32. Jaymie
Jaymie
I’d never lived with anyone before.
Not like this.
I’d had roommates, sure, guys with hockey gear that smelled like dead animals and the emotional intelligence of drywall. But this was different. Mallory wasn’t just in my apartment. She became part of it.
Her presence was everywhere—her book on the armrest, her slippers by the door, her lemon-ginger tea in the cupboard I used to keep empty.
I found bobby pins on the bathroom sink and pregnancy tea on the top shelf of the fridge, wedged between the mustard and a backup carton of oat milk I’d bought on instinct.
Two weeks in, and the place already felt like us.
She’d been mostly good about bedrest, reluctantly obedient. She took it like a punishment she didn’t quite believe she deserved. So I made it my job to keep her occupied. Books, snacks, warm socks straight from the dryer. Whatever I could do.
Her sister Dakota video called her nearly every afternoon, and I knew not to hover then. I used that time to make dinner, refill her absurd gallon water bottle, and Google whether it was normal for a baby to get the hiccups this much. (Apparently yes. Still weird.)
Tonight was pasta night. Mallory liked lemon.
She wouldn’t say it out loud, but I’d caught the way she lingered over the citrus aisle that day I took her to the doctor.
So now everything I cooked had at least one lemon involved, just in case it earned me that soft little noise she made when something tasted just right.
She was already curled up on the couch when I brought in the bowls. Her legs were tucked sideways, the hem of her sleep shorts brushing her thighs, one hand absently rubbing her belly. She looked… peaceful.
Her hair was up in a messy bun, bluelight glasses sliding down her nose, and she was wearing one of my old t-shirts that r ead Lake Champlain Hockey Camp 2014 in peeling white letters.
I was in so much trouble.
“Smells like carbs,” she said as I set the bowls on the coffee table.
“Lemon pasta with grilled chicken and the world’s most overcooked broccoli. Don’t get your hopes up.”
She raised a brow. “You say that like you didn’t already test three bites in the kitchen and moan dramatically into the fridge.”
I choked on a laugh. “That was a private moment.”
“Sure it was.”
We started eating, side by side on the couch, the glow of the floor lamp casting everything in gold. She nudged her knee into mine when she caught me staring at her water bottle.
“What?”
“You haven’t had your third refill today,” I said.
“You’re keeping count?”
“Of course I’m keeping count,” I said, nudging her back. “It’s part of the Jaymie Approved Bedrest Compliance Program. JABCP for short. Hydration is key.”
She rolled her eyes, but took a long sip. “Happy?”
“Delirious.”
We kept eating in a comfortable silence, the kind that only happened when you didn’t have to fill space to feel okay.
She looked tired tonight. Not sick-tired—just heavy. Her eyes lingered on nothing. Her fingers traced patterns on the blanket like her thoughts were far away.
“You doing okay?” I asked, gentling my voice.
She nodded, then paused. “I think so. Just… everything feels slower now. I’m not used to stillness.”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re doing a good job.”
She looked at me, surprised. “You think so?”
“Yeah. You’re not even glaring at me when I remind you to drink water anymore.”
She smiled, small and real.
I didn’t mean to say it.
I really didn’t.
But then she leaned over, bumping her shoulder into mine, and said, “Thanks for taking care of me,” in this quiet, grateful way, and suddenly my chest was too full, and my brain short-circuited, and—
“I love you.”
The words slipped out like I’d been holding them in my mouth too long and they escaped before I could catch them.
Mallory froze.
I froze harder.
She blinked once. Then very deliberately picked up a broccoli floret and popped it into her mouth.
“This is actually not overcooked,” she said.
I stared at her, heart slamming. “Mallory.”
She chewed. Swallowed. Smiled, too casual. “Mm?”
“I didn’t mean to say it like. Shit. I mean, I did, but not to, like—pressure you, or make you uncomfortable, or—"
She reached for her water and took a sip like we were talking about the weather.
“I know,” she said gently. “It’s okay.”
I stared at her like she’d just announced she was joining the space program.
“You’re not freaking out?”
“I’m processing.”
I watched her for another long moment. “Do I need to go sit in the other room and scream into a pillow?”
“No,” she said, softening. “But I might ask you to finish the dishes later so I can think.”
“Deal.”
She smiled at me again, tired and kind, and somehow more than she was a second ago.
We didn’t talk about it again.
But that night, after she fell asleep on my shoulder while we watched reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, I stared at the ceiling long after the credits rolled, thinking about the way she’d said processing and wondering what the hell that meant.
And what would happen when she finished.