Chapter 26: Sunday Stroll
The word planted stayed with her. It felt different from stayed, heavier and more intentional. It had roots. Hannah carried it through the week, through the mind-numbing inventory spreadsheets and the way her lower back began to ache if she stood too long. It was there on Saturday morning when Matt, holding his coffee, nodded at the sunshine blazing through the kitchen window and said, “We should get out. All of us. Before it gets too hot.”
Now, at the park, the dappled light through the oak leaves made shifting patterns on the paved path. Matt pushed the stroller with one hand, his other resting lightly on the small of Hannah’s back. It was a casual gesture, almost automatic, but she felt the warmth of his palm through the thin cotton of her sundress with every step.
“She’s conked out,” Matt said, peering down at Waverly, who was peacefully oblivious to the world in the stroller’s shaded canopy.
“The motion does it every time. Best babysitter I own.”
They reached the playground perimeter, a riot of primary colors and shrieking joy. An older couple, bundled against a chill Hannah couldn’t feel, sat on a bench nearby. Their eyes tracked them, smiles forming.
“Well, isn’t this a picture,” the woman said, her voice carrying. “Such a beautiful young family.”
Hannah felt it before she understood it—a quick, tight clutch low in her belly. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something hotter, sharper. Territorial. Matt’s hand on her back didn’t move. He just offered the couple a polite, easy smile and a nod, not confirming or denying. The presumption hung in the air between them, a shared, unacknowledged thing.
His hand slid, just an inch, settling more firmly on her waist. His thumb brushed the ridge of her hip bone. The touch was simple, but in the wake of the strangers’ comment, it felt like a brand. A claim. The heat in her stomach pulsed.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, for her alone. He’d felt her tense.
“Yeah. Just… people.”
“I know.” He gave her waist a gentle, reassuring squeeze that did nothing to calm the riot inside her. “Want to sit?”
They found an empty bench facing the swings. Matt parked the stroller and sat close beside her, their thighs almost touching. He stretched his arm along the back of the bench behind her shoulders. It was the posture of a boyfriend. A partner. Hannah stared straight ahead, watching a little girl in dinosaur boots demand another push from her father.
“My dad called last night,” Matt said after a while.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. Wanted to talk football. Spent twenty minutes analyzing a trade rumor.” Matt paused. “Didn’t mention anchors once.”
Hannah let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Progress.”
“I think Ed’s bourbon might be a peace offering. Dad asked if I knew what brand it was.”
She laughed, and the sound loosened something in her chest. “See? Genius.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching the life of the park swirl around them. The simple normalcy of it was a balm. This, Hannah thought, is what people do. They take their babies out on Saturday morning. They sit on benches. This was the texture of a shared life, and she was suddenly, fiercely glad for his solid presence beside her. The earlier heat had softened, melted into a deep, yearning ache.
Waverly stirred with a tiny snuffling sound. Matt was up before Hannah could move, leaning into the stroller, his voice a soft rumble. “Hey there. Welcome back to the world.”
He unbuckled her, lifting her with that practiced, careful ease he’d perfected. He cradled her against his chest, one large hand supporting her head, and turned to face the green. “Look. Trees. Very exciting.”
Hannah watched him. She saw the way his body curved around the baby, creating a shelter. She saw the absolute focus in his profile. This was the man who had chosen to be planted. The recognition hit her with a physical force, a swelling in her throat that made it hard to breathe.
He must have felt her gaze. He turned, Waverly in the crook of his arm, and his eyes met hers. The easy smile he’d given the strangers was gone. His expression was open, questioning, utterly unguarded. In the bright sunlight, she could see the faint scar through his eyebrow from a long-ago warehouse mishap, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that appeared when he was truly amused.
The noise of the playground faded. The space between them on the bench felt vast and charged.
“What?” he asked softly.
She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t give voice to the colossal, fragile thing that was happening inside her. So she just shook her head, a tiny movement, and reached out. Her fingers didn’t go to the baby. They went to him, brushing against the back of the hand that held Waverly safe. A point of contact. An acknowledgment.
His breath caught, just a slight hitch. He looked down at her fingers on his skin, then back up at her face. His dark eyes held a dawning, cautious understanding. He didn’t smile. He just turned his hand, very slowly, and let her fingers slip until their palms were aligned. He didn’t intertwine them. He just held her hand there, against his, with their daughter resting peacefully in the space between them.
On the swings, the little girl shrieked with delight, flying higher. The chain links groaned. A dog barked in the distance. The world, loud and bright and real, came flooding back in. But on that bench, in that quiet clasp of hands, something new and terrifying and profoundly right had taken root.