Chapter 10
AND HE MEAL PREPS
Barry was watching clips of a hockey game on his iPad, hunched over the kitchen island eating carrot chips, when Kate dropped me off after lunch on Monday. He wore a Columbus hoodie, and the house smelled a bit like his body soap.
“Hi,” I said. I dropped my keys on the counter before picking them back up and hanging them from the key hook. Having him in the house made me want to be more orderly.
“Hey. Have you eaten?”
“Mhm.” In an effort to draw out my time away from home, I had convinced Kate to make us omelets. I then walked Greg with her, claiming I needed the productive exercise. She was thrilled that I was “prioritizing movement.”
“Great,” Barry said. I nodded and so did he, and it was so uncomfortable, quietly standing in my own kitchen like this. “Can we talk?”
I clicked my tongue, which was less casual than I’d hoped.
“Can I shower first?” I asked.
“Oh,” Barry looked at me again like he was just now noticing the way hair matted to my forehead after sweating all morning. I hadn’t showered before leaving, even, so I smelled bad, bad, bad. “Yeah, of course.”
“Great.” I sent some approximation of finger guns at him, passed away immediately, and then retreated to the bathroom.
I thudded my fist against my forehead and got undressed until remembering I’d forgotten my clothes.
I got redressed, because the thought of Barry seeing me in a towel was stressful, and retrieved a new, mostly clean outfit.
I never knew what to expect with Barry. He was liable to be vulnerable at any moment, or helpful, or both.
In the shower, I did a deep condition on my hair, shaved my legs, then stood under the hot water scrolling on my phone until my social media timed out for the rest of the day.
I thought about clicking “Remind me in 15 minutes,” but decided better of it and turned off the water.
I found other things to do, though. I had to moisturize everywhere, use the stomach cream, brush my teeth, floss, mouthwash, lustrous hair cream—I almost started clipping my nails, but even I could admit I was being ridiculous.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Barry was still at the island, but now he had an open container of a colorful veggie salad on the counter next to him.
He also wore white wired headphones, very focused on what he was watching, shoulders hunched just so as he squinted at the screen, distractedly took a bite of salad, chewed.
Junior meowed at my feet and brushed his body against my ankles until I leaned down to pet him.
I picked him up and brought him with me.
“Okay,” I said, but Barry didn’t hear me.
Or even see me, apparently, because even though I was standing right in the doorway, he stayed glued to his screen.
He scratched his neck and reached for the salad without looking, missing first, and then getting his fork.
I watched his lips as he chewed but then decided I shouldn’t look at his lips ever again and turned my attention to his forehead instead.
It was another minute before he looked up from his iPad, and he jumped when he did.
“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.
“Just got here,” I said. “What are you working on?”
Barry exhaled and wrapped the headphones around his fingers. “Watching game film for tomorrow.”
“Why?” Is this what they did on the big screens in the room with the nice couches outside the locker room? Strategically watch other hockey games?
“Trying to get familiar with their play style,” Barry said. This meant nothing to me and my face must’ve said as much because he smiled. “If I can know what the other players are good at, I can try to account for them when I play against them.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize there was so much strategy involved.” I put Junior on the counter and started filling up my water bottle. “Is it fun for you?”
“Not really,” Barry admitted. I twisted the faucet and leaned on the counter. “Playing is fun, sometimes. Often. It was my dream as a kid, you know? Now I still love it, but it’s more tiring. I’m not nineteen anymore.”
“You were playing professional hockey as a teenager?”
“Yeah, dream come true. I couldn’t believe it.”
I couldn’t help but think of what I was doing as a nineteen-year-old.
I was working part time for Harvey Janitorial, going to school, helping take care of my grandma after hip surgery.
I wasn’t exceptionally good at anything, except maybe making Pinterest boards and trying new banana bread recipes.
He was so accomplished and had been so since he was a teenager.
“Hannah?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you go?” Barry said. His lips were upturned, but I reminded myself that I wasn’t looking at his lips anymore and instead focused on where my hair sat over my shoulder. The ends were still dripping, and I watched as a drop fell onto my sweatshirt.
