Chapter 25 Abbie #2
I sit down in the chair next to him and he hands me a cookie without being asked. It's exactly like I remember. Buttery, crumbly, that faint lavender sweetness that doesn't taste like soap the way lavender can sometimes.
"Pickles are in the fridge," he says. "Already cold."
"You've been back for a while?"
"Hour or so. Didn't want to wake you."
"Thank you." The words come out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. "I wasn't planning to thank you profusely."
"That wasn't profuse. That was a single thank you. Very restrained."
"It felt profuse."
"It felt appropriate. You're welcome."
We sit in silence for a moment, eating cookies, watching the light shift through the trees. The baby moves, a kick this time, stronger than before.
"You nervous?"
"Little bit." I take another bite of cookie. "You?"
"Little bit."
"Well," I say. "At least we'll be well-fed."
* * *
The ultrasound room is cold. I'm lying on the exam table in a paper gown, my belly exposed and covered in that clear gel that somehow manages to be both slimy and freezing, while the technician moves the wand in slow circles.
Gray sits in the chair beside me, looking at the screen with an expression of intense concentration.
"There's the spine," the technician says, pointing. "And there's the profile. Can you see the nose?"
"I see it." The tiny nose, the curve of cheek. Twenty-one weeks of growing a person, and it still doesn't feel entirely real.
"Is that—" Gray leans forward. "Is that the foot?"
"That's the foot." The technician smiles. "She's measuring right on track."
"She?" The word comes out of both of us at the same time.
"A girl." The technician adjusts the wand. "Did you want to know? I should have asked first—"
"A girl," Gray repeats. He sounds like someone just hit him in the chest.
"And here—" The technician presses a button, and suddenly the room fills with sound.
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
Gray makes a sound. Just a small "oh," barely more than a breath.
"That's the heartbeat?" His voice is hoarse.
"Strong and healthy," the technician confirms. "About 150 beats per minute. Right on target for twenty-one weeks."
"Oh," he says again, and his hand finds mine on the exam table and holds on like I'm the only solid thing in the room.
"Everything looks good," the technician continues, clicking through measurements. "Any questions?"
Gray is still holding my hand when we walk out to the lobby. A woman in the waiting area looks up from her phone as we pass. Her eyes go wide with recognition.
"Oh my god, aren't you the guy whose wife—"
Gray stops. I feel his hand tense in mine, feel the old familiar dread pooling in my stomach.
"My wife," Gray says calmly, "founded Halo Creative. And she's having our first child." He squeezes my hand, then looks at the woman with an expression of polite finality. "That's all you need."
And then he keeps walking, pulling me gently along, out through the waiting room and into the parking lot and the blinding Los Angeles sunshine.
"That was—" I start.
"True," he finishes. "That was true."
"It was also surprisingly smooth for someone who looked like he'd just seen a ghost five minutes ago."
"I saw my daughter."
"You showed up," I say, as we reach the car.
"I said I would."
"You've said a lot of things."
He opens my door for me.
"I'm going to keep showing up," he says. "Until you believe it."
"That might take a while."
"I've got time."
I don't say anything to that. But I don't pull my hand away either when he reaches over and takes it again before starting the car.
A heat wave hits. At midnight, the guest room’s window unit dies, leaving Gray in the hottest room in the house. I'm lying in bed with the air conditioner running when I hear footsteps in the hall. Then a knock on my door.
"Abbie?" Gray's voice, low and hesitant. "I know you're not asleep. I can hear you sighing from the hallway."
"I'm not sighing. I'm breathing."
"You're sighing dramatically."
I laugh despite myself. "What do you want, Valentine?"
"The guest room is approximately eight thousand degrees. I was going to sleep on the couch, but I wanted to let you know so you don't think I'm a burglar if you get up in the night."
I picture him folded onto the couch, his feet hanging over the end.
"Get in the bed, Valentine."
Silence from the hallway.
"The air conditioner works in here. And you're too tall for the couch." I pause. "Don't make it weird."
The door opens slowly. Gray stands in the doorway in a t-shirt and athletic shorts, looking uncertain in a way I rarely see from him.
"You're sure?"
"Positive. I don't want you to have a heat stroke in your own guest room. A canyon heat-stroke death would really hurt Halo's brand."
He laughs, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, and crosses to the other side of the bed. I watch him in the dim light as he lies down, keeping a careful distance between us, staying on top of the sheet even though I'm under it.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"Build a pillow wall if it makes you feel better."
"A pillow wall?"
"A wall. Of pillows. Down the middle. Like a demilitarized zone."
He's quiet for a moment, and then I hear him moving, arranging the decorative pillows I never use into a line down the center of the mattress.
"There," he says. "Demilitarized."
I smile in the darkness. "Goodnight, Valentine."
"Sleep, Abbie. I'll respect the border."
Warmth shifts beneath my cheek, and for a second I forget where I am.
Then I remember. Gray's cabin. The broken AC in the guest room.
The pillow wall Gray built between us. I crack one eye open and realize my face is pressed directly against my husband's chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear, and the pillow wall is now a sad heap on the floor where it apparently belongs.
So much for the pillow wall.
"Good morning."
The voice doesn't come from Gray. It comes from the foot of the bed. I jerk upright so fast I nearly headbutt Gray's chin. Marguerite stands there holding two canvas grocery bags, one eyebrow raised in that way she's perfected over ten years of working for Gray.
"Marguerite." Gray's voice is sleep-rough, completely unbothered. "You're early."
"I'm on time. You're horizontal." She shifts the bags. "I see the guest room situation resolved itself."
"The AC broke," I say, and I'm not sure why I'm explaining myself to his housekeeper, but here I am, doing it anyway. "There was a pillow wall."
"Mmm." She looks at the pillows on the floor. "Very structural."
"It held up for most of the night."
"Clearly."
Gray sits up beside me, running a hand through his hair. "We didn't—"
"None of my business." But she's smiling, just barely, the way she does when she's enjoying herself. "I'll put these away. There's sourdough, those fancy eggs you like, and the tea she asked for." A nod toward me. "Also pickles. You're welcome."
"I didn't ask for pickles."
"You will."
She heads for the kitchen, and Gray throws back the covers. "I'll go help. Maybe attempt breakfast."
"Attempt," I repeat. "Inspiring confidence."
"Go back to sleep." He says it soft, like it's simple, and maybe right now it is.
The sheets still smell like him. I pull the blanket up to my chin, let my eyes close, and I'm gone before I hear the first pan clatter.
I wake to sunlight and the smell of butter and cinnamon.
I reach across the bed automatically, the way I used to, and my hand finds only empty mattress. The pillows are scattered across the foot of the bed, and there's a dent in the pillow next to mine where a head definitely recently rested.