17. Lo
— ? —
Lo
The truck starts on the first try.
This is notable because for the last three weeks, the truck has been staging a slow rebellion against the concept of internal combustion.
The alternator was dying, that particular whining sound that means expensive repair, and I’d been nursing it along with prayers and profanity while saving up for the fix.
Now it purrs like it just rolled off the lot.
“You fixed my alternator,” I say to Jesse, finding him in Rafael’s barn brushing down Trouble.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My truck starts now. It hasn’t started on the first try in three weeks. Someone fixed the alternator.”
“Sounds like a miracle. You should write to the Pope.”
“Jesse.”
He keeps brushing, doesn’t look at me. “Rafael mentioned it was going. I asked if I could help - asked you, I mean, through Bree - and she said you gave the okay. So I drove to the ranch for a spare.”
“You drove eight hours round trip to get an alternator from our ranch.”
“Four hours each way. I was already planning to pick up some things. Seemed easier than watching you strand yourself on the highway with a baby in your belly and no cell service.”
“What things?”
“Things. Personal items. None of your business items.”
“You drove to Ridley to get a car part and ‘things’ and Bree forgot to mention it?”
“I asked her not to make a big deal of it. She said you’d shrugged and said fine when she asked.” He finally looks at me, and there’s something careful in his expression. “Did I read that wrong? If you didn’t actually want-”
“No, I-” I stop. I did tell Bree it was fine. I just didn’t expect him to actually do it. “I said yes. I just didn’t think you’d drive eight hours for a car part.”
“It’s your car. Your safety. Our daughter’s safety.” He goes back to brushing. “Seemed worth the drive.”
I want to be annoyed. I should find something to be annoyed about. But he asked. He went through Bree because he knew showing up with a wrench unannounced would be too much. He did the thing I’ve been asking him to do, checked first, respected my answer, followed through.
The truck starts now. And my back hurts. And I’m tired of being angry about everything.
“Thank you,” I say.
He looks up. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. For fixing the alternator. And for asking first.”
“I’m learning. Give me time.”
He goes back to brushing Trouble, and I stand there watching him, and I notice things.
I notice the way he’s gentle with the horse, the same way he was gentle with our horses back home.
I notice that when Rosie brought him lemonade yesterday, he knew to say thank you twice, once for the drink and once for thinking of him, because that’s what Rosie needs to hear.
I notice the parenting book sticking out of his back pocket, tabs multiplying daily, whole sections dog-eared and highlighted.
I notice that when he brought me a drink from Dot’s this morning, it was peach tea, no ice. He got that wrong for five years of marriage, always forgot the no ice part, always brought it cold when I wanted it room temperature. Now he remembers.
“What?” he asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing. Just - noticing things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things. Personal observation things. None of your business things.”
He grins. “Touché.”
***
The car seat appears on Wednesday.
I’m walking past Jesse’s truck, heading to the hay barn, when I see it through the window.
Rear-facing, properly installed, adjusted to the exact angle the safety guidelines recommend.
There’s a manual on the passenger seat, open to a page about installation verification, with notes in Jesse’s handwriting in the margins.
“You installed a car seat,” I say when I find him in the tack room.
“I did.”
“In your truck.”
“That’s where car seats go.”
“The baby’s not due for four months.”
“The book says you should install it early. Practice getting it in and out. Make sure you know how it works before you’re sleep-deprived and panicking.”
“The book.”
“Chapter twelve. I tabbed it.” He pulls the parenting book from his pocket, flips to a marked page. “See? ‘Install the car seat at least six weeks before the due date to ensure proper familiarity with the mechanism.’ I’m ahead of schedule.”
“You’re four months ahead of schedule.”
“I’m an overachiever.”
“You’re a lunatic.”
“The book doesn’t say anything about that.” He flips a few more pages. “Although chapter eight does mention that expectant fathers often cope with anxiety through excessive preparation. So maybe I’m just coping.”
“Are you anxious?”
“Terrified.” He says it simply, without drama. “I’m terrified I’m going to mess this up. The baby, the marriage, all of it. So I read the book. I install the car seat. I fix the alternator. I do the things I can control because the things I can’t control keep me up at night.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s the most honest thing he’s said since he got here, maybe the most honest thing he’s said in years.
“The car seat’s installed correctly,” I finally say. “I checked.”
“You checked?”
“I wanted to make sure you didn’t skip any steps. You have a history of skimming instructions.”
“I read the manual twice.”
“I know. I saw your notes.”
