Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
NATHAN
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days of silence, broken only by polite texts about doctor's appointments and baby preparations.
Twenty-one days of sleeping in the guest room bed that still smells like her shampoo because I can't bring myself to wash the pillowcase.
Three weeks of staring at my color-coded calendar and realizing that without Avery's photography time blocked out in green, the whole thing looks like a spreadsheet.
I stand outside her new apartment—above the bar, just like she said—holding a bag of Thai food that's getting cold and a folder of paperwork that might be the stupidest thing I've ever done.
The building looks like it's held together by duct tape and questionable electrical wiring.
A neon sign flickers in the window below, advertising cheap beer and pool tournaments every Tuesday.
This is where she chose to live instead of staying with me.
The realization stings. But underneath the hurt is something else—a grudging respect for a woman who would rather live above a dive bar than compromise her independence.
I climb the stairs before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the third knock, wearing an oversized sweater that doesn't hide her belly anymore. Twenty-three weeks now. Our daughter is the size of an eggplant, though I've learned not to share produce comparisons out loud.
"Nathan." She blinks at me like I might be a hallucination. "What are you doing here?"
"Pad Thai" I hold up the bag. "Extra spicy, no peanuts, double order of spring rolls."
"You remember my Thai order?"
"I remember everything." I pause. "Can I come in?"
She steps aside, and I enter her apartment for the first time.
It's exactly what I expected and nothing like it at the same time.
Small, cluttered, every surface covered with camera equipment and printed photographs and the general debris of a life lived in motion.
But there's a crib in the corner, already assembled.
A stack of baby books on the coffee table—not my highlighted copies, new ones with cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
She's been preparing. On her own terms, in her own way.
"The crib looks good," I say.
"YouTube tutorial. Only took four hours and three emotional breakdowns." She takes the Thai food, sets it on the counter. "Why are you really here?"
"I have something to show you."
I hand her the folder. She opens it, frowns at the paperwork inside.
"What is this?"
"Sabbatical approval. Six months, starting two weeks before the due date." I swallow. "I talked to my department head. Restructured my entire surgical schedule. Passed my patients to colleagues I trust."
She's staring at the papers like they're written in a foreign language. "You took a sabbatical."
"I want to travel with you."
"What?"
"After Isabella's born. When you're ready.
I want to see what you see through that camera.
I want to understand why you chase light across continents instead of staying in one place.
" I take a breath. "I want to be wherever you are, even if that's a van with a check engine light and no discernible schedule. "
"Nathan—"
"I'm not asking you to change. I'm not asking you to move back in or follow my five-year plan or become someone you're not." The words tumble out, three weeks of rehearsal finally finding their target. "I'm asking for a chance. To figure this out together. Whatever that looks like."
She sets down the folder. Her eyes are bright, and I can't tell if she's about to cry or throw something at me.
"You can't change your whole life for me," she says. "That's not fair. To either of us."
"I'm not changing for you. I'm changing for me. You taught me that control isn't safety. It's just fear with better packaging."
"I taught you that?"
"You scared it into me. Same thing."
She laughs—surprised—and I can breathe again.
"I'm scared," she admits. "I'm terrified of needing you. Of waking up one day and realizing I can't function without someone else, just like my parents always said I would."
"I'm terrified too. Of being my father, who scheduled his family into obligation slots.
Of being so focused on the plan that I miss the actual life happening around me.
" I step closer. "But I'm more terrified of not trying.
Of watching you raise our daughter from a distance because I was too proud to fight for this. "
"What if we mess her up? What if we pass on all our damage?"
"We probably will. That's what parents do." I reach for her hand, and she lets me take it. "But we'll also teach her that taking chances is worth it. That independence and partnership aren't opposites. That some plans are worth abandoning."
The knock on the door makes us both jump.
"Ignore it," Avery says.
The knock comes again, more insistent.
"Avery! Nathan! We know you're both in there!" Mia's voice, muffled but unmistakable. "Open up or I'm picking the lock!"
"She can't actually pick locks," Avery mutters.
"I learned from YouTube!" Mia shouts. "Don't test me!"
I open the door to find Mia and Dimitri standing in the hallway, armed with what appears to be a board game and a bottle of wine.
"What are you doing here?" Avery asks.
"Intervention," Dimitri says, pushing past me into the apartment. "You two have been dancing around each other for months, and frankly, it's exhausting to watch."
"We brought couples therapy." Mia holds up the board game. "It's called 'The Honesty Game.' You have to answer questions truthfully or drink."
"I'm pregnant," Avery points out.
"Sparkling cider for you. Wine for Nathan, because he looks like he needs it."
"I'm fine—"
"You're wearing mismatched socks," Dimitri observes. "I've known you for fifteen years. You've never worn mismatched socks. You're falling apart, man."
I look down. He's right. Navy and black. How did I not notice?
Mia has already spread the game out on Avery's coffee table, moving camera equipment aside with casual efficiency. "Sit. Both of you. We're not leaving until you idiots admit you're in love with each other."
"That's not—" Avery starts.
"Sit."
We sit.
