Chapter 134: Letting Go
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cade
The week after dinner at Charlie’s parents’ house feels like a strange, suspended space between one life and the next.
The secret is out.
Maybe not to the entire world, but to everyone who matters.
For months, the pregnancy had felt like something delicate I needed to protect from curious eyes and careless opinions. I carried it beneath loose sweaters and carefully chosen words, afraid that the second I spoke it aloud, people would begin picking apart every decision that had brought Charlie and me here.
Instead of feeling exposed, I feel lighter.
The weight of the secret has disappeared, replaced by the overwhelming, mildly terrifying enthusiasm of Charlie’s family.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand before I’ve even opened my eyes.
I reach for it blindly, squinting against the pale morning light coming through the curtains.
Three messages from Liam.
The first is a link to an article about iron-rich foods during pregnancy.
The second contains a recipe for a spinach-and-berry smoothie that he promises doesn’t taste like grass.
The third is a picture of three fabric swatches accompanied by a question.
\[Sage, cream, or pale blue?\]
I stare at the screen.
Another message arrives before I can answer.
\[For the shower. Not the nursery. I’m not interfering with the nursery. Unless you want me to.\]
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh.
Beside me, Charlie makes a sleepy noise and turns onto his stomach. His arm slides across my waist, heavy and warm, anchoring me against the mattress.
“What is it?” he mumbles into the pillow.
“Your mother.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“He wants to know whether the baby shower should be sage, cream, or pale blue.”
Charlie cracks one eye open.
“Tell him black.”
“He’ll disown you.”
“He’s threatened to disown me for less.”
“He threatened not to feed you dessert. That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is in this family.”
His eye closes again.
I look back at the phone.
There are two new messages from Lottie now.
The first is a link to a shared document titled Operation: Baby Prep.
The second reads:
\[I added a hospital bag checklist and a section for emergency contacts. Do not be alarmed by the number of tabs.\]
I open the document.
There are fourteen tabs.
Appointments.
Nursery.
Hospital.
Postpartum meals.
Baby equipment.
Budget.
Childcare.
Family availability.
Questions for the doctor.
A tab labeled Cade’s Emotional Wellbeing has been highlighted in yellow.
I tap it despite knowing better.
The first section is titled Signs Cade Is Pretending He’s Fine When He Isn’t.
I close the document.
Charlie’s shoulders begin to shake.
“You’re awake,” I accuse.
“No.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m sleeping happily.”
I shove the phone toward his face.
“Your sister made a spreadsheet about my emotional stability.”
He opens both eyes this time and takes the phone.
After reading the heading, he nods solemnly.
“She missed at least three signs.”
I grab the pillow from beneath my head and hit him with it.
He laughs, rolling away before I can strike him again.
The movement pulls the blanket down, exposing the bare curve of his shoulder and the faint lines the sheets left across his skin. Morning light catches in his honey-blonde hair, which sticks up in several directions.
His scent surrounds me.
Rain rolling over a restless ocean.
It’s settled into every corner of the house since he moved in.
At first, his belongings appeared gradually. A spare shirt in my closet. A toothbrush beside mine. Shoes left near the front door. A charger permanently plugged into the outlet by the couch.
Then came boxes.
Books.
Clothes.
A ridiculous collection of mismatched coffee mugs he claims have sentimental value, despite at least two of them being chipped.
His presence has threaded itself through my home until it no longer feels entirely like mine.
It feels like ours.
His scent clings to the blankets and drifts through the hallway. It mingles with my cinnamon and vanilla in the air, creating something new, something that belongs to neither of us alone.
I once believed sharing my space would feel like surrender.
Instead, it feels like breathing more easily.
Charlie sets my phone on the mattress and reaches for me.
“Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
“You’re already taking up most of the bed.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
Still, I allow him to pull me against his chest.
His hand settles over my stomach.
At three months, the curve is still small, but it is no longer something I can dismiss as bloating or imagination. My body is changing. Slowly, steadily, making room for a life that already feels impossibly present.
Charlie rubs his thumb across the fabric of my shirt.
“Morning, little storm.”
I glance at him.
“We are not calling him that.”
“He likes it.”
“He’s the size of a lime. He doesn’t have opinions.”
“That you know of.”
“He also can’t hear you yet.”
“Details.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop the warmth spreading through my chest.
For all my worries about Charlie’s age, his lack of experience, and the enormity of the responsibility we’ve created together, he has remained steady.
He doesn’t hover in a way that makes me feel fragile.
He simply notices.
