forty #2
She crossed the room and flopped onto the couch beside me, shoulders brushing mine. For a moment, she didn't say anything. Just sat there, breathing the same air, like she was easing me back into having someone next to me.
"I missed you," she said finally.
"Missed you too."
And I meant it.
For the first time in days, something inside me loosened. The walls I'd been building out of silence and blocked accounts didn't feel so necessary with her sitting here.
She turned toward me, one eyebrow arched. "So. You planning on telling me what's been going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?"
When I called asking Tati if I could stay with her I was in tears and she didn't ask any questions just told Seth to buy me a ticket.
I sighed, tucking my legs under me. "There's a lot, Tati. Too much."
"Okay," she said, easy. "So we don't do it all at once." She nudged my knee with hers. "Start with the smallest piece."
I stared past her at the blank TV, at our reflections floating ghostlike on the dark screen. "I left. Packed while he was gone. Took an Uber before the sun was up. Left the key on the counter."
Tati's mouth softened, but she didn't rush in with a pity noise or a platitude. "Okay."
"I went to Sam's before that though, and we—" I exhaled, laughless. "We said things."
"Mm." She tilted her head, that therapist face she did without meaning to. "She walked yesterday. I saw her. She looked... good. Strong. She asked about you." A beat. "I told her you were safe. That you needed space."
Guilt pricked, quick and useless. "Thanks."
She watched me a moment longer, then tipped her chin toward my phone on the coffee table. "And him?"
I swallowed. "He hasn't stopped calling. I haven't stopped not answering."
"That tracks." No judgment, just recognition. She stretched her arm along the back of the couch, fingers idly drumming. "You eating?"
I huffed. "Barely."
She stood like it hurt a little—which was new—and padded to the kitchen. Cupboard doors opened, shut. "I can do noodles. Or toast. Or both if we're feeling wild. No wonder you're not eating I need to go grocery shopping."
"I'm not hungry."
"Okay. I'm still cooking."
When she came back with a bowl, she didn't hand it to me. She set it on the table, sat down again, and for a while we just listened to it cool. Tati stared at the wall like there was a game on only she could see. I stared at the plate like it might tell my future if I looked hard enough.
"You look different," I said finally, because it had been tugging at me since she walked in—the softness under her glow, the careful way she sat.
Her eyes flicked to mine, then away. "Do I?"
"Yeah."
She held that a second. Then stood. "Wait here."
Tati disappeared down the hall to her bedroom. The pause stretched just long enough for my heart to start crawling up my throat. When she came back, she didn't sit. She stopped in front of me and pressed something small and folded into my palm.
It was warm from her hand.
I looked up at her, then down, and unfolded it.
Grainy black-and-white. The strange, cosmic blur of it. The little halo in the dark.
"Is that—"
"Yeah." Her voice was soft, steady. "It is."
I stared at the picture until my eyes stung. Somehow the room shifted in that breath—the air felt thicker, heavier with meaning. I looked up at her again and found this expression on her face I'd never seen before. Not just happy. Not just scared. Something holy and ordinary at the same time.
"How far?" I asked, my voice a rasp.
"Almost twelve weeks." A smile tugged and she let it. "We wanted to wait to tell people. I didn't want to say it over the phone. Felt wrong."
"Does Seth know?" I said, and it cracked a real smile out of me, small and wobbly.
"He tried to act cool," she said, rolling her eyes. "But he cried when I told him."
I laughed, and it surprised both of us. The sound hit the ceiling, bounced, came back gentler.
"How do you feel?" I asked. "Like... really?"
She sat again, tucking one leg under her. "Hungry. Tired. A little terrified. Really sure." She smoothed a hand over her stomach, not performative—instinct. "I don't know what kind of mom I'll be yet. But I know I want to try. And I know I want you here for it if you want to be."
The last sentence landed like a blanket over my shoulders. I looked down at the sonogram again. The tiny secret inside the static. Something starting.
"I'm happy for you," I said, and it came out rough because it was true and because truth scraped on the way out. "Like—really, really happy."
Her eyes glossed and she blinked it away, a smile pushing through. "Good. Because I was nervous to tell you. Not 'cause of you—'cause of everything else." She lifted a shoulder. "I know you're carrying a lot. Didn't want to add weight. Wanted to... I don't know. Make room."
I swallowed hard. "You just did."
She bumped my knee again. "Eat two bites and I'll shut up for five minutes."
I picked up the fork and obeyed. Tati watched me chew like I was her science experiment. "You're staying," she said, not asking. "And not just because the guest room is cute. Stay-stay. For as long as you need. We can move boxes. Make space. Whatever you want."
"Tati—"
"I'm serious." Her voice gentled. "No timelines. No 'what's next' speeches. You can crash. You can plan. You can do nothing. You can do everything. We're good."
Something in me unhooked. "Thank you."
"Always." She leaned back. "Also, for the record, I am not taking a single side in a thing. But I am on your side. Whatever that looks like, however it changes. If you wanna text him, I'll sit next to you while you do. If you want me to block him for you, give me the phone."
We sat in that soft, good silence for a while—the kind that doesn't press, just lives. Outside, a lawn mower started up three houses down. The cicadas tuned themselves. Somewhere, Seth's dryer buzzed from the laundry closet like a dragon clearing its throat.