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Somedays, I catch myself bargaining obsessively. If the icon remains safely in place today, it means that somehow, she is protected. As long as I can track her, my own demons won't consume me. Logically, I know it's outrageous magical thinking. But still, the impulse persists.
Shaking my head, I silence the nagging urge to listen to her outgoing message just once more, torturing myself with her lyrical voice. I force myself to minimize the screen, refusing the further descent into pining. But some enchanted hand instructs me to open TikTok instead and scroll through her familiar feed. There are countless clips of her dancing through the pulse of New York across iconic backdrops. I click on a recent upload from a few days ago, soaking up glimpses of the woman burned into my soul.
In this clip, Maddie sways smoothly on the bustling street in front of Centre Pompidou. The iconic building's towering multicolored pipes and vast glass and metal exterior stand out starkly, modernism and whimsy on proud display.
She blends into the playful, vibrant scene, a red dress subtly showcasing new curves that catch my breath. Her signature lust for life radiates through the screen, brighter than I remember. Joyful freedom and grace flow through her fluid steps inside this stylish frame.
As she tosses her hair, the camera capturing that dazzling signature smile in slow motion, something about her glow pulls me in. She looks lighter than air, and yet somehow more grounded and feminine than the lithe girl who ran from me months ago. My finger hovers frozen over the image, shock rooting me in place as the possibility sinks in.
Is it the buttery French cuisine that rounded her up this deliciously?
I replay it once more, then again, and again, peering closer. Is it my imagination or does she look subtly fuller in the hips and chest? I scrub back further, freeze framing on a side profile shot. Definitely a rounder silhouette compared to the pencil-straight lines I remember.
I zoom in on the image, transfixed. It's difficult to tell with her signature breezy movements. But as I examine her glowing cheeks and that flirty extra curve around her middle in freeze frame, my pulse starts to race.
Could she be . . . pregnant?
I zoom out, restarting the video, and just stare, stunned, as she shimmies and sashays. She doesn’t look like a girl anymore, but rather like a woman filled with secret joy. I scrub through a dozen more recent uploads, searching for more hints of changes. But I don’t notice it in any of the other videos. Still, the possibility takes root, upending everything.
A baby? Our baby?
What the Hell? When exactly is she going to tell me?
My pulse hammers, gut swirling with shock, possibility, and fury. If Maddie is expecting, why is she freezing me out? No matter the issues between us, this is our baby.
A decision crystalizing, I pack my laptop and stride toward Cade's workstation, resolve quickening my pace. Tapping distractedly, Cade glances up, confused as I urgently announce, “I've got a flight to book, and I’m heading home to pack. You need to take the call with the investors this afternoon by yourself.”
Cade's fingers freeze mid-air as he processes this abrupt about-face. “Wait, what? Where are you going? We've been prepping this deck for weeks, and you're the closer!”
I'm already tapping at my phone, scanning flight times as Cade sputters incredulously behind me, demanding more information. I call out over his bellowed threats where I’m disappearing to.
“Paris!” Just before the doors seal closed, understanding registers across Cade’s face followed by his thumbs-up and an encouraging call.
“Go get your girl, brother.”
* * *
My body still buzzes with restless momentum despite catching a few hours of sleep on the plane. I splash brisk cold water on my face before yanking heavy brocade curtains open. Parisian rooftops glitter cheerily under the gentle morning sun, beckoning a glorious spring weekend day.
I quickly towel off after a blistering shower in the marble-lined suite, hurrying into jeans and a casual button down. The stylish Saint Germain boutique hotel provides a polished backdrop to gather courage before seeking out Maddie somewhere amid the labyrinthine Parisian streets.
Checking my phone, I note her location pings eastward in the chic Marais neighborhood. If I had to guess, probably sipping a latte outside some charming café near Place des Vosges Park about now.
My eyes catch on a vase of delicate pink peonies on the console, matching the tree-lined street below. Its extravagant beauty echoes my racing thoughts. Could Maddie truly be pregnant?
Of course she could, you moron. Or did you forget that sixth-grade biology lesson on the birds and bees?
I shake my head, tamping down irrational hopes and fears roiling inside. I have to see her. I clip a slim wire frame pair of sunglasses over my eyes, hoping their modern edge obscures my foreigner appearance, along with my erratic emotions.
With a final steadying exhale, I grab the room key and stride into the Parisian day washed in golden sun rays. Turmoil and smothered hope wage war inside my still battle-weary heart as Maddie's icon blinks steadily eastward.
Balmy spring air kisses my cheeks as I traverse picturesque narrow streets, pulse racing faster the closer her icon blinks. I round a corner into a small square, lush with blooming foliage. Up ahead, a group has spread yoga mats over grass in front of granite steps rising to an ancient basilica.
I slow down, realization cresting over me—it's a prenatal yoga class. Heavily pregnant women flow gracefully from pose to pose, bellies swaying under form fitting athleisure. My eyes scan the dozen mamas-to-be, breath catching as I spot a familiar chestnut ponytail swaying near the back row.
It's her. This is no longer a possibility. As small as her belly still is, she is cradling it, woven into this serene Parisian tableau. She gently bends sideways, the pronounced bump unmissable now. Her glowing skin caressed by dappled sunlight erases any shred of doubt. Pregnancy looks good on her. Seared into my soul for eternity, I could pick her lithe form out of an endless lineup.
I stall, frozen some yards away but close enough to discern her softly rounded profile as she presses her palms prayerfully skyward then folds into a lunge. My fist clenches in an agonized grip taking in this staggering vision.
