Page 71 of Beautifully Messy
The house is silent, except for a clink of a coffee mug hitting granite.
James sits at the kitchen counter, coffee clasped between his fidgeting fingers. His navy Henley strains just enough across his chest and arms to make me forget how to breathe, freezing me in the doorway.
His eyes soak me in, roaming from the top of my head to the curve of my exposed shoulder, down the length of my body. He draws a steadying breath and tips back on the stool.
“Hungry?” he asks, casual, as if this is just another morning.
Anna bounces in my arms, babbling, reaching for her chair. James is already there, setting down a plate with tiny, perfectly cut pieces.
Without a word, he pours coffee into a mug, adds the oat milk, and slides it toward me with that damn lopsided grin. “Here you go.”
I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic. There is no one here to stop us, to make us not look at each other, only guilt and conscience. All I hear is the pounding of my heart. “Thank you.”
“Would you have any interest in going to the bookshop today?” he asks, as we sit on each side of Anna. We sip our coffees while she spreads pancake and syrup around her tray, as much landing there as in her mouth. Bell waits eagerly for her offerings.
“I was thinking of taking Anna. I didn’t get there on Christmas Eve and need my annual fix.” I laugh and take another sip.
He nods, pleased, and moves through the kitchen, grabbing a bowl, berries, yogurt, and granola before setting it in front of me.
“I know you ran this morning. You need to eat.”
“How did you know that’s my breakfast?”
A finger skims the bare skin of my shoulder, the light touch sliding down my spine and pooling deep in my stomach.
“I pay attention, Sydney.”
He scoops Anna from her chair. “Come on, Bug. Let’s go play with Bell while your mama eats her breakfast.” He carries her airplane-style, her giggles trailing behind them.
And as I eat, bite after bite, I watch them on the floor. James, fully engaged, making silly faces, catching her in his arms. His laugh carries. A rich, unfiltered sound that wraps around the room and settles somewhere I’ve tried to protect.
The flutter in my chest?
It’s a full-blown woodpecker now pounding at every wall I’ve built, every doubt I’ve fed, demanding louder and louder:Lady, when are you going to wake up?
***
Thebookshopisahaven of quiet corners and overflowing shelves. The train table is its own wonderland with Mickey and Minnie waving from boxcars, Pluto guarding a tiny present. Anna giggles and stands in awe. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.
We browse for hours, starting in the toddler section, reminiscing about our childhood favorites, pulling out book after book.
“Do you thinkWhere the Wild Things Areis too much?” he asks, scanning the back.
God, it’s so damn cute—his quiet contemplation of it. And I have to stop myself from imagining all these little decisions that I now handle on my own. What if I couldsharethem? To have a partner who cares enough to read the back of a child’s book.
“Nah. Who doesn’t want a pack of monsters treating you like a king?”
“Well, a queen in your honor.” He pokes Anna’s belly, and she collapses in giggles.
As we wander toward the fiction section, Anna tucks her hand inside his, further disorienting me. This is the same shop where our story began, the same day I suspected I was pregnant with Anna. Now my daughter’s hand holds his as she looks up, amazed he's still there. She is so pure and fearless in her acceptance of him spending the day with us.
Deeper into the stacks, lush foliage winds the shelves, and soft fairy lights transform the bookstore into something enchanted.
I choose a safer topic than what I’m feeling. “What’s your favorite book?”
His brow furrows, that quiet, contemplative look that always makes my pulse stutter. “Dune. It’s not about the politics or power dynamics for me, even if they are fascinating. It’s about surviving against the odds. Becoming stronger not in spite of the hell you go through, but because of it.”
“Do you think I’d like it?”
