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Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Fresh hope and panic twist around in my gut as I pull the device free. Nia’s name and text flash across my screen. Relief floods my veins.

Sorry I ran out. I had to clear my head. I’ll be home by midnight if you want to talk.

In two hours? I poise my thumbs over the screen, ready to demand she come back now before I pound her with a horde of questions. Where have you been? Where are you? How are you feeling? What are you thinking? But she texted—rather than called—because she wants to avoid answering all that until she’s ready. One thing I’m quickly learning about Nia? Rushing her, no matter how badly I want to, accomplishes nothing.

Finally, I tap back, I’ll be there. And we will talk.

She doesn’t respond, but I see she’s read my message. For now, it will do.

That gives me time to get calm, figure out exactly what I’m going to say. First, I have to find some way—no fucking idea how—to quiet the doubts and demons in my head.

I turn a slow circle around my darkened living room, looking for distraction. I don’t feel like TV. If I go to Nia’s place now, I’ll spend two hours climbing the walls. I don’t want a drink. I’m not hungry for dinner.

I can think of only one solution.

With ground-eating strides, I make my way to my bedroom and drag out a half-finished canvas from under my bed. In less than ten minutes, I’ve stripped down to a pair of shorts, dragged everything I need into the kitchen, and prepared a palette.

As every light in the place blazes, I stare at the beginnings of a painting I barely remember starting months ago. It’s mechanical, gears and spokes turning in circles, working together for a common purpose. The dominant colors are cool grays and blues with a hint of green and rust to depict shadow, wear, and age. It’s competent, not representative of the way I’m feeling now. There’s no sense of barely leashed wildness. Not one brush stroke is out of place. It’s too meticulous and methodical.

I can’t finish it.

After shoving the half-finished piece aside, I retrieve a fresh canvas and set it on my easel. I dip a brush in the paint and stare at the blank white space. What am I bringing to life with pigment? I’ve always been into technical and mechanical themes. Precision and order—that’s how my brain usually works.

Not today. In fact, not since Nia.

Raising the brush, I let it hover over the canvas and close my eyes. The cacophony of shock, worry, and terror begins to quiet. I encourage the monotone hum working its way up through the background of my thoughts. And without looking, I flip the brush across the blank space once, twice, a few more times.

A minute later, I risk a peek. Yeah, I have no idea what I’m doing. Is this a landscape? A portrait? An abstract? So far, it’s a disorganized blob…which is an accurate representation of my current thoughts.

With a disgusted sigh, I set the palette down, clear everything away, and toss my clothes on once more. I don’t know why my steadying, go-to activity still isn’t working. Since I actually put a brush to canvas, I managed more today than any time since Becca’s death. But I miss sinking into the steadying strokes, letting my subconscious take over as my world rights itself once more.

None of that happened tonight. I’m still as confused as ever.

Cursing, I grab my keys and lock the penthouse behind me, ridiculously eager to be away from here. In fact, when I move to Maui, I might sell this place after all. It’s not logical. It may cost me money in the long run since the value of this unit will only increase over time. But there’s nothing here I want to revisit. There’s no reason for me to return.

Wondering when I stopped being so practical, I head to Nia’s. The house is still dark when I walk in.

Thankfully, she’s only a few minutes behind me. When she finally steps through the front door, I’m desperate to hold her. Fuck, she looks tired. She’s clearly been crying.

I tear across the room toward Nia. Her expression turns resolute as she raises a hand between us to stop me. “Don’t. I have to say this without being clouded by your nearness.”

Though the distance she’s putting between us makes me anxious, I do my best to respect it. “I’m listening. But before you say anything, remember that I wanted to marry you before you found out you were pregnant. I still do. Don’t think for one instant that me being your boss, the size of our bank accounts, or the different colors of our skin changes anything for me.”

“I know you mean that. I’m sorry if I upset you. That was my insecurity talking. It wasn’t fair to lump you in with my father.” Nia slowly drops her hand to her side. “I’ve been driving around, thinking. I went by the house I grew up in. I visited my mother’s grave. I even went to the office after hours. Finally, I came to some conclusions. A baby changes everything. We both grew up in homes that weren’t picture-perfect. I don’t want that for my child.”

What is she saying? Why is my chest buckling, my throat tightening? “I don’t, either.”

“Some people may call my decision old-fashioned, but they don’t have to live with it. I do. And I believe this baby will be better off with two parents.”

“Ones who have the same last name and live in the same house.” I want to be clear about my expectations.

She nods. “Yes. The practical choice is to get married.”

Part of me rejoices. I’ve won; I’ve got her. But another part bleeds. I cheated my way into her future. Not intentionally. I hardly set out to get her pregnant in the hopes she’d marry me. Yet I hate the resignation on her face. She’s not making this decision lightly—or happily. She wants love. She wants the romantic fairy tale. That’s not what she’s getting, and I don’t know if I can ever give it to her. I respect her too much to lie now and hope it will be true later.

My one consolation? I’m prepared to make our engagement official.

From my pants, I pull out the box containing the engagement ring I bought before Thanksgiving. I lift the lid and extract the diamond from the cushion. Then I take her hand, surprised to find my fingers shaking. “This may not be the circumstance you wanted when you said yes, but I swear I’ll do everything I can to make you happy and⁠—”