When I’m tired, he takes over dinner without making an announcement about it. When nausea hits, he brings water and sits nearby without asking me every thirty seconds whether I’m all right. When fear crawls into bed with us in the middle of the night, he lets me talk until the thoughts lose their sharpest edges.
He never demands more than I’m ready to give.
His patience has become an anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions.
Yet there is still one conversation I’ve been avoiding.
One person whose opinion matters more than I know how to explain.
Jordan.
My son told Charlie where he stood weeks ago. He made it clear that he expected Charlie to be strong enough to support me, to let me lean instead of carrying everything alone.
But Jordan and I haven’t truly discussed what this means for him.
Not beyond brief reassurances and careful jokes.
The knowledge sits quietly at the back of my mind all morning, following me through breakfast and a shower, lingering while Charlie leaves to pick up groceries Liam insists we need.
By early afternoon, I can’t ignore it any longer.
I find Jordan in his room.
He’s sitting at his desk with an open textbook in front of him, though his attention is fixed on his phone. A deep frown creases his forehead.
I knock against the doorframe.
He looks up immediately. “Hey, Dad.”
His expression shifts from distraction to concern. “Everything okay?”
The question is so familiar that it nearly makes me smile.
Jordan inherited my habit of assuming a serious conversation must begin with disaster.
“Can we talk?”
“Always.”
He places his phone facedown and turns his chair toward me, giving me his full attention.
I walk into the room and sit on the edge of his bed instead of perching on the desk. His room has changed over the years, but traces of every version of him remain.
A faded poster from high school hangs above the dresser. College textbooks occupy shelves that once held action figures. A framed photograph of the two of us at his graduation sits beside a stack of charging cables.
He’s grown.
I know that.
Some part of me still sees the small boy who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms, trusting me to keep the entire world from reaching him.
I clasp my hands together.
“About dinner last Sunday.”
Jordan nods. “Charlie’s family took the news well.”
“Liam took it as if he’d personally arranged the pregnancy.”
Jordan laughs. “That sounds accurate.”
“He’s sent me eleven recipes in four days.”
“Only eleven?”
“Lottie created a spreadsheet.”
His eyes widen with false alarm. “You’re doomed.”
“Apparently my emotional wellbeing requires its own tab.”
“That also sounds accurate.”
I give him a look.
He smiles, but it fades when he realizes I’m still tense.
“Chase was quieter,” I say.
“He was processing.”
“I know.”
“And he came around.”
“He did.”
Jordan studies me. “That isn’t what you wanted to talk about.”
Sometimes, the ease with which he reads me is unnerving.
“No.”
“You’re worried about me.”
My throat tightens.
I nod.
“This changes things for you too.”
Jordan leans back in his chair, waiting.
“Charlie has been your best friend for years,” I continue. “Now he’s living here. He’s my mate. We’re having a child together. One day, if everything goes the way I hope it will, he may officially become part of this family in a way neither of us could have imagined.”
“He’s already part of the family.”
The certainty in Jordan’s voice catches me off guard.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“You’re going to have a little brother or sister.”
A smile touches his mouth.
“That part is still weird.”
My stomach twists.
“Bad weird?”
“No.”
He thinks for a moment.
“More like finding out the road you’ve driven your whole life suddenly has another lane. It’s different, but it doesn’t mean the road is wrong.”
I stare at him. “When did you become philosophical?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You barely contain your laundry.”
“That’s unrelated.”
A laugh escapes me, loosening some of the pressure in my chest.
Jordan’s expression grows serious again.
“It is a lot,” he admits. “Charlie being with you. The baby. Everything changing this fast.”
My fingers tighten together.
“But it isn’t bad,” he adds. “It’s just new.”
“I don’t want you to feel replaced.”
His brows draw together. “Dad.”
“I know you’re an adult.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
“That isn’t the point.”
He stands and crosses the small space between us.
“You could have ten more kids, and none of them would replace me.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It does.”
He sits beside me on the bed.
“I know how much you love me,” he says. “I’ve never questioned that.”
I look down at my hands.
“You might when the baby comes. Newborns need everything. Time, attention, sleep—”
“I will not be jealous of an infant.”
“You say that now.”
“I’m a grown man.”
“A grown man who ate cereal for dinner three nights ago.”
“That was a lifestyle choice.”
I shake my head.
Jordan’s shoulder presses against mine.
“Dad, look at me.”
I do.
His dark eyes are steady, warm, and far too perceptive.
“I’ve seen the way you look at Charlie.”