“What will you do when you retire?” I asked instead of answering.
“Age-old question. I’m embarrassed to admit that I have no idea.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. I bet I can get you a job at Harvey Janitorial if your millions run out.”
“How kind of you.” Barry grinned.
“Yeah, well, father of my baby and all. Can’t be a scrub, it would be bad for my reputation.”
“Well, of course.” Barry shook his head, laughing, before locking his iPad and rotating on the stool to face me fully. I still leaned against the countertop, and he pulled out the other stool and patted the seat twice.
Sitting right next to him felt intimate, but I’d stalled enough, and if he was going to tell me that this arrangement wasn’t going to work out, I wanted him to tell me now.
On the island between us was his mostly eaten salad (kale, chicken, and fruit, maybe? Mandarin oranges? I think I saw some almond slices too) and the jigsaw-themed salt and pepper shakers that Ron gave me for Christmas last year.
Barry picked up the salt one and ran his fingers over the curved shape.
“You have a thing for puzzles.” He put the saltshaker down, sliding it to fit into the side of the pepper. “I didn’t know that about you.”
“What do you know about me?”
Barry leaned closer, just barely, still watching the ceramic pieces. “I know all sorts of things. You’re a janitor, you like strawberry ice cream with a sugar cone, always a sugar cone.”
I couldn’t help but stare at his face as he spoke, inching toward me.
“You were fired from your last job, you have a degree in communications from Utah State.” He glanced at my diploma, semi proudly displayed on my gallery wall.
“Your full name is Hannah Belle Harvey and your sister’s name is Katelyn, but you call her Kate.
And you have a little mole on your right side, just under your ribs. ”
I reached for my water, unscrewing the lid and taking a long drink. “Okay, none of that.”
“What?”
“No flirting.” I motioned to his face and the space between us. “No romantic stuff.”
“Why not?”
I heaved a big breath and then looked at him directly. “Did you forget that I’m pregnant?”
“No?” Barry looked lost. “Did you forget how you got pregnant? I still like you, and if anything, the baby is even more reason to try, right? I’d marry you, even. If you wanted. That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
I laughed then, but it was more of a squeak. As far as proposals went, this whole “I’m beholden to marrying you because I made you pregnant” thing was about as romantic as it could get. Super promising.
“You would marry a stranger because you knocked her up? What year is this?” I’d thought him being over thirty meant he’d have better judgment, fully developed frontal cortex and all that, but this was obviously not the case.
“You’re not really a stranger,” Barry objected. I stood from the stool and paced back and forth in the little kitchen for a few moments, his eyes following me as I went.
“What’s my favorite color?” I asked.
“Green?” he guessed, and it was a very good guess, but proved only that he’d spent more than five minutes in my home—which abounded in green things. Greg Junior still sat on the counter, now spread out on Barry’s iPad, nudging Barry’s hand for scratches, which he gave absentmindedly.
I stopped pacing.
“What’s my religious denomination?”
Barry’s mouth opened then closed. It was a trick question—I was baptized Catholic but had no recollection of the last time I stepped into a church for something other than a funeral or a wedding.
“God, Barry, what if you married me and then I told you I wanted twelve kids? One every eleven months for the next decade.”
“Do you?” Barry asked.
“No!” I was back to pacing. “But you can’t spontaneously jump into things like that. I could be anyone, you could be anyone.”
“I’d have wanted to date you if you hadn’t ghosted me in May. Or at least would have seen where things went,” Barry defended. “Did you even like me?”
I guffawed and reeled back. “Of course I liked you, are you kidding?”
“You never texted. Even before you were pregnant.”
“I—I couldn’t, okay?” I sealed my lips into a line and shrugged, no further explanation available. After a silent moment when it became apparent I had nothing else to give, Barry shut his eyes and exhaled.
“We could have been two months deep into a lovely long-distance relationship when you found out you were pregnant, if you weren’t, what? Scared of commitment?”
“Woah,” I said.
Barry already looked penitent.
“I didn’t mean that.”