19. Cat #2
“I haven’t had a proper exam until last week, and that was just basics, no imaging, no real prenatal workup. Four months of the cheapest vitamins I could find and hoping for the best.”
“I know.”
“It could have been so much worse. I could have, something could have been wrong, and I wouldn’t have known.”
“But nothing is wrong. The baby is healthy. You’re healthy. That’s what matters now.”
“You can’t just build a medical suite and fix everything that happened.”
“I know I can’t.” He moves into the room, not touching me, just standing nearby. “I can’t fix the months you spent alone. I can’t fix the fear or the hiding or any of it. But I can try to take care of you now. That’s all I’m trying to do.”
I look at him, this man who rebuilt my grandmother’s farm from memory, who installed medical equipment just in case, who recorded our baby’s heartbeat on his phone with shaking hands.
“Thank you,” I say. “For today. For all of this.”
“You don’t have to thank me for doing what I should have been doing all along.”
“I know. But I’m thanking you anyway.”
1:00 a.m.
I wake up craving peaches.
Not just any peaches, a specific brand in a glass jar with a green label, the kind my mother used to keep in the pantry, the kind you can’t find in most American grocery stores. I haven’t eaten them in years, but suddenly they’re the only thing I want.
I lie in bed for five minutes, trying to convince my body that sleep is more important than fruit. My body respectfully disagrees.
I grab my phone and text Max before I can talk myself out of it: Weird craving. Those peaches in the green jar Mamma used to buy. Long shot?
No immediate response. Fine. I’ll check the kitchen myself, maybe there’s something that will satisfy the craving.
I pull on Max’s flannel, my flannel now, by right of extended custody, and pad down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The light is already on.
I stop in the doorway. Max is standing at the back door, holding a glass jar with a green label.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask.
“About thirty seconds. Couldn’t sleep, saw your text, grabbed these from the cellar.” He holds out the jar. “Freestone yellow peaches in light syrup. This is the brand, right?”
I take the jar, staring at it. “You had these in the cellar?”
“You mentioned them during the warm months. We were talking about your childhood, and you said Sunday dinners at your grandmother’s house always ended with these peaches over vanilla ice cream.
You said after the family stopped visiting the farm, nobody could find that brand in the city, and it was one of the first little things you missed. ”
“That conversation happened over a year ago.”
“I know.”
“You remembered a random detail about peaches from over a year ago.”
“I remembered everything you told me. The peaches, the Sunday dinners, the ice cream. The way you said your grandmother would sneak you extra when your mother wasn’t looking.
” He shrugs, like memorizing someone’s entire family history through casual conversation is normal behavior.
“I stocked the cellar with three cases before we even got here. Just in case you wanted them.”
I don’t know what to do with this information. I don’t know what to do with any of this, the peaches, the medical suite, the way he seems to know things about me that I barely remember telling him.
“Do you want tea?” I ask, because I need to say something. “I’m awake now anyway. Might as well have tea.”
“I’d like that, if you don’t mind the company.”
“I invited you. That implies I want the company.”
“Just making sure. I don’t want to assume I’m welcome.”
“You’re welcome.” I move to the cabinet where I’ve been keeping the tea. “Earl Grey or chamomile?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“I’m having chamomile because caffeine at 1 a.m. seems like a terrible idea, but I’ll judge you silently if you pick Earl Grey.”
“Chamomile it is. I live in fear of your silent judgment.”
“As you should.”
The kitchen is different at night, softer, quieter, the edges of everything smoothed by shadow. The only light comes from the small lamp over the stove, and we sit at the table with our tea like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“These are incredible,” I say, eating peaches directly from the jar. “I forgot how much I loved them.”
“Pregnancy cravings make everything taste better. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Pregnancy cravings make specific things taste like heaven and everything else taste like cardboard. There’s no middle ground.” I spear another peach slice with my fork. “What else do you remember?”
“From our conversations? A lot. Maybe too much.”
“Like what?”
“You hate yellow roses because someone gave them to you after a breakup and now they remind you of disappointment. Your favorite chess opening is the Sicilian Defense, but you think it’s overrated and you only use it because it annoys traditional players.
You had a cat named Tiramisu when you were seven, and you still miss him. ”
“Tiramisu was an enormous orange tabby who hated everyone except me. He used to sleep on my head and try to suffocate me with affection.”
“Sounds like a character.”
“He was. I’ve never loved another pet the same way.”
“That explains a lot about your taste in pets. You’re attracted to animals that want to kill people.”
“Cannoli has a very short list of people she approves of. You’re still under consideration.”
I should not find a man cataloguing my grudges this charming. I find it unbearably charming, which is its own problem.
“I’m glad you find my ongoing feud with the goose amusing.”
“I find it hilarious. You’re a mob boss who can’t outsmart a bird.”
“That bird is a tactical genius. Don’t underestimate her.”
I’m laughing now, actually laughing, the sound surprising both of us. Max is smiling too, that real smile I used to work so hard to earn, and for a moment it feels like we’re back in those warm months. Before everything went wrong.
“I missed this,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“Missed what?”
“Talking to you. Like this, late at night, when neither of us has anywhere else to be.”
“I missed it too.” He sets down his cup, looking at me across the table. “I missed you. Every day. More than I knew how to say.”
“You didn’t say much of anything. That was kind of the problem.”
“I know. I thought I was protecting you by keeping my distance, but all I did was push you away. I see that now.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight. I’m just asking you to keep sitting here with me, talking, like this. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all I’m asking for right now. The rest can happen when you’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”
Whatever was pulled tight between us loosens, just a little.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“Okay. We can sit here and talk. That’s something I can do.”
His smile returns, smaller this time but no less real. “Good. That’s good.”
We sit there until the tea goes cold, talking about nothing and everything, Cannoli’s vendetta, the farm, the books I’ve been writing, the war he’s been fighting from a distance. When I finally stand to go back to bed, he stands too and walks me the few steps to the kitchen doorway.
We stop there, too close. His hand pauses near my face.
I lean into it, and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and he doesn’t drop it.
His thumb traces my jaw and tilts my chin up, and he leans in until I can feel his breath on my mouth, until half an inch more would close the distance.
I go still, wanting it so badly I forget to breathe.
He holds there, sharing my air, letting me feel exactly how easy it would be. Then he pulls back. He doesn’t push. Tonight, he lets me decide whether to close the distance.
“Goodnight, Caterina.” His voice is rough. “Sleep well. Both of you.”
I go back to my room and lie in the dark, wearing his flannel, my hand on my belly where our baby is sleeping.
Before I can think better of it, I grab my phone and dial his number.
It rings once. I hang up immediately, my face burning with mortification.
What am I doing? What am I, fifteen years old with a crush? I’m a grown woman. A pregnant woman. A woman with more dignity than this.
My phone buzzes. A text.
still awake. still only ever yours. goodnight to you both.
My heart beats harder than it ever has in my life.