My breath catches.
“The way you smile when you think no one is watching,” he continues. “The way you relax when he walks into a room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”
“Jordan—”
“No. Let me finish.”
His voice is gentle, but firm enough that I close my mouth.
“You spent my entire life taking care of everyone else. Mostly me.”
“That was my job.”
“It was more than that.”
He glances toward the old graduation photograph.
“You put me first every time. You worked when you were exhausted. You missed things you wanted because I needed something. You built your entire life around making sure I was okay.”
The pressure behind my eyes comes without warning.
“I don’t regret any of it.”
“I know.”
“I would do it all again.”
“I know that too.”
He takes a breath.
“But don’t you think it’s time you let yourself be happy without feeling guilty about it?”
The question strikes with the force of a physical blow.
For years, I convinced myself Jordan’s happiness was enough.
That wanting anything more would be selfish.
I told myself there was dignity in sacrifice, safety in keeping my world small. If I expected nothing, I could not be disappointed. If I needed no one, I couldn’t be abandoned.
Then Charlie entered my life and challenged every rule I had built to survive.
“I am happy,” I whisper.
The admission feels fragile.
True, but still new enough that I am afraid speaking too loudly might break it.
Jordan smiles.
“With Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“With the baby?”
I place a hand over the small curve of my stomach.
“Yes.”
“With all of this?”
The house is quiet around us.
Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator hums. A car passes outside with its windows down, music fading as it travels along the spring-damp street.
“Yes,” I say again. “I’m scared, but I’m happy.”
“Good.”
His smile widens.
“You deserve to be.”
Tears blur my vision.
I look away, annoyed by how quickly my emotions have begun ambushing me lately.
Jordan nudges my shoulder.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re absolutely crying.”
“It’s hormones.”
“Of course.”
He stands and pulls me into a hug.
I hold on tightly.
My son is taller than I am now. His embrace is warm and strong, no longer the desperate grip of a child seeking reassurance, but the steady hold of a man offering it.
Pride rises through me, almost painful in its intensity.
“You’re going to be a great big brother,” I tell him.
“Obviously.”
I pull back.
“Modesty remains one of your best qualities.”
“I’m already practicing my intimidating face.”
“For what?”
“For anyone who messes with my little brother or sister.”
I study him.
“What does it look like?”
Jordan narrows his eyes and lowers his chin in an expression that makes him look mildly constipated.
A laugh bursts out of me.
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“The baby will be terrified.”
“They should be. I plan to maintain order.”
“You can’t maintain order in your own closet.”
“I don’t appreciate how often you bring up irrelevant details.”
The last of the tension drains from my chest.
Jordan releases me and sits again.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m not losing you.”
“No.”
“I’m gaining a sibling.”
My throat tightens.
“And Charlie is still my best friend.”
“That doesn’t feel strange?”
“Oh, it’s incredibly strange.”
I groan.
“But I’ll survive.”
“Comforting.”
Jordan smiles.
“He loves you.”
The simple statement stills me.
“I know.”
“And you love him.”
I hesitate only a moment.
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll figure out everything else.”
I reach for his hand.
For a brief moment, I see every stage of his life layered over the man beside me.
The baby sleeping against my chest.
The stubborn toddler refusing shoes.
The child gripping my hand on his first day of school.
The teenager pretending he did not need guidance.
The adult giving me permission to build a life beyond him.
I thought raising Jordan meant teaching him how to live without me.
I never expected him to teach me how to live for myself.
“Thank you,” I say.
He squeezes my hand.
“You don’t have to thank me for wanting you to be happy.”
Maybe not.
But I do anyway.
That evening, I stand in the bathroom doorway and watch Charlie brush his teeth.
He’s wearing gray sweatpants and an old T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. The domestic ordinariness of him affects me more than grand declarations ever could.
This is what I almost refused.
Not only the bond or the pregnancy.
This.
Shared evenings.
Clothes mixed together in the laundry.
His razor beside mine.
The quiet comfort of knowing he’ll still be here when I wake.
He catches my gaze in the mirror.
“What?”
His voice is distorted by toothpaste foam.
“Nothing.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s usually dangerous.”
I lean against the frame.
He rinses his mouth, wipes his face with a towel, and turns toward me.
“About?”
“You.”
A smile appears. “My favorite subject.”
“Us.”
The humor in his expression softens.
“The baby.”
His gaze drops toward my stomach.
“Our other favorite subject.”
I rub my palm over the curve beneath my shirt.
The fears I admitted to Jordan return in a quieter form.
