19. Az
— ? —
Az
A few days later, I go to return the hoodie.
That’s the plan. Walk to the bunkhouse, drop the hoodie on the step, walk away before he sees me and we have to have some kind of conversation about what happened in the greenhouse. Simple, clean, adult.
I make it all the way to the door before the plan falls apart.
“NO. No, don’t look-”
Eli’s voice, panicked in a way I’ve never heard it, and then there’s a crash and a scrape and I’m already pushing through the screen because what if he’s hurt, what if something fell, what if…
He’s on his knees by the little table, surrounded by scattered photos.
Not hurt. Just mortified.
“Az, don’t-”
But I’m already looking. I can’t stop looking. Because the photos on the floor are me.
Me at the first ultrasound, blurry and black-and-white. Me on the farmhouse porch with the dahlias behind me, one hand on my stomach. Me asleep on the porch swing, mouth open, probably drooling, hat crooked on my head.
He had asked if he could take private pictures for us, and I had said yes, provided I got a veto and nothing went online. Apparently this is what they were for.
And on the table, a half-assembled album. Glue. Scissors. Printed captions in handwriting so bad it takes me a minute to decipher: Week 23: the crib she chose.
“It’s not done,” he says, still on his knees, ears crimson. “It’s… it’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, I just wanted… I missed so much, and Grayson said journals were too… and I thought maybe pictures-”
“Eli.”
“You haven’t picked the ones you want to keep yet. Nothing’s glued down. Nothing’s going online.”
“Eli.”
He stops talking. Looks up at me like a kid caught stealing cookies, like I might yell or laugh or both, like he has no idea which way this is going to go.
Join the club, buddy.
“Get up,” I say.
He gets up.
“Give me the album.”
His face crumples for just a second before he schools it, and he picks up the album from the table and holds it out like an offering. Like a surrender.
I take it.
The first page is the week twelve ultrasound, the one he posted without asking. Under it, in that terrible handwriting: I should have asked. I’m sorry.
The next page is the farmhouse porch. She’s letting me stay. I don’t deserve it.
The next is me laughing at something, I don’t remember what, and he’s written: This is what I missed. This is what I almost lost.
I flip through slowly, watching the weeks unspool in photos and captions. The maple crib, half-assembled. The greenhouse at sunrise. The goat named Elliot glaring at the camera. Me asleep on the swing, and under that: Az gets the final say. Probably not this one.
“Were you going to cut it?” I ask.
“What?”
“The swing photo. If I said no. Were you going to cut it out?”
“I-” He swallows. “Yes. Of course. It’s your album too. It’s… it’s for her. For June. So she can see-” He stops, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, looks everywhere but at me. “It’s stupid.”
“Stop saying that.” My throat is tight.
“But it is. You’re still… I’m not supposed to be doing things like this. Making things. Acting like I have any right to-”
“Eli.” I wait until he looks at me.
“Yeah?”
I close the album. Hand it back to him. “It’s not stupid.”
He stares at me. “It’s not?”
“The swing photo has to go. I look like a fish.” I’m not crying. My eyes are just watering from the heat. “But the rest of it is… it’s not stupid. She’ll like it. Someday. When she’s old enough to ask questions.”
His whole face changes. Opens. Like I just handed him something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
“I’ll cut the swing one,” he says.
“I look like I’m catching flies.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I look like a fish.”
“A beautiful fish.” He’s smiling now, that real smile, the one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “The most beautiful fish in the entire-”
“Shut up.”
“Shutting up.”
I should leave. I’ve done what I came to do, sort of, the hoodie’s still clutched in my hand, and I should leave before this turns into more than I’m ready for.
Instead, I hear myself say: “Thursday.”
“What?”
“Thursday’s appointment.” I’m looking at the album in his hands, not at his face. “The twenty-nine week. You could… I mean, if you wanted to-”
“I want to.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I want to,” he repeats. “Whatever it is. If you’re offering, I want to.”
