Falling into a Second Chance by Alie Garnett

Chapter Twenty-Five

The weekend blewby with Agatha’s every thought and move centered around a nine-month-old baby. Saturday, Chris left most of the baby care to Agatha because after their talk, he knew she needed to prove to herself that she could do it. She had convinced herself that she couldn’t be a mother, and the only way for her to realize she was going to be fine was for her to do a lot of it alone.

So around noon on Saturday, he had went out to buy the crib she hadn’t been able to fit in her car the day before. While in the store, he bought a few more things that the saleswoman had insisted would make his life easier—their lives easier. On his way out of the store, he saw them: Christie Lovely’s books. Buying two of the six available, he was excited about his find. He had completely forgotten about the books until that moment. So much had changed in his life since he had found out about his former locker neighbor’s books.

After he got home, he put up the crib, which involved removing the bed from the room across from the master bedroom. With no place to put the old mattress, he dragged it to the basement after Agatha told him not to put it in the attic.

By the time Poppy was sleeping in her new bedroom, Chris was just as exhausted and went to bed too. Agatha stayed up to clean and organize the house a little. He suspected she needed a little alone time also.

When she climbed into bed a few hours later, she tried not to wake him, but he was alerted to her movements and pulled her into his arms. He wanted her to know that he was still interested in her, that he still wanted her.

Sunday had been a bit more relaxed, with both knowing what to expect from the day. No trips to the store were needed, and they had spent most of the day on the floor with Poppy, trying to make up for the nine months she had been with parents that might not have loved her like they should have.

Over the weekend, Agatha had spoken to most of her sisters but hadn’t said anything about him or Poppy. She let her sisters dictate the conversation, which was mostly questions about why she’d been missing that day. He wondered if she had received the same calls when she had been alone, having a baby. Had they called only to yell at her that time as well?

On Monday, he went over to his house but felt he was only in the way of the workers and wanted to be home with Agatha and Poppy again. So he did, leaving at noon. It wasn’t like he was any help anyway.

The house was silent when he arrive,d and he couldn’t find Agatha or the baby anywhere. The first floor was empty, and the second floor was empty also. Bedrooms were quiet, but there was faint music coming from above his head. Deciding to investigate, he walked down to the attic door, and when he opened it, Bon Jovi was playing quietly from the floor above.

He silently walked up the stairs until Agatha sitting at an easel with Poppy on her lap came into view. Agatha was holding the baby’s hand over a pencil and was drawing on a white piece of paper.

“See, Poppy? You can draw too. This is magenta. It’s a darker pink than your shirt. Your shirt is called bubblegum, like this pencil. People always just call it pink, but we know better.” She kissed Poppy’s black hair.

Tearing his eyes from the woman, he took in the rest of the room, which contained a bed and a couch. But the easel took center stage, and the storage of art supplies off to the side was massive. This room was Agatha’s; everything in the room screamed this was Agatha’s. This must have been her room, her sanctuary when everyone still lived at home.

It hurt him that for as long as he had been sleeping in her bed, she hadn’t felt like she could share this space with him. That she didn’t think he would want to know every part of her, even this one.

Her soft voice brought his attention back to the woman. Suddenly, he wanted to prove to her that there wasn’t a part of her he didn’t find fascinating. He knew it would start with this, today.

“See, you make a circle like this.” Agatha still held the baby’s chunky hand. “Then another circle here and here and some lines, and then you have a mouse. Usually, you don’t draw the mouse in magenta, but today is for learning.”

“Did you teach Violet to draw this young?”

Agatha jumped in her chair and slowly turn to him. Quickly she looked around her room and then back at him. He hated that she thought she had to hide this from him. He knew every inch of her body, but this, she didn’t want to share with him.

“No, she was younger. Sera held her so much the first few months that Violet cried when she wasn’t held, so I had to draw while holding her.” Shrugging, she pried the pencil from Poppy’s hand, then set it down in a holder on the corner of the easel.

