5. Az
— ? —
Az
Sixteen Weeks
The baby furniture store on Melrose smells like fresh sawdust and new beginnings, and I’m standing in front of a display crib trying not to cry in public, which is becoming a distressingly regular occurrence.
Stuck in shoot go without me get whatever you want
That was the text. No apology, no “I’ll make it up to you,” no acknowledgment that this was supposed to be our thing, picking out our daughter’s crib together, imagining her sleeping in it, being actual parents instead of two people who share a mortgage and occasionally a bed.
I put my phone away and focus on the cribs.
There’s one in the corner that catches my eye, natural maple, clean simple lines, converts to a toddler bed when she outgrows it. It’s exactly what I want. Functional. Beautiful. Not trying too hard.
“That’s our most popular model,” the saleswoman says, appearing at my elbow like a commission-hungry ghost. “Solid construction, gorgeous grain. It’ll last through multiple children.”
Multiple children. The thought makes my chest ache. I can barely get my husband to show up for one.
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“Wonderful! Delivery or same-day pickup?”
“Delivery.” I don’t have anyone to help me load it, and even if I did, I don’t want to spend the next hour wrestling furniture into my car while strangers watch a pregnant woman struggle. “Can you send it this evening?”
“Absolutely. Let me get that started for you.”
She leads me to the register, and I’m pulling out my wallet when I hear it, that voice, that sunny, relentless voice that has started appearing in my nightmares.
“Az! Oh my gosh, I thought that was you!”
Brynn materializes beside me like she was summoned by some dark magic, blonde hair perfectly curled, wearing workout clothes that probably cost more than my first car.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out sharper than I intended, but I can’t make myself care.
“Shopping! Well, not shopping shopping.” She laughs, reaching into her oversized purse and pulling out a black card. “Eli gave me his card. He said you’d probably need help, so-”
“He gave you his card.”
“Yeah, and like, basically a job? To make sure you don’t lack anything.” She says it like it’s perfectly normal, like husbands routinely outsource their pregnant wives’ needs to their female tour managers. “He’s so sweet, honestly. He was really upset about missing this.”
“Was he.”
“Totally! He called me last night and was like, ‘Brynn, please make sure she gets whatever she needs, I feel so bad’, and I was like, ‘Don’t worry, I got this.’ So.” She gestures to herself, ta-da. “I got this.”
The saleswoman is watching us with the barely concealed interest of someone who senses drama. I take a breath, slide my own card across the counter.
“I’m paying for my own furniture.”
“But Eli wanted-”
“I know what Eli wanted. I’m paying anyway.”
Brynn’s smile flickers, just for a second. Then it’s back, bright as ever. “Totally your call! I just wanted to make sure you knew the offer was there.”
“I know.”
The saleswoman processes my card. I sign the receipt.
I get a confirmation number for delivery this evening.
The whole transaction takes maybe four minutes, and Brynn hovers at my elbow the entire time, making comments about how cute the crib is, how perfect it’ll look in the nursery, how she can’t wait to help set everything up.
I don’t respond to any of it.
“Well,” I say, collecting my receipt. “I should go.”
“Let me walk you out!”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s really no trouble.” She falls into step beside me, and I can feel her watching me, cataloging something. “You know, Az, I just want you to know, I really am trying to help. I know it probably seems like I’m overstepping, but Eli’s my best friend, and you’re his wife, and this baby is-”
I stop walking. We’re in the middle of the store, surrounded by rocking chairs and changing tables and all the trappings of a parenthood I’m apparently meant to navigate alone.
“Brynn.”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you here?”
She blinks. “I told you, Eli asked me to-”
“No. Why are you here? At the same store, at the same time, with his credit card and a speech about how much he cares? How did you know where I’d be?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes sharpen behind the smile. “He mentioned you were going shopping today. I figured Melrose, because that’s where the good boutiques are. Lucky guess?”
The shopping appointment is on the calendar she manages. It wasn’t a guess.
“Goodbye, Brynn.”
I walk out before she can respond.
In my car, I call Eli.
He answers on the third ring, and I can hear the chaos of a photo shoot in the background, people shouting directions, music thumping. “Hey, babe. You get the crib?”