Charlie is young.
So full of energy, promise, and possibilities that I sometimes feel guilty for tethering his future to mine.
He could have chosen something easier.
Someone closer to his age.
A relationship that did not require explanations.
A family that did not begin with so much history already attached.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
Charlie goes still. “About what?”
“This.”
I gesture toward the bedroom, the house, my body.
“All of it.”
His expression becomes serious.
“Cade.”
“There’s no going back.”
“I know.”
“You’re taking on more than a baby. There’s me. Jordan. All the complications that come with us.”
“Jordan is not a complication.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He crosses the room and stops in front of me.
“I also know we’ve had this conversation before.”
“I need to have it again.”
“Okay.”
No frustration.
No defensiveness.
He just waits.
“I don’t want you to wake up five years from now and realize you gave up too much.”
His brow furrows. “What do you think I’m giving up?”
“Freedom.”
“I have freedom.”
“Charlie.”
“I’m serious.”
He takes my hands.
“I am not trapped here. I chose you.”
“The bond—”
“Did not make me move into this house.”
I fall silent.
“It didn’t make me fall in love with the sound you make when you’re trying not to laugh,” he continues. “It didn’t force me to memorize which foods you can tolerate in the morning or learn that you reorganize the kitchen when you’re anxious.”
“I do not.”
“You alphabetized the spices.”
“They were chaotic.”
“The bond didn’t make me want this life.”
His fingers tighten around mine.
“I chose it.”
Emotion rises dangerously close to the surface.
“And the baby?”
“Our child is not something I’m taking on.”
His voice softens.
“They’re someone I already love.”
I look away.
Charlie releases one of my hands and cups my face.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“I am more sure about this than I have ever been about anything.”
His thumb brushes over my cheek.
“I love you, Cade.”
The words settle into every frightened place inside me.
“I love our child.”
My eyes burn.
“I love the family we’re building. There is no part of this I’m uncertain about.”
He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine.
“The only thing I don’t understand is how I got so lucky.”
A broken laugh leaves me.
“I’m the lucky one.”
“I disagree.”
“You gave me back my future.”
Charlie’s expression changes.
Something tender and almost wounded crosses his face.
“We gave each other one.”
His mouth meets mine.
The kiss is soft and unhurried, tasting faintly of mint. There is no urgency in it, only reassurance. A promise made through patience instead of passion.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer.
His hands settle at my waist, careful without treating me like glass.
For so long, I believed happiness was dangerous.
Anything precious could be lost.
Anything loved could be taken.
It seemed safer to live without expecting too much.
Now I understand the cost of that safety.
I hadn’t been protecting myself from pain.
I had been keeping myself from living.
Charlie draws back enough to look at me.
“You’re thinking too loudly again.”
“I’m trying to stop.”
“How’s that going?”
“Poorly.”
“Come to bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You fell asleep sitting up after dinner.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“For forty minutes?”
“I had a long day.”
He smiles and takes my hand.
I let him lead me toward the bed.
That may be the greatest change of all.
I let him.
I allow him to pull back the blankets. I accept the glass of water he places on my nightstand. When he settles beside me and opens his arms, I move into them without insisting I am fine on my own.
His hand rests over our child.
Mine covers his.
The house is quiet, filled with the blended scent of ocean rain, cinnamon, and vanilla.
I’m still frightened.
Of being hurt.
Of failing this baby.
Of the enormous happiness growing around me and inside me.
Fear doesn’t disappear simply because love arrives.
It remains, but it no longer fills the entire room.
Hope has entered too.
Hope in Charlie.
In Jordan.
In the family waiting eagerly to welcome our son.
In the bond I spent so long resisting.
In the future I once believed had already passed me by.
Charlie presses his lips to the back of my neck.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes.
This time, I do not search for reasons to doubt him.
“I love you too.”
The words come without struggle.
Without fear closing around my throat.
His arm tightens around me.
I settle into his warmth, allowing the full weight of my body to rest against him.
For the first time in years, I am no longer bracing for love to leave.
I’m learning how to trust that it might stay.
I’m learning that leaning on someone does not mean I have failed to stand on my own.
I’m learning that being loved is not a debt I have to repay.
And as Charlie holds me in the darkness, his hand spread protectively over the new life growing beneath my heart, I finally allow myself to believe that I deserve this.
Not because I sacrificed enough.
Not because I suffered enough.
Simply because I am here.
Because I chose him.
Because he chose me.
Because our son is coming.
Because the future is no longer something I have to face alone.