Chapter 10 Baby Steps
Baby Steps
Franki
Henry leans against the kitchen counter and flicks his black fidget spinner. He’s had his eyes on me all day. I don’t know if it’s the move that has him on edge or something else.
He doesn’t look upset, but he does appear to be wound like a pocket watch.
“Henry, are you—?”
Oliver darts behind a large mover’s box, then settles on his haunches, his stance straight and alert, like a prairie dog spying for predators.
Distracted, I watch, knowing what comes next.
Ten seconds later a streak of black feline zips across the hardwood floor straight at him.
They tussle, Oliver’s tail wagging, both animals surprisingly gentle with each other as they play.
Petunia, formerly known as “Mama Cat,” lifts her head at the ruckus and yowls a warning. Then, she promptly drops her chin back to her paws, content to bask in her patch of late afternoon sun and more than done with their nonsense.
Noah adjusts his blue and yellow diamond-patterned bow tie and visibly works to accept their shenanigans. “They do bring energy to the place.”
“The word you’re looking for is ‘disruption,’” Henry corrects.
“You adore them,” I scoff.
“I tolerate them,” he drawls.
I kiss the divot in his chin. “Liar.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners.
With any luck, we’ll have a lot more disruption in our lives soon. The internal reminder pushes my heart rate into an anxious canter. My menstrual cycle is less than a day late. It’s too soon to get excited or make plans.
The kitten, Mr. Dashwood, streaks out of the room. Oliver waits. Waits. Then he darts after him in happy pursuit.
The cardboard boxes littering every room of our Blackwater, Pennsylvania farmhouse apparently make for a great game of hide-and-seek.
Bronwyn taps a fingernail against the bottom of a copper saucepan. “These are gorgeous.”
“They’re Henry’s. He’s very particular about his pots.” I hesitate. “You don’t think having a pot rack is too old-fashioned? The designer looked ready to pop an artery when I said I wanted one, but the contractor said he liked them.”
Standing near the cutlery drawer, Henry’s grandma points a wooden spoon at me. Her short gray curls practically vibrate with the same energy Bronwyn inherited. “You gotta do things your own way. If you like it, that’s what matters.”
Bronwyn runs a hand over the soapstone island. “I love everything here. It’s so homey.”
Freezing mid counter stroke, Bronwyn gives me a startled look then squeals, as if realization just hit her. “This is literally your dream from when we were fourteen, Franki. You married your best friend’s brother, and we now live within hollering distance of each other’s houses.”
“Uh-huh,” Henry says doubtfully. “An astrophysicist is every woman’s dream man.”
I wrap my arms around his middle. “You were always mine.”
He kisses my temple so sweetly, then slides his hand down where his PA, his sister, and his grandma can’t see and squeezes.
“You realize I’ll be hanging out with your wife every day now?” Bronwyn asks.
Henry fakes a groan.
She shoots me a sidelong glance then smirks back at him and drags her words out for emphasis. “Every day. For hours.”
“You’re a menace. I feel certain your husband doesn’t remind you of that nearly enough,” Henry says blandly.
Bronwyn huffs. “For your information, Dean thinks I’m an angel.”
That is both believable and wildly generous.
Noah fills a vase with water at the copper sink. “Speaking of menaces, I should warn you my brother is coming to stay with Dante and me next month.”
I smile. “Oh, that’s lovely.”
Noah nods. “He’s quite delighted to hear you’ve both taken positions at the university. He’s considering studying a semester abroad at BSU.”
According to Henry, Elliot has made some major changes and is adjusting well. “That will be—” I search for the right word. “Interesting.”
“He really admires the two of you,” Noah says.
“It’s because I’m so pleasant,” Henry says, his tone entirely emotionless.
Even Noah laughs.
Bronwyn removes a blue insulated case from the tote at her feet and passes it to Noah. “It’s lasagna. Grandma Miller’s recipe.”
“You improved on it, Bronwyn. It’s better than mine,” Grandma says.
Bronwyn’s cheeks warm, and she smiles. “The directions are on the note. So you don’t have to cook tonight or order take-out,” she says. “Noah, I already gave Dante yours. So, you’ll have dinner at your place tonight too.”
