Chapter 34 - The Things Money Could Not Buy
On their first wedding anniversary, Roman burned pancakes.
Paige considered this an improvement over grilled cheese.
Pancakes required ambition.
He stood at the stove in a gray T-shirt, looking offended by the pan.
“The temperature is inconsistent.”
“The temperature has heard a lot of accusations in this marriage.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Happy anniversary.”
She crossed the kitchen and kissed him.
The bakery downstairs had started work before dawn. Warm air carried the smell of bread through the open window. Somewhere in the courtyard, Helen was explaining to a neighbor why his basil looked discouraged.
Paige had once assumed a smaller life would feel like loss.
Instead, it had given ordinary things room to become visible.
Roman’s reading glasses beside the couch.
Her favorite mug in the wrong cabinet.
The way he always checked whether she had an umbrella, then stopped himself from checking twice.
They were still learning each other outside emergencies.
It turned out that was its own kind of intimacy.
Breakfast became toast.
Neither complained.
Their anniversary plan was simple: a walk, lunch somewhere without a podium, and an afternoon with their phones put away unless the clinic’s designated backup called.
Paige had a designated backup now.
Two, actually.
She had become almost evangelical about it.
At Harbor Clinic, Dr. Park and the operations director handled daily decisions when Paige was absent. Nora’s role had become an independent audit position with defined hours, which Nora violated only when someone did something especially foolish.
The clinic no longer relied on Roman appearing with a check whenever something broke.
Its funding came from several sources. Its board included workers, clinical staff, and community members. Its future was still subject to budgets and effort, but it had become sturdy enough to outlast any one person’s energy.
That was the achievement Paige was proudest of.
Not that people needed her.
That they could keep going when she went home.
At lunch, Roman reached into his coat.
Paige narrowed her eyes.
“If that’s another ring, we need to discuss your understanding of anniversaries.”
“It isn’t.”
He handed her a small wrapped package.
Inside was a fountain pen.
Simple. Dark blue. Comfortable in her hand.
A note rested beneath it.
For whatever you choose to write next.
Paige looked at him.
He appeared unexpectedly nervous.
“No foundation announcement?”
“No.”
“No building named after me?”
“Apparently those require permits.”
She laughed.
Then she uncapped the pen and drew a small line across the paper.
“I love it.”
Roman exhaled.
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“That pens were an inadequate apology for pancakes.”
“They are. But it’s an excellent anniversary present.”
After lunch, they walked along the harbor.
The water was bright beneath a pale sky. Tourists stopped for photographs. A man sold paper flowers near the railing. Two teenagers argued about which direction led to the aquarium.
No one recognized them for several blocks.
Paige enjoyed that more than she expected.
Roman’s new work occupied three days a week at an employee-owned logistics company established from lawful operations that had survived the restructuring.
He was good at routes, schedules, and difficult negotiations.
He was less good at having his proposals voted down.
Paige found those stories deeply entertaining.
“They rejected the equipment purchase again?” she asked.
“They requested another cost comparison.”
“How oppressive.”
“I heard that tone.”
“They’re making you read the paperwork.”
He stopped walking and looked at her.
She smiled.
Then he smiled too.
For a while, they stood at the railing.
Paige watched a ferry move across the water.
“There’s something I’ve been thinking about.”
Roman turned slightly.
“Okay.”
“A family.”
He did not answer immediately.
She appreciated that.
The question deserved more than reflexive reassurance.
“We have one,” he said at last.
“I know. I mean a child. Maybe.”
His gaze moved toward the ferry, then back to her.
“Is that something you want?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“It’s also something that scares me.”
“Me too.”
The honesty loosened her shoulders.
She had expected him to be certain. To promise safety. To tell her he could protect a child from the world.
Instead, he looked like a man who understood how large the question was.
“What scares you?” she asked.
“That I’ll mistake vigilance for love. That I’ll pass on habits I’m still trying to unlearn.”
Paige slipped her hand into his.
“You notice those habits now.”
“Not always quickly enough.”
“No parent does everything quickly enough.”
He looked down at their joined hands.
“What scares you?”
“That I’ll disappear into caring for everyone. That I’ll feel guilty for wanting work and guilty for wanting time away from it.”
Roman considered that.
“Then we don’t make a child responsible for proving we’ve healed.”
“No.”
“And we ask for help.”
“Yes.”
“And we build a life where neither of us has to do it alone.”
She leaned against his shoulder.
For the first time, the possibility felt less like a leap and more like a door they could open carefully.
That evening, their friends ruined their plan for a quiet dinner.
Helen claimed it was not a party because there were no balloons.
There were twelve people in the apartment.
Arthur had brought food.
Mrs. Donnelly had brought flowers.
Whitcomb had brought a bottle of wine and a firm statement that she was off duty.
Nora arrived with Luca.
Holding his hand.
Paige stared.
Luca looked irritated.
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re saying it with your face.”
Nora took off her coat.
“It happened gradually. He learned to ask questions before moving my equipment.”
“A sweeping romance,” Roman said.
Luca pointed at him.
“You cried at your wedding.”
“So did you.”
“Dust.”
“In a courtyard?”
“Regional dust.”
The room dissolved into laughter.
Later, Tessa and Noah arrived with a cake from the bakery downstairs. Across the frosting, someone had written ONE YEAR, ZERO EVICTIONS.
Tessa looked embarrassed.
“Noah helped choose the message.”
Paige hugged them both.
“It’s perfect.”
Two months later, on an ordinary Wednesday, Paige stood in the bathroom holding a positive pregnancy test.
She took another before telling Roman.
Then she sat on the edge of the tub and laughed because, apparently, even joy now required independent verification.
When she called his name, he came immediately.
He looked at the tests.
Then at her.
For once, Roman Gallow had absolutely nothing to say.
Paige began crying first.
He followed.
There was no dramatic promise.
No speech about protecting them from every bad thing.
He knelt in front of her, took both her hands, and whispered, “We’ll learn.”
Paige rested her forehead against his.
May you like
“Yes,” she said.
“We will.”
