Page 53 of Beautifully Messy
“Diapers and clothes are in the bag downstairs by the front door. Warm the bottles. And seriously, if anything feels off, wake me.”
I turn away before I can fall any further and collapse face-first onto my mattress. The image of James cradling Anna loops in my mind, a lullaby I don’t want to shut off. Soothing, impossible, and precisely what I need to sleep. It brings back the dream I had the night I first suspected I was pregnant. Green eyes full of something I didn’t yet know I needed.
***
Istretch,mymusclesprotesting the sudden movement, and blink at the unfamiliar light filtering through the bedroom window. The house is silent, eerily so. A glance at the clock sends a jolt through me.
Five hours! I slept forfivehours!
Panic lurches me upright, guilt slamming into my ribcage. I rush to brush my teeth, throw on a clean sweater with shaking hands, and bolt downstairs, adrenaline thudding in my veins. I meant to nap for an hour, at most two. Long enough to take the edge off, wash away the dark circles, and feel human again. But now, James has been alone with Anna too long, and the shame of that burrows deep.
The sight I’m greeted with steals my breath. James lies sprawled on the sectional, Anna curled on his chest like she was made to be there. One fist rests beneath her chin, the other curled around his thumb.
Oh, my ovaries.
The intimacy of it punches straight through me. He’swithher. No phone. No half-attention. His arms curve around her, natural and effortless.
I stand there, rooted, breathing through the ache ofwantingsomething so badly it hurts.
Eventually, I turn toward the kitchen, clinging to the ritual of coffee like an anchor. The low hiss and gurgle of the machine doesn’t break the spell. Even here in the kitchen, Ifeelthem. The sense that something sacred unfolded while I wasn’t looking, and I almost missed it.
God, I want him. I want him for myself. I want him for Anna.
But I know this feeling. A pit in the bottom of my stomach when something matters too much. The voice that whispers:
This will never last.
Take the safer option.
Leave before you’re left.
I’m staring into my cup of coffee, repeating over and over in my head how this is a fairy tale, a hope I can’t believe in, as footsteps thud across the floor. James steps into the kitchen. Anna is tucked in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, one tiny fist clutching his sweater. His eyes find me, and that familiar lopsided smile spreads across his face. My heart clenches, despite every warning I’m giving myself.
“Hey, you. Feeling better?”
There’s no frustration in his voice, no resentment for the hours spent caring for my daughter.
“I can’t thank you enough.” I reach for Anna. “I feel so much better. Are you guys okay?”
“Of course. She’s a dream, just took a little singing and dancing. She seems partial to Maxwell, by the way. Once she had her bottle, she was out.” He rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I might’ve fallen asleep, too.”
I can’t look at him, not when it would be so easy to picture this as something more than it is. I turn away, open the fridge, and search for dinner ingredients.
“Pretty sure I saw everything we need to make chili.” James peers over my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. “There’s crusty bread on the counter. Want to tag team it?”
“Let’s do it.” My voice squeaks, and I gain distance from him, from the pull. Settling Anna into her bouncy seat on the floor so she can watch us, I queue up a Maxwell album, one I’ve always loved to fill the quiet with something softer than my thoughts.
“I see why Anna knows this album by heart,” James says with a grin.
“Careful with the teasing. I will head straight to the pet rescue and come back with Dutchess 2.0.”
“Ruthless.” His deep laugh fills the room.
We move around the kitchen in tandem. Chopping. Laughing. Sliding past one another with familiar ease. The conversation meanders, winding around us, sharing old stories from college meals, bad road trips, and songs tied to nights we barely remember. Little things that don’t matter, but neither of us holds back from sharing.
When Anna fusses, he confidently walks over and picks her up, swaying as he sings along. Instead of looking away, guarding my heart from further intrusion, I ask, “How are you so good with babies?”
“After we left my father, we moved near my mom’s family. My aunt is much younger, and she had kids while I was in high school. I got roped into a lot of babysitting.” Anna’s hands reach out to honk his nose. They both laugh.