“I was going to say you could drive me.”
The silence is long enough that I finally look up. He’s standing very still, hands white-knuckled on the album, eyes bright.
“Yeah?”
“It’s just practical. Lupe needs the truck and my car makes a weird noise when-”
“I’d love to drive you.”
“It’s not a big deal, Eli.” I busy myself with the album’s corner.
“I know.”
“I just need a ride.”
“I know.” He’s still grinning.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
He doesn’t stop looking at me like that. He looks at me like I just handed him the sun, like Thursday is the only thing that matters, like the four days between now and then are going to be the longest of his life.
“Thank you,” he says.
“It’s just a doctor’s appointment.”
“Thank you anyway.”
I throw the hoodie at his face.
Thursday: 29 Weeks
The waiting room is small and beige and smells like hand sanitizer, and Eli looks enormous in the plastic chair beside me.
He’s trying to be invisible. I can see it in the way he’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low. He wore the most boring outfit he owns, plain white t-shirt, dark jeans, no jewelry, like that’s going to stop anyone from recognizing him.
It doesn’t, obviously.
The girl across from us has been staring for five minutes. Early twenties, nervous energy, phone gripped in both hands like she’s fighting the urge to take a photo. I can see her working up the courage, can see the exact moment she decides to go for it.
“Oh my God, you’re Eli Jackson.”
He straightens, smiles politely. “Hey.”
“I saw you in Austin last year and it was incredible and I still cry when I hear Doorstep and-” She’s already fumbling with her phone, pulling up the camera. “Can I just… would you mind-”
“Actually.” Eli’s voice is gentle but firm, and he doesn’t stand up, doesn’t lean toward her. “Not today. I’m here with my wife.”
The girl’s eyes flick to me. To my stomach. Back to him.
“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”
“It’s okay.” He’s still smiling, but there’s a finality under it. “Maybe another time.”
She nods, sits back, puts her phone away. Her cheeks are red.
I elbow him. “That was almost smooth.”
“I’m capable of smooth.”
“Since when?”
“Since-” He stops, grins. “Fair point.”
The nurse appears at the door. “Mrs. Jackson?”
Eli stands before I can. “I’m her husband.”
The nurse barely blinks. She’s seen weirder, probably. “Right this way.”
The exam room is cold.
It’s always cold. I don’t know why doctor’s offices think pregnant women want to be refrigerated, but I’ve given up asking and started bringing a cardigan everywhere I go. The paper on the exam table crinkles when I sit, and Eli hovers by the door like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to be.
“There’s a chair,” I say.
“Right. Yeah.” He moves to the chair, sits, immediately stands again. “Should I be standing? For the… when they do the-”
“Eli. Sit.”
He sits.
The tech comes in with the ultrasound cart, and I know the drill by now, gel on the stomach, cold and uncomfortable, press and slide until June shows up on the screen like a little alien monster. The tech makes small talk while she works, asks about the heat, asks if we’ve picked a name.
“June,” I say. “After my grandmother.”
“Oh, that’s beautiful.” Press, slide, click. “Dad, you want to see?”
Eli’s beside me before she finishes the sentence. I didn’t even hear him stand.
The heartbeat fills the room. That fast whooshing sound that made me cry the first time I heard it, that made me understand this was real, that made me want to call him and tell him and forgive him all in the same breath.
I called and got his voicemail. I’m still working on the forgiving.
But he’s here now, staring at the screen like he’s watching a miracle, and his hand finds mine without looking.
I should pull away.
I don’t pull away.
“That’s her heart?” he asks, voice rough.
“Strong and healthy,” the tech says. “She’s measuring right on track. Thirty weeks next week, yeah?”
“Twenty-nine now,” I say.
“Growing like a weed.” Click, click. “Let me get some measurements and we’ll be done.”
