Chapter 10

Christian

It’s Saturday morning, and I should be doing something better with my time, but I find myself pacing the length of my living room, each step a metronome tap of frustration. Hailey and Addison are out for their walk, and I’m climbing the walls. Last night, instead of coming home, I found myself at a hotel bar, nursing a scotch, replaying the way Hailey had smiled at her old neighbor the night before.

Their exchange sent me into a panic, though not for any valid reasons. I trust her enough to know she wouldn’t endanger Addison, but I’ll be damned if I’ll watch her flirt with another man in my very own home. Yet clearly, I need to stay away from her as well, since I can’t stop thinking about what she might be beyond my child’s caregiver.

My phone rings, my mother’s name flashing on the screen. I consider ignoring it but swipe to answer instead.

“Darling, you will join me for brunch at the Botanist this morning?” This is a command more than a request, her voice brimming with authority as always.

“Mother…” I press my fingers to my temples, as if I could massage away the inevitable.

“None of that now,” she counters. “Eleven sharp. Don’t be late.” And with that, she hangs up.

It occurs to me that Hailey is perhaps the polar opposite of my mother. Is that what draws me to her? Wait, am I drawn to her? Or does she just seem like an inviting lay? Frustration flames within me again. I can’t reduce her to a warm body—unattached, effortless fun. She’s too important to Addison. I’ve seen them connect in ways I can barely fathom.

Which is all the more reason I should stop thinking about her at all .

My pacing continues. I’m usually good at keeping people at arm’s length. Hell, I’ve been doing it my whole life. It’s what I know, what my mother taught me. Growing up, warmth wasn’t something we shared in our house. Everything was measured, calculated. Even affection felt like a transaction. If I did well, if I kept up appearances, I earned her approval. But love? That was never part of the deal.

This brunch is a prime example. I’m not going because I want to. I don’t. I’ll do it for her approval, and she does it to show her “friends” that her son is loving and doting. Ha! If they only knew.

And now, here I am with Addison. I’m keeping her at a distance, the way I always do. It’s instinct, thanks to Mother. I’ve spent years building walls, keeping control, because that’s the only way I know how to survive. But does that work with a baby? It certainly doesn’t work without Hailey… But then I’m back to square one. The one person I shouldn’t be trying to connect with seems to make me wish I could. Truly, I don’t know if I can handle this.

I think about telling my mother how things are spiraling out of control. But I already know what she’d say. “ Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment. Stay the course. She’s just the nanny .” Mother wouldn’t understand. She never does.

The Botanist is the last place I want to be in a few hours, stuck amidst the chatter of the well-heeled elite, their conversations as curated as the exotic plants lining the walls. Yet the thought of escaping the mess my home life has become, even just for a little while, offers a reprieve I’m desperate to take. Maybe a few hours surrounded by the familiar pretenses of my upbringing will help me regain control, remind me of who I am and who I’m supposed to be.

Right on time, I sit across from my mother at The Botanist, and her friends float by our table like perfumed specters.

“Christian!” Mrs. Pemberton appears, as if summoned by my most cynical thoughts, her smile brittle. “You remember my daughter, Clarissa?” She gestures to the willowy figure next to her. “She’s just returned from abroad.”

“Of course,” I say with the noncommittal politeness I’ve mastered over the years, standing to offer a handshake.

Clarissa, now a polished echo of the gangly girl I vaguely recall, extends her hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “Nice to see you again,” she offers with a rehearsed tilt of her head.

Likely story. I manage a half-smile. “Welcome back, Clarissa.”

“Isn’t it wonderful? Two old school friends getting together after all this time,” Mrs. Pemberton coos, nudging us closer in a maneuver as subtle as a sledgehammer.

“Must be fate,” I quip.

Clarissa’s eyes flicker with shared understanding. At least there’s mutual disinterest to spare us both the ordeal of pretense.

“Let’s catch up soon,” she says after a moment, a polite dismissal. I agree, knowing soon translates to never , and with grace, they retreat.

My mother watches them go before turning her gaze on me, hawk-like and probing. “Addison,” she says, slicing through the veil of trivial conversation. “How is she?”

“She’s doing well,” I reply, my defenses already rising against the scrutiny I know is coming. “Growing fast.”

“Too fast for Hailey to keep carrying her around like a favorite doll,” she retorts. “She needs structure, discipline. A German nanny would provide that.”

