mama” that makes my heart do a little flip. We head to the kitchen for a snack, and I settle her in her chair before slicing up her apple. My eyes flick to the counter where a romance novel is sitting, its bright cover a reminder of the book club invitations I’ve been avoiding.

I’ve always had an excuse. Between caring for Stella, working on my designs, and spending as much time with Roman as I can, I’ve kept myself busy. But now, for some reason, I wonder if I could squeeze it in. The truth is, I’m a little afraid. Afraid of getting in too deep. Afraid of becoming more than I already am in this little world.

Stella munches on her apple, and I pull out my phone for a quick social media check. I smile when I see the latest pictures from the Bucks' road trip. One catches my eye, a shot of Roman surrounded by a group of stunning, scantily clad women. My stomach tightens, but I push the jealousy down.

I glance down at my sweater and jeans, noticing they’re a bit snug now. A wave of unease rolls over me as I realize I’ve gotten a little too comfortable—eating things I’d have never touched back in my old life: pasta, cinnamon rolls...so many cinnamon rolls. Back when I was in the fashion world, I’d be stressing about this right now. I’ve worked hard to stay in shape since high school, but Roman doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think he loves my curves. The man absolutely worships my body when we’re in bed together.

I pick up the book and read the back cover. Maybe I’ll download it. Not that I think I should go to book club. After Stella finishes her snack, we head back into the living room to play a few of her favorite games. The door clicks open, and both of us turn to see Maeve rushing in.

“How’s my favorite little girl?” she asks, and Stella immediately holds her arms out.

“Mama,” she says, her little voice tugging at my heartstrings.

My ovaries tighten, and I feel it again, that deep longing. God, I want this. I want a family like this so much it physically aches. But Roman and I don’t talk about the future, and as much as I have questions. Mainly, why doesn’t he talk to his parents—who seem amazing—and what’s his deal with relationships? Part of me is afraid to ask. Afraid of upsetting what we have.

“I’m good, thanks,” I joke, and Maeve laughs softly.

“How was she?”

“She’s an angel, Maeve. We had a great day, didn’t we, Stella?”

“You’re going to be such a good mom, Gabby.”

My throat tightens, but then it practically closes over when Stella throws her arms out, rests her palm on my cheek, and says, “Gaga.” My heart melts in a way I never thought possible.

“Did you have fun with Aunt Gaga?” Maeve asks.

Aunt Gaga.

Okay, that’s it. I’m done. I stand there, my legs shaky, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat. I’ve grown far too close to these people because the thought of ever walking away from Stella fills my eyes with tears I can’t quite blink back.

Maeve smiles at me, eager excitement in her eyes. “What did you make today?”

“Come see,” I say excitedly as I wave her toward the craft room.

Inside, Maeve sets Stella down and picks up the design she’s been eyeing. Holding it out for a closer look, I barely get a chance to breathe before she gasps.

“This is amazing,” she gushes, eyes sparkling.

I shrug, trying to play it cool, but her enthusiasm wraps around me. Compliments still feel foreign, like I’ve stepped into a world that’s not entirely mine. But I’m learning to live here. Maybe even thrive.

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