Chapter 31
[Neve]
We have a disappointing doctor’s visit. I’m not progressing. Not that I’m in a rush to get Little Wrench out of me, but I am tired of being pregnant. I’m no longer patient and want to start the next phase.
“Let me take you somewhere,” Tate says once we’re back in his SUV and I laugh at how this is almost becoming a private joke between us. His special way of asking without asking to give me a surprise.
However, this surprise makes me anxious when we exit the coastal highway for a major one and eventually pass a sign for Bangor.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, as he rolls down an exit ramp.
“Shopping.”
The look on my face must have said I’d rather commit murder. I’m more of an online, convenient delivery type than a physical store shopper.
Tate laughs. “You need items for the baby.”
“I have items. I have a crib.” I say it like it’s the only thing I need when I know he’s right.
“What about a car seat?”
“Lumi has it. She’s my birth partner.” The words come out faster than I can consider he’d like to be my partner. And I’ve been meaning to ask him about it.
Which he confirms when he says, “I want to be your birth partner.” The look he gives me is full of hurt, and my heart sinks to my stomach as we enter a Target parking lot.
I hadn’t asked him about the birth partner thing because I’m not good at asking for help.
Which might be one reason I lost Rusty’s Wrecks.
It isn’t pride so much as fear. I’m afraid others do not want to help me.
And then I’ve asked, and put them on the spot, and they don’t know how to get out of something they don’t want to do. And—
“You need diapers and onesies. Pajamas and blankets. A sleep suit,” Tate says, interrupting my rambling thoughts. The closer I get to my due date, two things are happening: the need to organize and a lack of concentration.
I didn’t even realize we were parked. Tate holds his phone and he’s reading off a list, like he’s suddenly an encyclopedia of baby needs.
When we enter the store, I’m overwhelmed, but Tate has his handy-dandy list at the ready and with each item he pulls forward, my excitement grows. So do my nerves.
The clothes are so tiny. And there are so many gadgets and gizmos. A Diaper Genie? What is that? Nipple sterilizer? Sounds painful. And I’m blatantly aware I have not done enough research on being a mother. Especially a mother of an infant.
“I’m going to be so bad at this,” I quietly admit, holding up a sweet pink bodysuit with ballet-like slippers on the feet.
“There’s no manual, Neve,” Tate chuckles.
“I think that’s the issue.” I’m better with instructions. With a guide. With details. Tab A fits into slot B. And then the engine turns over, or the fanbelt runs, or the tires spin.
Tate gently takes the outfit from my hands and sets it in the cart, which is practically overflowing with items.
“Thank you,” I say, quietly. “For all of this.” I wave at the shopping cart. “For everything. For being here, even if you feel like you missed out until the nth hour, or rather the nth month.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Neve. I’m excited.” The hitch in his voice expresses that enthusiasm.
“Still. I’m really glad you’re here. With me.” I lift my eyes but quickly look away, feeling that familiar burn at the back of my eyes. God, what is wrong with me?
As much as I want to blame the emotions on the pregnancy, I think I’m more overwhelmed by Tate. His attentiveness. His dedication. His thoughtfulness.
And suddenly, he has his arms wrapped around me, tucking me against his chest as best he can with my big belly.
“I’m glad I’m here, too, baby.”
I close my eyes. I’ve never been one for endearments and yet every time Tate calls me one, I melt.
Clean up in aisle three. Seriously.
When we got back to his house after a late lunch, he carries the purchases stacked on top of each other up the stairs, and I follow, until we reach the door that’s been closed every time I stay here.
He pops open the door and enters the room, but I stand still, staring after him.
The space is painted the softest green. A bleached wood crib centers the room with an antique rocking chair in the corner. A dresser with a changing tabletop matches the crib and stands against the opposite wall.
A sweet baby blanket with whimsical flowers in pink and yellow rests over the crib mattress. A giant sun-shaped pillow is on the old rocker.
“What’s this?” I whisper, when it’s clearly a baby’s room, but I’m still in awe.
“It’s for Little Wrench.” He smiles hesitantly after setting down the assortment of baby apparatus and a giant bag of baby clothes.
“It’s so sweet,” I continue to whisper, taking in the details a second time, before I say, “But it’s in your home.” Like, I’m truly puzzled by why the space is here and not at my place.
Tate steps closer to me. “Because I want her to stay here. I want both of you to stay here.”