He looks at me, and for once neither of us looks away. It isn’t forgiveness. But we’ve both stopped bracing for the next hit, and that’s more than we’ve had in a year.
“Go on a date with me,” he says.
“What?”
“A date. Thursday night. Dinner at Dot’s, maybe some conversation that isn’t about alternators or car seats or how many tabs are in my parenting book.”
“We’re married. Married people don’t date.”
“We’re also separated. Separated people definitely date. It’s in the handbook.”
“There’s no handbook.”
“There should be. I’d tab it.”
I should say no. I should maintain the distance, protect myself, keep the walls up. That would be the smart thing.
“Why?” I ask instead.
“Why what?”
“Why a date? Why now?”
“I sang you a bad song on a flatbed, brought you flowers every Saturday for four years, and then married you at a courthouse before you could change your mind. But somewhere along the way I stopped courting you. Stopped picking you up at your door, stopped sitting across from you wondering if you’d let me kiss you goodnight.
I just assumed. Assumed you were mine, so I didn’t have to keep trying. ”
“And now?”
“Now I know you’re not mine. Not automatically. Not by default.” He meets my eyes. “Now I want to earn it.”
The barn is quiet. Somewhere outside, Rosie is laughing at something, and the horses are making their soft shuffling sounds, and the world is going on like normal while my heart does something complicated in my chest.
“One date,” I say. “Thursday. And I’m ordering the most expensive thing on Dot’s menu.”
“The most expensive thing on Dot’s menu is the ribeye. It’s fourteen dollars.”
“I might get two.”
“Get three. I’ll sell a guitar.”
“You’d sell a guitar to buy me a steak?”
“I’d sell all my guitars to buy you anything.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s just a fact, the way gravity is. “I’d sell everything I own if it meant you’d have dinner with me on Thursday.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I was hoping you’d call it charming.”
“Your charm is questionable.” I take a sip of my water to hide the smile.
“My charm is extensive. I have references.”
“From who?”
“Butterbean. She finds me very charming.” He says the pig’s name with total gravity.
“Butterbean is a pig. Her standards are low.”
“Her standards are exacting. She only likes three people, and I’m one of them.”
“Who are the other two?” I shouldn’t be this invested in the answer.
“Rosie and Dot. Apparently, I’m in elite company.”
I’m smiling. I shouldn’t be smiling, this is a serious conversation about the future of our marriage, but I’m smiling anyway, and so is he, and for a moment it feels like it used to. Easy. Light. Like we’re just two people who like each other, figuring it out.
“Thursday,” I say again.
“I’ll be there.”
***
Thursday arrives faster than I expected.
I spend an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear, which is complicated by the fact that my wardrobe options have narrowed considerably. I settle on a dress Bree lent me, dark green, soft fabric, and actual shoes instead of the boots I’ve been living in.
“You look nice,” Molly says from Bree’s kitchen.
“I look pregnant.”
“You look nice and pregnant. Both things are true.”
“She looks like a princess,” Rosie announces, appearing from nowhere. “A pregnant princess going to a ball.”
“It’s not a ball. It’s dinner at Dot’s.”
“It could be a ball. If you pretended hard enough.”
“That’s not how balls work.”
“How do balls work?”
“They involve-” I stop. “You know what? I don’t actually know. I’ve never been to one.”
“Maybe Jesse will take you to a ball. He’s fancy. Famous people go to balls.”
“Famous people go to award shows. That’s different.”
“Are there snacks at award shows?”
“I assume so.”
“Then it’s basically a ball.” She nods, satisfied with her logic. “Can I come on your date?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because dates are for two people. That’s the whole point.” Rosie considers this like a lawyer finding a loophole.
“What if I promised to be invisible?”
“You can’t be invisible. You’re a human child.”
“I could try. I’m very good at hiding. Ask Mama - I hid in the laundry basket for an hour last week and nobody found me.” She delivers this as ironclad evidence.
“You hid in the laundry basket because you didn’t want to take a bath.”
“That’s not the point. The point is I’m stealthy.”
“The point is you’re staying here with your mother and eating dinner like a normal person.”
Rosie sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I want a full report. Did he bring you flowers? Did he pull out your chair? Did he look at you like you’re the only person in the room?”
“Where did you learn that phrase?”
“Mama’s books. The ones on the high shelf.”
Bree appears in the doorway, cheeks slightly pink. “Rosie, those books are not for you.”
“I only read the covers!”
“The covers are also not for you.”
“They have very pretty dresses on them.”