Page 28 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
My fork pauses. “You want to hold reflectorsandbabies?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. He nudges a napkin toward me when I miss my mouth with a crumb. “I want… in. Not weekend in. Everyday in, as much as you’ll let me.”
I stare at his face, at the steadiness there. “We’re not a couple,” I remind softly, because I have to say it out loud or I’ll forget to be careful.
“I know.” He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not asking you to pretend we are. I’m asking to show up anyway. To do the parts no one takes pictures of. Trash runs. Night feeds. Pediatrician waiting rooms with terrible magazines.”
“Diapers,” I say, testing him.
“I have changed diapers,” he says, scandalized that I would even ask. “I have nieces.”
“Good,” I say, and then, because honesty seems to be contagious today: “I’m scared.”
“Me too,” he says, and his mouth tilts. “We can be scared and still—” He gestures at my water. “Hydrate.”
I laugh, wiping my eyes for the third time today. The magenta fish looks like he approves.
We fall into easier things—names we’ll never use, whether babies prefer jazz or white noise, if my child will inherit myweird thing about cilantro (genetic enemy). He steals three fries and pretends he didn’t. I let him because I’m benevolent.
When the check comes, he slides it toward himself. I open my mouth. He lifts a brow. “Consider it part of my ‘showing up’ budget.”
“Do I get a line item?” I ask.
“Snacks,” he says. “Unlimited.”
Outside, the sun has committed to the day. He walks me to the car like the sidewalk could suddenly turn treacherous. At my door he hesitates, then looks me right in the eyes.
“Thank you,” he says. “For letting me be there today.”
“You were good at it,” I say. “Being there.”
He nods, like he’s filing that away as an instruction he intends to follow. “Two weeks?”
“Two weeks,” I echo, holding up the heartbeat strip like a secret handshake.
He touches the edge of the paper with one careful fingertip, then steps back and rounds the hood to his side.
As he pulls out of the space, I rest my palm on my belly. “How’d we do?” I whisper.
The baby answers with a small, decisive thump.
“Same,” I say, smiling despite the fear. “Same.”
11
Lucas
I’m good under pressure. Tight timelines, bad weather, doors that don’t wanna open—my brain likes the clean snap of decisions. But today the math keeps changing.
We’re parked two blocks off the marina with engine heat fading, windows cracked, watching holiday lights stutter in the reflection on wet pavement. Duke’s in the passenger seat nursing his coffee. Gunner checks in from the second vehicle with a line-of-sight on the ballroom entrance. Our client’s post-event convoy is supposed to be a simple in and out.
It isn’t.
“Black sedan again,” Gunner says over comms. “Same speed discipline, same standoff. Northbound loop, third pass.”
I raise the binos. There he is—matte-black rental, clean plates, driver’s profile a slice in sodium light. Hat low, posture relaxed in a way that’s learned, not luck.
“Clocked him two nights ago at South Harbor,” I say. “He mirrored our reposition to the west lot, then vanished. He’s not watching the principal. He’s watching us.”