The game is exactly as terrible as it sounds. Cards with questions ranging from mildly uncomfortable to deeply invasive, designed to force conversations that normal people avoid.
"Okay, Nathan." Dimitri draws a card. "What's one thing you've never told Avery but wish you had?"
"Pass."
"No passing. Drink or answer."
I take a long drink of wine. Then: "I kept the Polaroid. The one she left after the wedding. It's in my nightstand drawer. I've looked at it every day since."
Avery stares at me. "You kept it?"
"You took it when I was sleeping. It reminds me of that night..." I search for the right word. "Unguarded. I never expected to ever feel that way."
"Okay, Avery." Mia draws a card, grinning. "Same question. What's something you've never told Nathan?"
"I stole his pillow," she says immediately. "When I was living there. I took it when I left, and I've been sleeping with it ever since."
"You took my pillow?"
"It smells like you. Don't make it weird."
"How is that weird? You just admitted to stealing my pillow for smell purposes."
"The weird part is that you kept a photo of you sleeping. That's serial killer behavior."
"It's romantic!"
"It's creepy-romantic. There's a difference."
Mia claps her hands. "See? Progress! Keep going."
The questions continue. Dimitri admits he walked in on me crying during a Pixar movie once. Mia reveals she bet fifty dollars at her wedding that we'd end up together. Avery confesses she's been looking at two-bedroom apartments for the past week, not one-bedrooms.
"Last card," Dimitri announces. "For both of you. If you could tell the other person one thing with no consequences, what would it be?"
Silence. Mia and Dimitri exchange looks.
"We'll give you privacy for this one," Mia says, standing. "We'll be at the bar downstairs. Text when you've pulled your heads out of your asses."
They leave. The apartment feels smaller without them.
"You first," Avery says.
"I love you." The words come out steady, certain.
"I love that you reorganize my tools by size instead of function.
I love that you photograph gas station bathrooms like they're cathedrals.
" I meet her eyes. "You're scared of needing people, but you're brave enough to try anyway.
I love you, and I don't want to trap you. I just want to be wherever you are."
Her breath catches. "Nathan—"
"Your turn."
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"I love you too. I've been in love with you since you bought me jalapenos and ice cream without flinching." She swipes at her eyes. "I love that you highlight pregnancy books and make charts for everything. I love that you're here, even though I ran, even though I made it so hard."
"But?"
"But I don't want to be a project. Something you fix because that's what you do. I want to be your partner. Messy and complicated and without a five-year plan."
"I threw out the five-year plan."
"You what?"
"Burned it, actually. Surprisingly satisfying. Joy made me FaceTime her so she could record it. She said it was the most spontaneous thing I've ever done."
Avery laughs, and the tension snaps. I cross the space, cup her face in my hands.
"I don't want to fix you," I say. "I want to figure this out with you. Not as a project. As partners."
She's quiet for a moment. "Partners. I can work with that."
When I kiss her this time, it's different. Slower. Like we have all the time in the world. Her hands slide up my chest, around my neck. Mine settle on her hips, careful of the belly between us.
We make it to her bedroom. The sheets don't match and there are camera lenses on the nightstand and it's perfect.
After, she curls against my chest, my hand spread across her belly where Isabella is doing her nightly gymnastics routine.
"So," Avery says. "What now?"
"Now we figure it out. Day by day. No spreadsheets."
"You're going to make a spreadsheet."
"Maybe a small one. For groceries."
"I can live with a grocery spreadsheet."
I pull her closer, press a kiss to her hair. "I can live with that too."
Four months later
Isabella Rose Kingsley is born at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday, screaming with the lungs of someone who has opinions and isn't afraid to share them. She has Avery's nose and my gray eyes and dark hair that sticks up in every direction, like she's already unimpressed with gravity.
She looks like a furious potato. She's perfect.
Avery is exhausted, radiant, already reaching for her camera to document the moment. I'm holding our daughter for the first time, trying not to cry. Failing.
The shutter clicks.
"Got it," Avery says softly. "The first photo of you two."
I look up, Isabella tiny and warm against my chest. "How do I look?"
"Terrified. Happy. Like your whole world just shifted."
"Accurate on all accounts."
Our apartment—the new one, a two-bedroom we found together—is waiting for us.
My surgical instruments are arranged by size now.
Her cameras have their own shelf, labeled with my label maker.
The crib is regulation everything—I checked three times.
The mobile is made from Avery's old film negatives, which she insisted was "aesthetic" and I insisted was "a choking hazard until proven otherwise. "
The ring has been in my pocket for six weeks.
I'm pretty sure she knows. Avery notices everything, catalogs details like she's storing them for later development. I've caught her smiling at my jacket pocket, at the way I pat it when I'm nervous.
She hasn't said anything. Neither have I.
We're waiting. For the right moment, the right light. She's taught me that some things can't be scheduled.
Isabella's tiny hand wraps around my finger, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who's been alive for less than an hour. Avery catches my eye over her head, camera still in hand.
"So much for no strings," I mouth.
She grins, adjusts her lens. "Some knots are worth tying."
I look down at our daughter—my daughter—and realize she's right.