37. Arsen
37
ARSEN
“Where in the fuck is that little bastard?” I scramble around on my knees, searching for a screw I’m not even sure exists.
Or maybe it does exist, and not only will the shelf I just built for my daughter fall apart in the middle of the night and bury her in her crib, but she’ll eventually find the screw in the carpet and swallow it.
Dominik and Kira have a woodsy wonderland filled with diapers and pacifiers and whatever the hell else a baby needs. Meanwhile, I’ve got a death trap filled with loose screws.
Grade-A parenting, Dad. Nice work.
“Ah-ha. Got ya, motherfucker.” I snatch the screw up from where it rolled under the crib and finish assembling the shelf.
When it’s ready, I hang it in the corner and start pulling supplies out of the closet. Boxes and boxes of diapers and wipes and onesies.
I fill the shelf, but she’ll need more. Babies go through… a lot of diapers per day. Probably. Five? Twenty? I’m running through a list of supplies in my head when the door opens.
“Arsen…?” Polina is in a long dressing gown, blinking against the brightness.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She scans over the chaos of the room. “You’re setting the nursery up now? It’s late.”
I know. That’s the problem.
“The baby is due in a few weeks. I should have done all this ages ago.”
I ordered everything, but then it just sat in this room, untouched. I thought maybe I’d tell Laila about it, let her design the nursery. But the time never seemed right, and now, it’s too late.
I waited too long.
“I didn’t even think about the walls.” The blank white walls feel like a jail cell. I can’t believe I didn’t order wallpaper or hire painters. Is there still time? How long are paint fumes dangerous?
“What was that?” Polina asks.
I wave her off. “Go back to bed. It’s not important.”
“Is this why you came back from Dominik’s dinner early? If so, it seems like it might be pretty important.”
After dessert, Kira was talking about pulling out a game or pouring Dom and me another drink while she and Laila made tea. It’s been years since we’ve let one drink turn into two and three, laughing and drinking until the sun came up. But the longer I sat there, the more I could feel the countdown hanging over my head.
Instead, I stood and offered Laila my hand. “We have to go.”
Her face fell, but Laila let me pull her to her feet. Her hand in mine seared my skin the same way her fingers on my thigh had. The same way her touch always does.
I can still feel it even though we’ve been home for hours.
“Did you get everything on the list I gave you?” I ask suddenly.
“Months ago,” Polina says calmly. “Just like you asked.”
“Well, double up on everything. I want extra.”
Polina moves into the center of the room, her hands on her hips. She reminds me so much of Mom sometimes that it hurts. “Maybe you should get some rest, too.”
“I’m fine. I won’t be able to sleep until this room is sorted.”
“You have time.”
I shake my head. “Everyone thinks that. Until there’s no time left.”
“We’re talking about a baby here, Arsen. No matter how prepared you are, you’re never prepared enough.”
My jaw clenches as I turn towards the windows. “Goodnight, Polina.”
She accepts my dismissal with a sigh and pads quietly out of the nursery.
She’s not wrong, though—I should go to sleep. Exhaustion tugs at my shoulders, but I’m here and making progress, and I don’t want to stop. It’s not solely because Laila is waiting for me in my bed, but that’s not an insignificant part of why I just keep moving.
I tug my sweaty shirt over my head and toss it to the floor, then get back to work.
I’ve just decided that the crib would be safer if I moved it further from the window when the door squeaks open.
I add “oil the hinges” to my mental to-do list. “I told you to go to bed, Polina.”
“I think she did.”
I stiffen, but keep working. I don’t turn around.
Still, Laila whispers, her voice closer than it was a second ago. “I didn’t realize… You already have everything she needs.”
“Not even close.” I get to my feet. “I’m ordering more.”
“More of what? How much more stuff could a newborn need?”
“I like to be prepared.” I make the mistake of turning to her. Her eyes slip to my exposed chest and the map of scars across my skin.
“Is that why you have all those survivalist kits squirreled away all over the house? Because you like to be prepared?”
I choose to ignore that. “You should be in bed.”
“I can’t sleep.” She hesitates, her fingers sliding up and down the door frame. “Arsen, may I come in?”
A part of me wants to turn her down, send her off to bed, and leave this one corner of the house untouched by thoughts of Laila.
Another greedy part of me wants to see her here. I want her to take up space, leaving behind her scent and her memory.
My greed wins out.
“Be my guest.”
I watch her make a slow circle around the room, running her hand over the crib and along the shelf I just built. Finally, she stops in front of me. “She doesn’t need anything else, Arsen. You’ve thought of everything.”
“It’s not enough.”
“What are you afraid of?” Her eyes fall to the scar in the center of my chest. “I can tell that something— Tonight at dinner, something upset you. Was it about the nursery?”
I take a step back. “Nothing upset me.”
“Fine. New question: how did you get these scars?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Her jaw shifts and her cheeks redden. “At least, not right now. I have time if you want to talk.”
“I’m not looking for a shoulder to cry on, Laila. I’m not looking for a friend, either.”
“I’m not your friend,” she snaps. “But I am your wife.”
Fuck me—my decisions don’t usually bite me in the ass quite this fast, but it was a mistake letting her come in here. I can already picture her in the rocking chair in the corner. I can see her laying our daughter in the crib. I can see her sitting on the window seat, nursing our baby.
When I don’t respond, Laila starts for the door.
I think she’s going to leave, and I’m torn between breathing a sigh of relief and yanking her back in.
Then she stops and turns back to me.
“I know this isn’t real, Arsen. You’re not really my husband, and I’m not really your wife. But—” She rests her hands on her stomach, cradling our daughter. “You can still tell me things. You can let me in.”
I don’t respond, my jaw working back and forth in an effort to keep myself from articulating all the things I refuse to say out loud.
I can’t let you in.
I can’t let you in because I can’t keep you.
“The nursery is beautiful,” Laila says softly as she pulls the door closed behind her.