Instantly, he regretted saying anything and not leaving immediately to let her have her space. “Don’t stop because of me, Agatha. Don’t be ashamed of who you are.”

“I have been made fun of all my life for being artsy,” she admitted, holding the baby between them, as if she needed a barrier.

“I should have realized you were an artist. Violet got her snarky cartoon watching from you. You never just say blue or brown; you always have a specific name for each color. Violet said your favorite color was walnut.” He grinned when her eyes darted to the cup holding her colored pencils.

“It usually is, but sometimes it’s winter white.” Agatha bit her lip as if she had said too much. He hated the reaction, hated everyone who had made fun of her for any reason.

“Can I come up?” He hadn’t moved from the top of the stairs.

Looking around the room again, she didn’t meet his eyes. “If you want. Not much to see up here.”

“I don’t think so. You had the biggest room in the house and gave it up for the master bedroom?”

“This doesn’t have a bathroom, and I was wasting an entire floor.”

Walking over to her, he took the baby and pulled Agatha into his arms and kissed her. Looking into her eyes, he said, “Your kid drew a pretty nice mouse, Agatha. She gets that from you.”

When he kissed her again, Poppy started to squirm in his arms. “I’ll take her down and let you work. Come down when you feel like it. We’ll be okay.”

“No, I’ll come down. I shouldn’t be up here anyway. There’s so much to do.” Agatha started to pick up the scattered colored pencils.

“I will do it. You keep working. Be happy, Agatha.” He kissed her forehead and headed down the stairs, knowing she needed her time in her studio to herself, though he hoped that she was willing to be herself with him also.

On the main floor, he smiled and wondered if that was where she had been when her song timer had gone off the other day. Did she always come down the stairs singing and happy? He knew she must.

Sitting on the floor with Poppy, Chris held her hands so that she could wobble stand—she liked to do that. Even today, she was less wobbly and would try to take steps, usually twisting and falling to the ground in her attempt. Her tiny green pants were topped with a once-white shirt. Now it had odd, multicolored stains from lunch.

Looking at Agatha’s daughter, he could already see her in the baby’s eyes and nose. Their shared dark coloring was the most obvious, but she already had her cautious yet easy laugh that was all Agatha. In just three days, he knew that.

Poppy was giggling as she tried to crawl away from him. She had mastered crawling and was quick when she wanted to be. Suddenly, the door opened, and a blonde carrying a car seat walked into the house and stopped when she saw him.

He knew immediately that it was Sera, Agatha’s stepmom. Even if he had only seen her once, the baby seat in her arms was a dead giveaway.

“You,” she said without enthusiasm as she looked him over before her eyes landed on Poppy. Though she nearly smiled at the baby, she stopped herself and frowned at them both.

“Hi, I’m Chris Lowell,” he said, but he figured she already knew who he was by her greeting.

“Yes, I know. I’m Sera Dean, Agatha’s mother.” The woman wasn’t even ten years older than Agatha. But after knowing Agatha for as long as he had, he knew Agatha also felt like Sera was her mother, no matter her age.

“Agatha’s upstairs, drawing.”

“I don’t like this. I just want you to know that I do not like you or what you have done to her. She deserves so much better than you.” With that, she took her baby and left the room, heading for the stairs, ignoring Poppy as she went. Poppy, though, watched the woman with sudden attention.

Chris watched her go and wondered what he had done to Agatha that made this woman hate him already. What had Agatha told her?Nothing came to mind as Poppy got away from him as she tried to catch up with the woman, who wasn’t a fan of either of them.

It bothered him that she didn’t like him. Over the years, many people had disliked him, but none had been important to Agatha. Not one that could change Agatha’s mind about him, and that was what worried him the most. Losing her.

With Poppy back in his arms, he wondered how the conversation was going upstairs. Was Sera going to be as mad as Agatha thought that she was going to be? Or would she be happy to have Poppy in the family? He hoped it was the latter. Agatha already felt bad enough about the entire situation.