Chapter 14 #2
She laughs, “If that is true, I assume you’re in therapy for your bruised ego, because,” she stops and laughs again.
“I hope your tits sag you rotten twat,” he grumbles, making her laugh even harder.
“This is brilliant, utterly brilliant.” She laughs harder now.
I wake smelling his scent — vetiver, clean skin, and winter— and feeling his presence, and even though I was flattered by what he said to her, I don’t trust any of this. I keep my eyes closed.
Then I feel hair tickle my belly that is somehow exposed, and lips press against my skin, my stomach.
“Schlaf gut, mein kleines Herz.”
Sleep well, my little heart.
And if that wasn’t enough to make a very logical woman swoon, I hear him move around the room, the bed dips, and he whispers, “Much cooler,” and then, “Gute Nacht, Schatz.”
And then he’s gone.
Eventually, I drift.
But sleep doesn’t last. I wake up hours later, restless. I feel Lucy’s head, she’s warm but not hot. Three days of this is going to be hell, I stare at the ceiling, tracing the lines of light that leak through the gap in the curtains.
I listen for the sound of him in another room, but nothing. Maybe he’s on a run, or already gone to the arena, or maybe he’s just out there, awake like me, wondering how to make sense of the last twenty-four hours.
I sit up carefully and slip out of Lucy’s room and head to mine to use the bathroom, finding my hair a tangled mess, cheeks flushed, eyes shadowed, and still in yesterday’s clothes. I splash cold water on my face and remember I need crackers; they helped yesterday. If I eat a few before.
I hesitate for a second, then tiptoe down the hall, pausing just short of the doorway when I see him. His back is turned. I watch the set of his shoulders, the way he moves, and I feel an odd flutter.
I’m going to start documenting when it happens, because it feels like it’s when he’s in the same proximity.
He turns, mugs in hand, and sees me watching from the shadow of the hallway.
“Morning,” he says, voice softer than I think I’ve ever heard it.
“Morning,” I echo as I glance at the clock, “You’re up early.”
He shifts one mug to his other hand, like he’s been caught mid-thought.
“I didn’t want to wake you or Lucy,” he finishes. “I made a list last night and placed an order.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I murmur, stepping fully into the kitchen. The floor is cool under my feet.
He gestures to the counter. It is a lot.
“For Lucy,” he says, slipping into that calm, precise tone that feels like armor.
“Children’s acetaminophen and ibuprofen.
Pedialyte freezer pops. The good ones. Plain toast bread, saltines, applesauce, and bananas.
Soup, a wide variety of them, all would work well with toasted cheese. ” He smirks. “She loves cheese.”
“The WIC program. Free cheese. Cheese sticks are a self-serve meal.” She says, scowling down at the granite countertop.
“I have no idea how she birthed the two of you.” He shakes his head and points back to the counter, “Humidifier. Two thermometers.”
“Two? We already have one.”
“We do not gamble with fevers in this house.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a small box. “And this, a video baby monitor.”
My shoulders tense immediately.
“Before you say anything,” he adds, anticipating it, “this is not overstepping. It is about being comfortable if you feel distance is a good idea. If Lucy feels well enough so that you can sleep in your own room, this lets you stay out of her space so you do not get sick.”
“She is not going to like that,” I say.
“And neither will you,” he agrees calmly.
“She’d sneak into my bed anyway.”
“Possibly,” he concedes. “But with less coughing directly into your face if this turns into a cold.”
I narrow my eyes, and he moves on quickly, like he knows exactly where my tolerance ends.
“And immunity boosters,” he says, pointing to a plethora of bottles, “that are safe for … you. Lucy is sick, and I do not want you sick.” I cross my arms. “All optional.”
That helps. A little.
He pulls more boxes from a bag and sets them on the counter.
“And tea,” he says. “For Lucy, chamomile with honey sticks and Throat Coat. Pediatric-safe.”
My chest tightens despite my best effort not to feel… supported. First the girls and now him. It’s a lot.
“And for you,” he continues, quieter now. “Ginger-lemon. Peppermint. Raspberry leaf. Vitamins,” he says, and I look at the bottle that says, prenatal vitamins. “All safe. I checked.”
My breath stutters.
Then he sets down a tin and then several more. Elegant. Expensive. Absurd. “And for Anneliese.”
I blink.
“She’s here a week, and she drinks tea like it is a competitive sport.” I don’t like that, not at all. “Black tea in the morning. Darjeeling or Assam. Floral in the afternoon. Evening, oolong or rooibos. No chamomile. She claims it tastes like despair.”
“She is—”
“She is deeply unlikeable, unapologetically,” he replies. “But will be helpful with the families. She’s important to me. She will keep her distance from Lucy and you, she knows there are boundaries.”
“She… knows —”
“You are with child,” he says quietly.
The words land hard.
“I didn’t know,” I admit.
“I know,” he points to the Band-Aid where blood was drawn, and I quickly take it off. “You just found out.” He turns toward the stove and quickly changes the subject. “Eggs?”
“Lucy does not like Eggs Benedict or poached eggs.”
“So scrambled and sunny side up,” he shakes his head and releases an exaggerated sigh. “So boring.”
My eyes stay on the crackers for a second too long, and then I see a massive wall calendar. I was going to buy one, but thought better about spending that thirty dollars. It’s Color-coded and already has names written neatly across the top.
Hildy.
Lucy.
Lenzin.
Hank.
“I thought Lucy might appreciate knowing when things are happening,” he says. “And for who.”
“She will,” I say quietly, eyes heating up. “She really will.”
“There’s no game tonight,” he steps forward, and lifts my chin so our eyes meet. “Tomorrow night, yes. Then nothing until Saturday.” He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Pick an evening that we can talk. Properly. No fevers. No pretending this is nothing or temporary.”
I look at the names on the list, mine and his, Lucy’s in between, and how much I’d like that… for Lucy.
“Wednesday,” I say.