“We appreciate it deeply.” He bows his head briefly before removing the case and placing the lasagna in the refrigerator.
Bronwyn claps her hands once, then rubs them together. “Okay, that’s that. Time to go.”
Grandma shakes her head. “There’s a box of glassware I’d like to wash and put away first.”
Five foot one to Grandma’s five foot zero, Bronwyn wraps her arms around the older woman in an exuberant hug and whispers something in her ear.
Grandma blinks, then looks at her wrist that definitely doesn’t have a watch on it.
“Look at the time. Let’s let you two love birds settle into your new nest. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.
Six a.m. sharp. Best get to bed early tonight, directly after dinner, I’d say.
The bedroom is ready. Early to bed. Early to rise. ”
Henry snickers behind me, and I slap his flat stomach lightly with the back of my hand.
He clears his throat. “Right. I’ll have zero trouble rising to the occasion.”
“I don’t need to know the details. I’m just telling you what worked for your grandad and me,” Grandma Miller says.
I choke on my own spit.
Henry makes a quiet, almost inaudible, retching noise behind me. “This family has too many meddlers.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” Bronwyn says.
“Which is why I said ‘too many.’ One is enough,” Henry says.
Bronwyn shakes her head, then lifts her hands. “Bring it in, Henry, and tell me you love me.”
Henry wraps her in a tight squeeze and kisses the part in her pale blonde hair. “I love you, Bronnie.”
“I love you too,” she says.
She extricates herself then folds me into her arms. She doesn’t actually need to be gentle today. My RA is in remission at the moment, and I’m pretty sure I know why my overactive immune system has taken a chill pill. At least, I hope I’m right.
I squeeze her back in a rocking hug, and she talks against my shoulder. “Love you, sis.”
“Love you too.”
“We all love each other. It’s wonderful. Are goodbyes over?” Henry checks his watch.
“Welcome to Blackwater. Everybody loves you, everybody feeds you, and everybody’s up in your business 24/7. Payback is a beautiful thing,” Bronwyn says.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” Henry asks.
Bronwyn smirks. “Of course not.” Then, she hooks one arm through Grandma’s and one through Noah’s. “We’re leaving.”
She guides them out of the room but pauses at the front door to yell over her shoulder, “Don’t forget, cornhole at my place tomorrow at two. You’re going down in a blaze of beanbags.”
“Leave your ego at the door or your head won’t fit through it,” Henry shouts back.
The door closes on the sound of her cackle and Henry wraps his arms around me from behind. “Alone at last.”
I nod but don’t lean on him for long. He releases me when I step away, his gaze intent, cataloging my features.
I catch myself before I brush my hands down my thighs. Act casual, not anxious.
We’ve already had three months of disappointment. Each time I’d gotten my period, I’d left the bathroom, shaken my head, and he’d squeezed me and said it was way too early to be concerned.
This time is different. I feel it. But I don’t want to get his hopes up in case I’m wrong.
“Is everything okay with you?” I ask.
His expression morphs to puzzlement. “Yes?”
Okay. Okay, this is good. What can I ask him to do to keep him occupied for a few minutes? “Can you make sure the movers installed the porch swing?”
They didn’t. It’s on the schedule for tomorrow, which means he’ll take the few minutes necessary to connect the chains to the hooks himself.
Henry pauses a beat to answer me, his brows furrowed, then he licks his bottom lip. “I can do that.”
I nod and smile brightly. “Perfect. Thank you.” I stand still for another long moment, then bounce up to give him a peck of a kiss, excitement bubbling in my veins.
When I back away, his lips twitch, then he uses his thumb to point to the back door. “I’m going to put up a swing. Unless you need me in here for something?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“I expect the swing to take about five minutes. Does that sound right to you?” he asks slowly.
“Sure. Probably. I don’t know much about swings. I’ve never put one up before.”
“Right. Are you sure you don’t want us to put it up together? For moral support.”
I never realized how hard it could be to get my husband out of the way. To be fair, I’ve never tried before.
“You put up the swing. I’ll come out and join you later.”
He takes a deep breath through his nose. “Okay.”
