Chapter 2: Flour Ghosts and Petty Wars

The kitchen smelled like burnt sugar and regret when I finally dragged myself out of bed around ten. My head felt stuffed with wet cotton, and my leg throbbed in time with the rain hammering the windows. I shuffled in, barefoot on the cold tile, hoping for coffee that wouldn't make the baby angry.

The mess from last night was mostly gone. Bowls washed and stacked like obedient soldiers. But one perfect flour handprint still stained the marble counter, right where I'd braced myself when Vivian caught me. She hadn't touched it. Like she wanted the evidence to stay.

I stared at it for too long. My own hand hovered an inch away, not quite brave enough to smear it. What the hell was that about?

"Morning." Vivian's voice sliced through the quiet. She stood in the doorway in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans, hair still damp from a shower. No hello, no how did you sleep. Just that clipped tone that made me want to snap back even when I had nothing to snap about.

"You didn't have to clean up my disaster," I said, opening cabinets at random. The mugs were exactly where my muscle memory wanted them. I hated that.

She shrugged, pouring herself tea from a pot that smelled like expensive herbs. "Habit. You always left flour everywhere. Drove me crazy."

There it was again. The casual we. Like we were some old married couple bickering over chores instead of whatever fresh hell this was. I grabbed a mug too hard and it clattered against the counter. The sound bounced off the walls like an accusation.

"Well, I'm not that person anymore. So maybe stop acting like I am."

Her fingers drummed once on her mug. That tell. She was pissed but wouldn't show it. Good. Let her be pissed. I was the one growing a human I couldn't remember making.

I poured cereal instead of attempting actual cooking. The crunch filled the silence while the ocean roared outside. The mansion felt smaller in daylight, all dark wood and looming windows that showed nothing but gray sky and crashing waves. No cell signal, like she'd warned me. Just us and the storm rolling in.

After breakfast I wandered. Not like I had a plan. My leg ached but I ignored it, pushing through rooms that should have meant nothing. The library smelled like old paper and salt air. A greenhouse off the side held plants that looked too perfect, like Vivian had them trained to behave.

In what I guessed was her study, I found a drawer that stuck when I tugged it. Inside, a stack of sketches. My sketches. Messy charcoal lines of waves, of empty beds, of a woman's back turned away. One caught me hard in the chest, a half-finished profile that looked suspiciously like Vivian laughing.

Laughter. The memory hit like a cheap shot. Not a full picture, just the smell of her shampoo and the way her shoulders shook against mine while we kissed in some cramped apartment. Her mouth tasted like the cheap red wine we'd been drinking. Then it was gone.

I slammed the drawer shut. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The drawer rattled in its tracks like it was laughing at me.

"Find anything interesting?" Vivian asked from the hallway. She'd followed me. Of course she had.

"Just proof that I used to draw you. Creepy."

She didn't smile. "You used to draw everything. Including the fights we had."

I wanted to ask about those fights. Wanted to demand the whole ugly story. Instead I crossed my arms over my belly, feeling the slight swell that was starting to show. The fabric of my shirt felt suddenly too tight across my skin.

"Doctor coming today?"

"In a couple days, when the roads clear. Marquez doesn't like the roads when it's like this."

The rest of the morning dragged. I tried napping but kept jerking awake at every creak of the old house. The silence between us stretched until my skin itched with it.

The afternoon stretched into evening with neither of us speaking. I stress-baked again, this time lemon bars that actually turned out decent. Flour got everywhere, including new handprints on the fridge that overlapped the old ones. Vivian didn't come in. I left a plate outside her door like some pathetic peace offering, then hated myself for it.

Night fell hard. The storm really hit around nine, wind screaming around the eaves like it wanted in. I was in the living room pretending to read when the power cut out. Total blackness. The kind that makes your stomach drop.

"Vivian?" My voice sounded small. Pathetic.

No answer at first. Then a soft shuffle from the hallway. A flashlight clicked on, cutting through the dark. She stood there in an oversized sweater, hair loose around her face. She looked younger. Vulnerable. I hated how much I noticed.

"Generator should kick in soon," she said. "But the lines are down all the way to town. Might be hours."

I nodded even though she couldn't see it well. The couch dipped as she sat on the opposite end, leaving careful space between us. The beam of the flashlight pointed at the ceiling, throwing weird shadows across her cheekbones.

We sat like that for what felt like forever. Rain lashed the windows. The house groaned and settled around us. My skin felt too tight, too aware of every inch separating our bodies. I kept thinking about that almost-kiss last night. About the way her arm had felt around my waist.

"The sketches," I said finally, because the silence was worse. "In the drawer. Was that... before or after we got together?"

She was quiet so long I thought she wouldn't answer. When she did, her voice was rough. "During. You drew me when you thought I wasn't looking. Said it helped you understand me better."

A laugh escaped me, bitter and short. "Did it work?"

"Sometimes. Until it didn't."

More silence. The flashlight beam trembled slightly. Her hand, I realized. She was nervous too. The knowledge made my throat close up until swallowing hurt.

I shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable with my growing belly. My foot accidentally brushed her thigh. We both froze. Neither pulled away.

Her fingers found mine in the dark. Just brushed at first, then settled. Warm. Steady. My heart tried to climb out of my throat. It felt familiar in a way that made my eyes sting. Like my body had been waiting for this exact pressure, this exact callus on her thumb.

"Ingrid," she whispered. Just my name again. Like a question and an answer all at once.

I turned toward her in the dark. Our knees knocked. Her breath ghosted across my cheek. I wanted to lean in. Wanted to see if the memory would come back with her mouth on mine. My free hand moved to her arm, gripping the soft sweater like it was a lifeline.

The lights flickered once. Twice. Then blazed on full force.

And there was Marcus standing in the doorway.

He held a dripping bouquet of flowers in one hand and a folder in the other. Sandy hair plastered to his forehead, expensive coat soaked through. His boyish smile didn't reach his eyes as they flicked from our joined hands to my belly and back.

"Well," he said, voice smooth as old whiskey. "Looks like I'm interrupting something. But we really do need to talk about that baby, Ingrid. Because it's not what either of you think."

My stomach dropped. Vivian's hand tightened on mine, almost painful. I didn't pull away this time. The storm howled louder outside, like it was laughing at all of us.