“I have a house.” I sound confused, a little dazed, because I am.
Tate slips his hands into his pants pockets. “I know.” His mouth falls open, but something in my eyes has him clamping his lips together again.
I take a third look at the room. The bedroom might be larger than mine, and it’s dedicated solely to the baby. She’d have her own space here.
“You don’t have to make any decisions now,” he says, quietly. His eyes are downcast like he’s done something wrong.
What decision do I need to make? I don’t ask, still taking in the sweet space.
“Little Wrench is really lucky to have you as a father,” I say, low and tight as my dad briefly comes to mind. How much I loved him. How important he was to me. How great Tate will be with our little one.
He’s going to give her anything she needs, and then some. And it’s another heavy reminder that I’m unprepared, and Tate can provide her with so much more than me.
And I’m lucky that he’s here right now. That he wants to give her everything. But I’m still uncertain about our future. A future I can’t process right now.
“It’s so pretty,” I say, choking around the truth. It’s just lovely, and one more thoughtful thing Tate has done for her. For us.
He takes another step closer to me and rubs his hands up and down my arms, bending at the knee a little so my eyes meet his.
“If you don’t like the color, I’ll repaint it. Don’t like the crib or the dresser, I’ll return them. I just want a space for her here.”
What about space for me? Not a room but a location in his heart. I’m certain he cares about me. He treats me with respect and kindness. And I feel cherished by him when we’re in bed, but what about his heart?
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. My stomach tightens. My back pinches. I whistle an exhale, and arch backward, hoping to alleviate the sharp pain.
Am I having a panic attack? Or a contraction? Which leads to more panic. I’m not ready. If today has taught me anything. I’m. Not. Ready.
“You okay?” Tate glances down at my stomach.
“I’m hungry.” In truth, I feel a little nauseous.
But I’m messing up left and right with this man, and for the tenth time today, I whisper, “Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me.” He’s playful as he kisses the side of my head.
While I exhale as the cramp releases my belly.
“Pumpkin pancakes for dinner?” He wants to make up for the pancake breakfast he didn’t get to make me days ago.
He leans in, giving me a quick kiss I hardly feel, before he brushes past me, leaving me in the baby’s room, taking in all the features one more time.
The lightweight curtain that matches the baby quilt.
A sound machine dangling off the edge of the crib.
A soft yellow blanket draped over one end of the crib.
What is happening here? Did he ask me to move in? Does he want us to play house? Does he think we will just share the baby?
The thought is unfair. Of course, we’ll be sharing her. We are her parents.
But what are we to each other?
After a quiet dinner, I want to flee, because old instincts are taking over. However, Tate sets me up on the much-bigger-than-mine couch, pulling the cushioned ottoman against the larger piece so I can stretch my legs.
Tonight is National Girl’s Night Out, and as much as I want to hang with my sisters, I give in to Tate’s suggestion that we watch a movie.
I’m tired, and cranky, and traipsing around the woods, big as a barn, doesn’t sound like the smartest idea.
I’ve made plenty of unsmart ones over the years, so I listen to my gut here.
Was Tate one of those unwise decisions? Or is getting too close to him the not-smart part?
Sometimes, I’m overwhelmed by his sweetness. Like I’m waiting for it to vanish. For him to disappear, and every time I think about him leaving, my heart aches.
With Beetlejuice on the screen, because nothing beats the original, Tate and I sit close before he scoots his body lower and sets his head on my belly.
Little Wrench gives a sharp kick and Tate lifts his head, laughing. “Seems she doesn’t like me encroaching on her mom.”
Her mom.
I comb my fingers through Tate’s hair and gently tug. “That makes you her dad.”
“I’m ready for it,” he says confidently.
But is he? Will he be here when she walks? When she learns to tie her shoes? When she plays with her first toy wrench? When she learns to change a tire? When she goes on her first date? When she suffers her first heartbreak?
The spiral train is running at full speed today.
My eyes well with tears, but I quickly blink them away. I clear my throat and ask, “How are you ready?”
He glances back at my belly and runs his hand over it. “Because this is exactly what I’ve wanted for a very long time.”
Yes, but does he want this with me?
Despite all his reassuring comments—about fatherhood and wanting me sexually—my thoughts continue to weave.
Because, for the first time in my life, I want more than just one-night stands and short-term situationships.
I want a relationship. Something long-term and committed.
Something with devotion and an endgame. Something lasting.