He presses a kiss to my lips and squeezes my hand. “See you on the porch.”
Time is the weirdest thing. When you’re distracted, twenty minutes can fly by. When you’re hovering over two pregnancy tests you just peed on, the prospect of waiting three to five minutes feels like hours.
I clutch the edge of the counter to keep myself from shaking and stare at the little windows on the tests, willing a second blue line to show.
It hasn’t been three minutes. I should do something else and come back to them.
Yeah, as Grandad Miller would say, “That ain’t happening.”
I know a line is going to show. I feel it, from the mild cramping the internet says happens with implantation, to feeling more tired than usual, to my immune system changing.
My period is only one day late. I should give it another day. If the tests are negative, I should take another one tomorrow if my period doesn’t—
A small shriek sneaks out of me, and I clamp a hand over my mouth. It’s there. A second blue line, faint but getting darker. It hasn’t even been three minutes. My gaze flips back to the other test. It has a blue line too.
Two positive tests.
My head swims and joy erupts inside me. I run in place, my feet pitter-pattering against the black and white tile floor, my body completely overwhelmed by the need to let some of it out. I force myself to stop squealing so my husband and our security guards don’t come running.
It takes me approximately two more minutes to calm my breathing. I look in the mirror. My eyes are bright and my cheeks flushed. My hair is a mess, plopped on top of my head in a precarious bun with strands escaping everywhere.
I have news to tell Henry. I can do better than this.
Decision made, I race to pull the tie from my hair, brushing it out to fall around my shoulders and down my back.
My hand shakes when I apply mascara. I laugh a little and grab a cotton swab to clean up the mess I made. There. Mascara and lip tint.
I should put on better clothes.
I don’t think I’ve ever changed so quickly, but I don’t need to look ready for a night out. Just ready for Henry.
I slip the black cotton maxi skirt on and throw on a form-fitting, white, off-the-shoulder top with it. Shoes are next. The white sneakers with my orthotic lift are fine. Henry doesn’t care about my shoes unless they hurt my feet.
It’s time to tell my husband.
When I step out onto the wide back porch, I find him pacing, one hand on the nape of his neck and a wash of late afternoon sun at his back.
He freezes at the sight of me, then visibly relaxes. After a moment of silence, he points to his left. “I put the swing up.”
I glance toward it briefly, then back at him and beam. “Yes you did. Thank you.”
He grins back and opens his mouth to say something, then appears to think better of it.
His expression changes to confusion when I pull my phone from my pocket.
I open my playlist and connect it to the outdoor speakers. The sound of a piano and a guitar begin. A drum beat joins in.
I set my phone on the wicker table and step toward him. “You should dance with me.”
His eyes shine behind his glasses and his mouth quirks in a crooked smile. Neither of us dances much. Wedding receptions are about it. He’s enough taller than I am that it usually entails a lot of awkward bending on his end and stretching on mine.
“Good idea.” He tugs me into his arms. Then, hands on the backs of my thighs, he drags my skirt up and up.
“Henry,” I laugh.
“We have privacy back here. There’s no one to see your unmentionables.”
I huff a laugh, then grin fully when he picks me up, holding me under my butt. That’s why he lifted my skirt. So I could wrap my legs around him.
“Is this dancing?” I ask.
He kisses the tip of my nose and steps from side to side in rhythm to the music. “Unequivocally, yes.”
I hold on to his shoulders and watch him, waiting for him to clock the chorus of the song playing over the speakers. Baby Steps.
When he says nothing and just keeps smiling, I raise my eyebrows. “I like this song.”
“It’s nice. Jazzy.”
I laugh. “Henry.”
“Yes, my pregnant wife?”
I swat him on the shoulder. “You guessed.”
“I knew for sure after I saw the look on your face when you stepped outside.”
The chorus plays once more, and he spins us in a circle. I clutch him tighter, then remove his glasses, holding them in one hand.
He heaves a satisfied breath and smiles into my eyes. “Hello, little mama.”
“Hello, daddy,” I twinkle back.
His mouth presses together in an obvious attempt not to laugh.
“That wasn’t sexual,” I protest. “I meant literally, like—”
“I know, love. I know.” And his mouth meets mine.