She works in silence after that, and Eli doesn’t let go of my hand. I can feel his pulse through his palm, fast and hard, matching June’s rhythm on the monitor. When the tech turns off the machine and hands me the paper towels, he’s still holding on.
“You can let go now,” I say.
“I know.”
“The exam’s over.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t let go.
I pull away first. Wipe off the gel. Sit up on the crinkly paper and pretend I can’t feel the ghost of his fingers against mine.
“Eli.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For being here.”
He looks at me, really looks, and his face cracks open. “Thank you for letting me.”
The truck is warm from sitting in the parking lot, and I turn the air up to max while Eli navigates out of the medical complex.
He’s quiet, which is unusual. Around me, Eli fills silence like it’s a personal challenge, humming, talking, drumming on the steering wheel, but right now he’s just driving, jaw tight, eyes on the road.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m-” He stops. Swallows. “Her heartbeat.”
“I know.”
“I missed so many of those. All the early ones, when she was just… when she was just starting, and I was-” He cuts himself off, hands flexing on the wheel. “I was in a different city every night. I was doing soundcheck while you were hearing her heart for the first time.”
“You knew about the appointment.”
“I did. I should have been there, Az. For all of it.”
“You’re here now.”
It comes out softer than I mean it to. He glances at me, surprised, and I look out the window so I don’t have to see his expression.
We drive in silence for a while. The orchards blur past, green and gold, and I watch the shadows shift on the road and try not to think about the way his hand felt in mine.
“So,” he says eventually. “I talked to Lupe.”
“About?”
“Staying. Through the harvest.” He’s talking to the windshield instead of me, which means he’s nervous about something. “She needs help with the crew coordination. And the… the fan in the barn. It’s been making that noise.”
“The fan.”
“Yeah. The big one. It needs replacing, and I thought… I mean, I offered to stay and help, but only if you-”
“The fan,” I repeat.
“The fan.”
He’s a terrible liar. Always has been. I used to tease him about it constantly, back when teasing was something we did, back when back when wasn’t a phrase that made my chest hurt.
“You’re staying for the fan,” I say.
“I’m staying for the fan.”
Neither of us believes it.
I should tell him no. I should set another boundary, draw another line, remind him that staying on the farm isn’t the same as staying in my life.
Instead I say, “The fan has been loud.”
He exhales. “Really loud, practically deafening.”
“Lupe’s complained twice.”
“Three times, actually. I’ve been keeping track.”
“Very responsible of you.”
“I’m a responsible guy.” He’s smiling now, that crooked half-grin that makes me want to throw things at his face. “So I should stay. For the fan.”
“And the harvest,” I say, because apparently I’m helping him lie now.
“And because maybe-” He stops. Starts again. “And because you haven’t told me to leave.”
The words hang there, heavy with everything we’re not saying. Six weeks of not-forgiveness. What happened in the greenhouse. A hand held through a heartbeat. Doors left open at one in the morning.
“No,” I say finally. “I haven’t.”
The truck rolls past the farm gate, the bunkhouse, the field where Elliot the goat is probably plotting something nefarious. Eli parks by the farmhouse porch and turns off the engine, and we sit there in the sudden silence, neither of us moving.
“Thank you for driving me,” I say.
“Anytime.”
“I mean it. Not just… not just today. For being there. For not pushing.”
“Az.” He turns to face me, and his eyes are that impossible blue, that winter-sky shade that still makes my breath catch after seven years.
“I’m gonna be wherever you let me be. For as long as you let me.
And when you stop letting me-” He swallows hard.
“I’ll respect it. You won’t have to argue me off your doorstep. ”
I should say something. Something smart, something safe, something that doesn’t make my heart feel like it’s trying to escape through my ribs.
Instead I open the door. “Goodnight, Eli.”
“Five-fifteen, Az.”
I’m halfway to the porch when I hear him call out: “Hey, same time next week? For the next appointment?”
I don’t turn around.
But I’m smiling when I say, “We’ll see.”