Chapter 28
Abby
Thirty Weeks
"Son of a bitch!"
I've barely stepped through the door when Jack's voice damn near rattles the frames on the walls.
"God fucking dammit!"
"Jack?" I yell, hastily setting the grocery bags on the kitchen table. "Are you okay?"
All I hear in response is a loud thud. With my heart in my throat, I hurry toward the cacophony of clattering and cursing.
"Jack, are you o—" I start to repeat, but stop dead in my tracks when I finally see the cause of the commotion.
Jack is in the nursery, now empty save for a small pile of baby clothes and the old green velvet couch.
We spent most of last weekend clearing out the guest bedroom furniture, repainting the walls in a soft spring green and hanging two sets of curtains—the ugly utilitarian blackout curtains and the delicate lace ones I used to hide them.
And by that, I mean Jack cleared everything out and did all the painting, and I bossed him around.
But now, there's a new addition to the room.
Or I'm assuming there will be, I can't really tell what it is yet.
Right now, there's just piles of different lengths and shapes of wood, screws rolling across the floor in an outward pattern from an overturned ramekin, pages of an instruction manual crumpled into a ball, and Jack, with his back turned to me, hands gripping his hair as he lets out a growl of frustration.
"Hi, I'm home," I say softly, gingerly stepping across the floor, trying to avoid any rogue screws. "What's going on in here?"
He startles at the sound of my voice. Clearly he didn't hear me come in, or yell. Twice.
"Shit, you scared me," he gasps, dragging a hand down his face. "Sorry, I didn't think you'd be home for a few more hours."
"Something came up with one of their projects, so Ellie had to go do some crisis management," I say, picking up the instruction booklet and smoothing the pages out. "What are we working on?"
"I really wanted to have this done before you got home," he whines, collapsing backward onto the couch. "I wanted to surprise you."
I look at the manual in my hands, flipping it over in both directions until the picture on the front is right side up. It's the crib I picked out, the one Jack watched me spend hours searching for in every "Best Baby Cribs" article I could find.
"Did I black out and order this?" I ask, frowning in confusion. "When did it even get here?"
"No, you didn't," he says, pushing himself back to his feet with a groan. "I ordered it the day after you decided this was the one you wanted. I had it delivered to the station. Like I said," he mutters irritably. "It was supposed to be a surprise."
"Jack Robbit, this is too much," I say, my breath quickening. "You've already done so much for me, too much. And this thing is so expensive, holy shit. Let me pay—"
"You're not paying for shit," he interrupts. "This is a gift, Abby. For you and for Little One. And don't call me that."
"At least let me get a Task Rabbit or someone to come build it," I plead. "You already spent last weekend doing so much work, please, go enjoy your Saturday."
"Absolutely not," he says flatly. "This is my project, and I'm seeing it through."
He snatches the booklet from me, rifling through the contents with an increasingly frustrated look on his face.
"Is it that complicated?" I ask, wringing my hands.
"No," he huffs. "It's just in French."
I peek over the top of the pages to find that the instructions are, indeed, not in English.
"I was trying to see if I could figure it out from the pictures," he explains, tossing the unfortunately useless manual onto the couch. "Then I stepped backward onto the bowl I put the hardware in and tripped into the wall. Which I also need to fix."
I look behind us, opening the door wide enough to reveal a crater in the drywall.
"Was that from your head?" I gasp, whipping around to search him for any cuts or bruises.
"Shoulder," he says, rotating his right arm uncomfortably and scowling at the wall. "I didn't have time to catch myself, so I was completely deadweight. I'm lucky I didn't fall straight through it."
"Poor Jacky boy," I whine, reaching up to gently rub the sore area. "Your muscles are already tightening up."
"I'll have you know," he says incredulously. "My shoulders feel like that because I work out, not because of one minor encounter with some drywall."
He flexes the muscles beneath my hand, the fabric of his shirt straining against his broad shoulders. I snatch my hand back like I've been burned, and put some distance between us.
Jesus Christ. Is the rest of him that solid?