I can almost hear the click of boots on polished floors, the stern voice issuing orders. That was my childhood. My mother’s idea of child-rearing is outdated and regimented, a means to sculpt a Bradford heir, not nurture a child.

“Perhaps,” I concede, hating how timid I sound, how timid I feel, actually. “But Hailey seems to have a good handle on things.”

“Hailey,” she scoffs, her lip curling. “That girl doesn’t understand the value of firm guidance. Addison will thank us later for providing someone who does.”

“Maybe,” I say again, but the thought tightens my chest. Getting rid of Hailey would likely simplify my life, but that doesn’t make it right. The idea of replacing her stirs a protective instinct for Addison I didn’t ever expect to have. One day Addison will look back on the choices I made for her. And so will I.

“Consider it,” my mother presses, but I sense her attention drifting to her next target. Another friend approaches our table with the gleam of social conquest in her eyes.

I nod, beginning the routine again, as the ghost of my childhood governess looms over the conversation. The woman was a bully in sensible shoes, her voice a sword of discipline that seemed to chip away my youth. I’d longed for a mother’s touch, not the cold efficiency of a hired enforcer. The memory alone is enough to solidify my resolve.

I know Hailey has been good for Addison. My gut twists at the thought of shaking up the small patch of stability she’s managed to create. No, displacing Hailey isn’t an option—not yet, not until I can guarantee it’s the best move for my daughter. That’s what matters.

Eventually, we finish eating, and there’s a break in the line of visitors to our table. Escaping the brunch feels like breaking free from a vise. The Botanist’s chic decor and clinking glasses fade into the background as I head for the Vancouver Country Club, a refuge of green lawns and casual camaraderie. Here, at least, I can lose myself in the swing of a club and the chase of a little white ball.

“Hey, Christian!” Davis Martin, my friend and fellow doctor at the hospital, waves from where he’s leaning on his golf bag, an all-too-familiar smirk on his lips. “Ready to have your ass handed to you?”

“Keep dreaming,” I shoot back, but there’s no heat in it. These guys, they’re part of a world I understand, one where the rules are clear cut, and the only thing that needs nurturing is my handicap.

We play, we jest, we revel in the simple pleasure of the game until the shadows stretch long across the fairway and the clubhouse beckons us with the promise of a cold drink. Here it’s easy to forget the complexities of a life that now demands more of me than I ever expected.

“By the way,” Davis says as we settle in with our drinks. “How’s Addison’s temperature tracking going?”

The inquiry catches me off guard. I’m her father, I should know. But the truth is, I barely know what he’s talking about. I recall something about children with Down syndrome having a hard time regulating body temperature, but I rely on Hailey to manage that. She’s the one with the charts and the apps, the careful observations, and I suppose I trust that she’ll let me know if there’s a problem. A surge of something unpleasant—guilt, maybe? embarrassment?—worms its way through my chest.

“Hailey’s got it covered,” I deflect, hoping my nonchalance passes muster. Davis nods, but I see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

One by one, the guys leave for homes filled with partners, the noise of children, and warmth. I’ve never pictured that life for myself, but oddly, I’m struck by a pang of…what? Envy? Longing?

“See you, man,” Davis finally says, and I wave, suddenly solitary in the dimming light of the clubhouse.

I guess it’s time to go home. I push away from the bar. Home , where Hailey and Addison wait.

As I drive, I think back to when I was three. It’s my earliest memory. I’m clutching the hem of a dress that’s too fine for chubby, uncertain fingers. There’s been an argument. My father—a silhouette against the door—fades into nothingness, leaving my mother, cold and distant. She’s always elegant, composed, her affection parceled out in public appearances where I am less son, more an ornament to her tailored image.

“Christian, smile,” she would command, her own lips curving just so, engineered for the camera flash rather than warmth.

I push the memory away with a shake of my head, hoping something will wash it all clean. It doesn’t. It never does.

My phone vibrates. I don’t want to look, but curiosity is a persistent itch, and when I reach a red light, I swipe to bring the screen to life with a video, Addison’s bright eyes wide and sparkling with joy, Taylor Swift’s latest hit playing in the background.

“Are you dancing, Addie?” Hailey’s voice, teasing and tender, floats through the speaker.

Addison’s response is a gurgle of laughter, pure and unfettered. She lifts her arm, a tiny conductor orchestrating her delight, and something inside me shifts, a tectonic plate of emotion grinding against the bedrock of my guarded heart. It’s a strange sensation, this mixture of pride and something softer, warmer as I watch my daughter discover rhythm in her little bouncing body.

