The air was still.
Soft jazz hummed through the small café beside the children's library. It was Tuesday, and she always came on Tuesdays.
Charlie knew because Patty told him—after two cups of coffee, a long silence, and a grudging "Don't screw this up."
So here he was.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTSwdBFMa5o
Heart pounding.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBcvX6I0q9S
Hands clammy.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDIBrmFWOAk
Notebook in his coat pocket.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTP7ZAbeUYH
The pink sticky note inside still felt like it weighed ten pounds.
And then—
There she was.
Peachy.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfGv6tzq6Y2
Hair up in a loose bun. Wearing a faded yellow dress and pink sneakers.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkDC5EGqtfT
She was seated on the floor with a group of toddlers, reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar with exaggerated expressions and tiny sound effects. The children giggled, leaning into her voice.
Charlie didn't breathe for a moment.
She was glowing.
Not like someone in love.20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMWZf1hKA8Y
But like someone... full of purpose.
Someone whole.
After the story ended, she looked up to gather the kids' attention—and froze.
Their eyes met.
Peachy blinked, mouth parting slightly.
She excused herself quietly from the kids' circle, murmured something to the staff, and stepped outside.
He followed her into the garden behind the library.
Neither of them said anything at first.
Then Charlie took the notebook out and held it up.
"You dropped this," he said softly.
Peachy nodded, fingers twisting nervously. "I didn't mean for you to find it. Not yet."
"So it was meant for me?" he asked, trying not to sound accusing, but failing.
She looked down. "Someday. Maybe. If you ever wondered."
He exhaled sharply, stepping closer. "You should've told me."
"I wanted to," she whispered. "But you were... done with me, Charlie. After that last talk, you made it clear."
"I was angry," he admitted. "Confused. You vanished without a word."
"You said we were nothing," she said quietly, the words like unraveling ribbon. "Like what we had didn't matter."
Charlie winced. "I didn't mean it."
"I know," she said. "But it still hurt."
Silence.
The wind rustled the bougainvillea vines.
He sat down on the stone bench. She stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself.
"Peachy..." he began, "When did you find out?"
"Right before I left," she replied. "I fainted during one of my shifts. Thought it was just stress or anemia. Turned out, surprise!—not just a low iron count."
He chuckled once, dry and disbelieving. "You were going to disappear."
"I had to protect myself," she said. "From hope. From being a burden. From asking for something you couldn't give."
Charlie buried his face in his hands for a moment.
"I didn't even give you the chance," she added, softer this time. "That's on me."
He looked up, voice low. "I wanted to be angry. At you. At everything. But I read your notes, Peachy."
Her lips trembled.
He continued, "They weren't about guilt. Or revenge. They were about... surviving. Trying. Loving anyway."
Peachy sat beside him slowly, still keeping space between them.
"I still think about what could've happened if I stayed," she admitted. "If I told you earlier. But maybe we weren't ready."
He nodded. "Maybe we're still not."
Another pause.
Then, with trembling hands, she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small photo.
A chubby baby girl, around six months old. Dimpled cheeks. Sleepy eyes. A single tuft of hair tied in a ridiculous pink ribbon.
"She's mine," Peachy said. "But she's yours, too."
Charlie stared. His heart stuttered.
"She looks like you," Peachy said with a weak smile. "But smiles like me."
He took the photo carefully, as if it might dissolve.
"What's her name?" he asked, voice hoarse.
"Clara."
He nodded. "Clara."
The name settled in his chest like a prayer.
"Can I meet her?" he asked, not demanding—just... hopeful.
Peachy looked at him for a long time. Searching.
Then she nodded once.
"Yes. But not as a hero. Not yet."
Charlie looked back, eyes full of something old and tender.
"I don't want to be a hero," he said. "Just... her dad. If you'll let me earn that."
And this time, when she smiled—it was real. A little broken, a little unsure. But real.
They sat together in silence as the sun dipped low, painting the sky with the same soft pink as her ink.
End of Chapter 17.
20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkkV0m1PlDy