"Abby," he says, his voice taking on a lilting tone. "You're ogling me."
"I am not," I snap, crossing my arms across my chest. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Okay, sure," he says, grinning wickedly. "I forgot that the quickest way to heal a shoulder is to stare at it like it's the first meal you've had in weeks."
"You're being ridiculous," I scoff, furious at the heat in my cheeks undermining my protests.
He rotates his shoulder a few more times before stretching both arms above his head.
When he does, the hem of his t-shirt lifts, revealing a few inches of skin above his waistband.
Even from that tiny sliver I can see the evidence of impressive abs, and a muscular V shape that dips below his waistline, answering my question.
Apparently the rest of him is that solid.
Again I say—Jesus Christ.
"You're doing it again," he hums, smoothing the front of his shirt down and retrieving the instructions from the couch.
"Shut up," I grumble, cheeks burning even more furiously.
I know he did that shit on purpose.
Desperate to gain some control of this situation, I throw out a cheap shot.
"At least I didn't walk in on you naked," I say, feeling incredibly smug when he chokes on absolutely nothing. "I mean, if we're going to talk about staring problems—"
"Alright, alright," he yells, raising his hands in surrender. "We can just call it even. Can I build you a crib now?"
"Well I'd hardly call it even," I say, relishing in my victory. "But I suppose it'll do. Now make sure Little One has somewhere to sleep."
After scouring the internet, we finally find a Reddit thread with grainy photos of the instruction manual in English.
I sit cross-legged on the couch, trying to zoom in on the four pixels available to us, calling out instructions as I decipher them.
I watch him work—not ogle, watch—as the indistinguishable piles of wood transform into the most perfect crib I've ever seen.
"That should do it," he grunts, tightening the last bolt and giving it a good shake. "What do you think, mom?"
"I think it's perfect," I whisper, tears welling in my eyes.
I know I'm having a baby—doctor appointments, ultrasound photos, and a dozen pair of jeans that no longer fit me are proof of that.
But something about seeing the crib, knowing it won't be empty for long, makes this feel infinitely more real.
"Thank you Jack," I say tearfully, wrapping my arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. "I love it."
"You got it, pretty girl," he says softly, his hands gently rubbing my arms before interlocking his arms behind my shoulders. "I'm glad it's what you wanted."
"You still shouldn't have done it," I grumble, poking him in the ribs. "You've already given us so much."
"All I've given you is a secondhand baby mobile," he argues. "I feel like I've actually shown a lot of restraint, thank you very much."
I chuckle, stepping out of his hold to run my hands along the grain of the mahogany banister. Before long, my sweet baby girl will lay on this mattress, watching that secondhand mobile twirling above her.
I want to argue with him. How do I even begin to explain it?
The things he's given me aren't measurable, or tangible, but they're worth more than a thousand mahogany cribs.
He's given me space to grieve, but also a place to make sure I'm not doing it alone.
He's given his time, his care, his attention.
It feels like he's given me himself, slowly, piece-by-piece, from the first day I told him about Little One.
It's the most wonderful thing anyone could possibly give me.
So why do I feel scared to death?
The beginnings of panic start to rise in my chest, my hand involuntarily fluttering to my collarbone, fiddling anxiously with my necklace.
Should he be doing that? Should I be letting him? Should we stop…whatever this is? Before it's gone too far? What even is this? What do you call it when your husband dies and your best friend moves in to take care of you while you deal with being both a widow and a mom?
I don't know. Everything in my life has been uncharted territory for months, and it's been scary, and overwhelming, but this has always been a good thing. Jack has always been a good thing.
You're freaking out over nothing. Calm down.
"I'm going to go clean up," he says, patting me on the shoulder before exiting the room.
All Jack Robb does is give. To his family, his friends, at the station, and to me, most of all. He never complains, he never gets angry, he never asks for anything in return. A person can only keep that up for so long.
What happens when he has nothing left to give? What happens when he wakes up one day and realizes he's empty?
What happens if that's my fault?
I sit slowly on the velvet cushions, dropping my head into my hands.
What happens if he leaves, too?