A grin I can’t suppress pulls at my mouth as Addison bobs and weaves, her movements jerky yet earnest. “God, I hope I get this right,” I murmur, returning my focus to the road.

Before the traffic starts to move, I thumb a message into my phone, a decision that surprises me. Heading home , it reads, and I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Maybe it’s Addison’s laughter in the video, or maybe it’s the realization that I’m at a crossroads between repeating history and forging a new path. I need to make this work. I need to do what’s right.

My car hums and weaves through the city streets, guiding me back to where I need to be. When I push open the door to my house, quiet greets me, punctuated by soft murmurs from the living room.

Hailey looks up, her expression a mix of surprise and something unreadable as she lifts Addison from the floor. “You’re back early,” she says.

I can smell that fresh baby scent. “Couldn’t stay away,” I admit, feeling the truth of it settle in my chest. I extend my arms toward them. “Let me.”

Without hesitation, Hailey passes Addison my way, the warmth of my daughter’s body flooding my senses. Her small head finds the crook of my arm, as if she’s always belonged there. Perhaps she has. Hailey gives us a small, knowing smile before slipping off to her room.

Addison squirms in my arms, her little fists rubbing her eyes as I carry her to her nursery. It’s bedtime, or at least I think it is. I’m still getting the hang of her routine, but for the moment, I feel like I’m doing something right.

“You ready for bed, Addie?” I whisper, lowering her into the crib. She lets out a tiny yawn. Her stuffed bunny, the one Hailey gave her, is waiting at her side, and Addison immediately reaches for it, clutching it close to her chest.

I dim the lights, and her tiny breaths slow to a rhythm that’s both calming and unnervingly foreign. I suppose I adore this little being, but where is the visceral pull, the primal bond that seems to tug relentlessly at the hearts of other fathers? Am I not capable of that?

I linger for a moment, watching as she settles. I sing softly under my breath—something I never thought I’d do—but the melody seems to calm her. Her eyelids droop, and a wave of contentment washes over me. She needs me. I’m not used to acknowledging that so literally. In this moment, we are truly connected.

“Sweet dreams, baby girl,” I whisper, brushing a hand over her soft hair. I stand in the dim light, watching her drift toward sleep, and for the first time, I realize being her dad isn’t something I need to control or perfect. It’s just…being here. Being present. That’s the heart of it.

Am I broken? my mind asks again. But that’s absurd, isn’t it? I feel the protectiveness, the love for Addison, but it’s not all-consuming. I have a lot of other things in my life, a lot of other people who need me, count on me. I brush my lips across her forehead, hoping she understands that I’m trying, that I’m here even if I have to learn how to fully be her dad.

When I turn, Hailey is waiting in the doorway, a question in her eyes.

“She’s out,” I say, feeling the beginning of something new, something warm and capable, threading its way through my old fears and reservations.

I walk out to slouch into the cushions of the living room sofa, still feeling Addison’s weight in my arms.

Hailey busies herself in the kitchen, but after a moment, her voice cuts through the silence. “Working tomorrow?”

“No,” I answer, shifting to sit up straighter. “I’ll stay with Addison. You can take the day off.”

She leans against the doorframe, a shadow of a smile on her lips. “That’s not why I asked, but thanks. I meant do you want a drink?” Her offer hangs between us, simple yet impossibly complex in its implications.

“Sure.” I nod, looking for the company more than the alcohol. I appreciate Hailey’s way of taking care of things, even me, without making a big deal about it. I’m just not at all sure it’s wise.

Moments later, we’re both nursing glasses of whiskey. Music floats from the speakers, a soft melody that’s familiar yet distant. “So, are you into Taylor Swift?” I ask. “Addison sure seems to like her.”

Hailey nods. “She does. This album is so good. It takes listening a few times to absorb the lyrics. Taylor can sing, but her brilliance as a songwriter is melodic. And she tells a story better than any writer.”

The whiskey burns pleasantly as it goes down. “I’ve always been more into grunge. Pearl Jam, Nirvana…”

“Kurt Cobain was legendary,” Hailey agrees, swirling the liquid in her glass. “I read somewhere that he was the first to make the expression of anger and depression in music mainstream. Do you think he’d still be a music god if he were alive?”