“I got the crib.” My hands are shaking on the steering wheel. “Why did you give Brynn your credit card?”
“What?”
“She showed up at the store. Said you gave her your card and told her to make sure I don’t lack anything.”
Silence. Then: “Yeah, I did. I felt bad about missing it, and I knew she was free today, so I thought-”
“Why didn’t you give the card to me?”
“You have your own cards.”
“That’s not the point, Eli.” I close my eyes. “The point is you sent her instead of coming yourself. The point is she showed up like… like she was doing me a favor. Like she’s some kind of pregnancy concierge.”
“She volunteered. She wanted to help.”
“She’s everywhere.” I grip the steering wheel. “Every appointment, every milestone, every single thing that’s supposed to be ours, she’s there. And you keep letting her in.”
“She’s trying to be supportive. She’s like a sister to me, you know that-”
“She’s not your sister.” I’m almost shouting now, and I don’t care. “Stop putting her where you should be standing. You’re an absent husband and you’re about to be an absent father, and she is not your replacement. She’s not your… your pity offering so you don’t have to feel guilty.”
The silence stretches. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is that I picked out our daughter’s crib alone because you couldn’t leave a photo shoot for two hours.”
More silence. Then: “I have to go. They’re calling me back.”
“Eli-”
“I’ll call you tonight. We’ll talk about this.”
He hangs up.
I sit in the parking lot for a long time, watching other couples walk in and out of the store together. Holding hands, pointing at things, being actual partners.
My phone buzzes. Text from him:
I love you. I’m sorry. We’ll figure this out.
I don’t respond.
***
The delivery is scheduled for six that evening.
I spend the afternoon cleaning out the nursery, which is really just the guest room we never use, still full of boxes from our move three years ago.
I find our wedding album, the one I made as a joke filled with unflattering photos of both of us.
I find a stack of love letters Eli wrote me during his first tour, because he liked sending actual paper.
Az…
The hotel room is ugly and the coffee is bad and the other guys on the bus keep playing country music to annoy me.
But none of it matters because I talked to you for ten minutes last night and you told me about the lady who wanted yellow roses for her own funeral and you laughed so hard you snorted, and now I’m lying in this ugly hotel room smiling at the ceiling like an idiot.
I miss you. I love you. I’ll be home in eighteen days.
Your husband (still weird to write that)
I press the letter against my chest and try to remember the man who wrote it.
At six, the delivery truck arrives.
I meet the driver at the door, sign the paperwork, and watch as he unloads a box from the back of the truck. It’s not the right size.
“Hang on,” I say. “I ordered the maple convertible. Model number…” I check my receipt. “7742.”
The driver checks his clipboard. “Says here white Victorian with canopy attachment. Model 8019.”
“That’s not what I ordered.”
He shrugs. “Lady who called this afternoon said there was a change. Upgraded the order, confirmed the delivery address and everything.”
Lady who called.
I know before I even look.
The driver pulls the rest of the packaging away, and there it is, an ornate white crib with carved details and a canopy frame, the exact opposite of everything I wanted. Tucked into the mattress is a card in familiar handwriting:
Trust me, this one’s safer! Xx B
“There’s been a mistake,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “I need you to take this back.”
“Ma’am, the order’s paid for-”
“I don’t care. This isn’t what I purchased. Someone changed my order without my permission, and I want the order refunded.”
The driver looks uncomfortable. “I’ll have to call my manager.”
“Call whoever you need to call.”
While he’s on the phone, I take a photo of the card. Then I take a photo of the crib. Then I call the store directly and ask to speak to whoever processed the modification this afternoon.
“Let me check the notes,” the saleswoman says. “Okay, yes, someone called after lunch claiming to be your assistant. Said you’d changed your mind and wanted to upgrade to the Victorian model. She had your order number and your address, so we assumed-”
“She’s not my assistant. She had no authority to change anything. I want this order canceled, the substitute crib returned, and my original purchase refunded too.”
There’s typing on the other end. “I can process that refund right now, for both orders. I’m so sorry for the confusion.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and turn to the delivery driver, who’s still holding his clipboard like a shield.
“You can take it back,” I say. “The order’s been canceled.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Take it all back.”
He loads the white crib back into the truck. I close the door.