“Hard to say…” I ponder that, staring out the window to where the lights of False Creek dance like fireflies. “Some legends grow larger in death. But Cobain had raw talent. He’d probably still be shaking things up.”

She smiles and hums a tune under her breath, one I recognize as a Swiftie anthem. I smile despite myself.

We fall into a comfortable silence, sipping our drinks and watching the world outside. I can handle this, right? Reflections ripple across the surface of the creek, reminding me how life’s patterns can be disrupted by the smallest stone—or person—thrown into their midst. “Thanks for this,” I say after a while, lifting my glass in toast. “It’s nice…just talking.” I can hardly believe it, but that’s true.

“Anytime,” Hailey replies, her eyes warm. “Music, drinks, or stubborn babies—I’m here.”

And I believe her. I feel the need to reciprocate somehow. I want her to know I’m trying, that I want to do this better, though even I’m not sure what I mean. I shift in my seat, the leather creaking under me as I meet her gaze, deep and questioning.

“Addison’s mother… I don’t actually remember sleeping with her.” The words feel like stones in my mouth. “She’s definitely my type—dark hair, enigmatic eyes—but it’s all a blur. What I know for certain is that Addison has my DNA.”

She nods, waiting for me to continue.

“I hired a private investigator,” I confess, feeling the twist of anxiety in my gut. “Taylor, Addison’s mother, is in LA now, chasing her acting dreams. She hasn’t tried to contact Addison or me, not even once. I’m not even sure she knows her sister dropped her off.”

“How could she not know?” Hailey asks. “She must have checked in with her sister.”

“I sent paperwork.” I shrug. “I’ve asked her to relinquish her parental rights, but she hasn’t signed anything. It makes me nervous, the uncertainty of it all.” I look away, focusing on a spot where the light catches the rim of my glass. “She’s been absent for over three months now. Sometimes, I tell myself she’s just sorting out her life. But there’s a clock ticking on her chance to be a part of Addison’s world.”

“Christian…” Hailey begins but trails off, perhaps unsure what to say.

“Let’s not dwell on it,” I interject, eager to escape the tightness in my chest. Why did I start this conversation anyway ? “You look like you could use some relaxation.” Without waiting for an answer, I lift her feet onto my lap and start to massage them.

I look down at my hands, feeling like I’m on autopilot. Count on my gut to return to what’s familiar when I’m alone with a woman, I suppose. For a moment I worry Hailey will withdraw, though that would undoubtedly be for the best, but instead, she lets out a low moan.

Something inside me stirs, a primal response I can’t control. My hands move over her feet, thumbs pressing into the arches, eliciting another quiet sound of pleasure from her lips. A wave of heat rolls through me, desire building at the sounds of her satisfaction.

I feel myself hardening. “You can take tonight off too.” My fingers knead her heels, slowly, deliberately. “I’ll be on call later this week, so there won’t be much time for breaks.”

“Thank you,” she breathes, her voice tinged with drowsy contentment.

Then the monitor crackles, and Addison fusses. Her timing is perfect.

“Go on, get some rest,” I say, sliding her feet off my lap before standing carefully, to avoid any embarrassing revelations. “I’ve got Addison. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she replies, her smile lingering as I retreat toward Addison’s room.

When I open the nursery door, Addison has already settled on her own, leaving me alone with the memory of Hailey’s moans and the faint scent of her skin on my palms. But as I linger a few minutes, waiting until Hailey retreats to her room, my thoughts refocus on my daughter. Once again, warmth swells within me.

I return to the kitchen to pour myself another drink and resume my place on the couch, focusing on the burn as I swallow, rather than the thoughts that now threaten to consume me.

What is this strange tightness in my chest, the way my throat constricts when I look at Addison? Is that what love feels like? It’s not the fierce rush of passion or the sharp pangs of jealousy I’m accustomed to. It’s something more enduring, more terrifying in its quiet intensity. I think I must love her, this small creature who depends on me, yet I’m not entirely sure. I certainly resented her at first, and love has never been a tangible quality in my life. It just seems like one more part of this that’s impossible to understand.

But none of that matters to Addison. She asks for nothing more than to be held, fed, and kept safe. And though I’ve outsourced even those simple needs, I find myself more and more willing to do anything, spend any amount, fight any battle, but also forge a connection. I want to keep her as part of my life, away from Taylor, the mother who hasn’t bothered to claim her. Surely, it’s my duty to protect this innocent life from becoming a pawn in an adult game.