17. Nora
NORA
Two days after the almost-kiss that I am absolutely not thinking about, Harper gets her first tooth.
I'm changing her diaper when I see it: a tiny white edge breaking through her bottom gum, sharp and real and unmistakable. She's been fussier than usual for three days, and now I know why.
"Tyler!" Louder than I mean to. "Get in here!"
He appears in the nursery doorway in sweatpants and a Falcons t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower. The immediate alertness on his face when he hears Harper's name has become instinctive for him.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Look." I pull Harper's lower lip down gently. "First tooth."
He drops to his knees beside the changing table and leans in close. Harper submits to being examined with the patient composure of someone who has decided to tolerate indignities.
"Holy shit." He straightens and presses a kiss to her forehead. "You're growing up too fast, baby girl. Way too fast."
We're both leaning over the table, looking at her, when his hand settles between my shoulder blades.
I go still.
It's different from the knee, different from the couch. Not the unconscious warmth of those; this is his palm flat against my spine, deliberate, like he's put it there on purpose and is making himself leave it. No movement. Just the weight of it, steady and present.
We are very careful not to discuss the kitchen two nights ago. We are being professional and normal. His hand is on my back, and neither of us is moving.
I can feel the heat of it through my t-shirt. The specific pressure of each finger.
Harper squeals and reaches for the mobile above the table, breaking the moment. Tyler's hand lifts as he reaches to unhook her.
"First tooth deserves a celebration," he says, voice slightly rough. "Coffee? The place down the road?"
"Sure," I say, because I am apparently incapable of saying no to anything he suggests.
Brew Haven knows us now. The barista starts making our order when she sees the stroller coming through the door.
Tyler grabs our coffees from the counter while I find a table and take Harper out of the stroller. She’s in a good mood, grabbing at my finger, examining it with the serious interest of someone conducting research.
When Tyler gets back to the table, he sets down both mugs—mine with cream and one sugar, his black with one sugar—and folds himself into the chair across from me.
Our knees bump under the small table. Neither of us moves.
"More teeth next," I tell him. "Lots of drool. She'll want to chew on everything."
"She already wants to chew on everything."
"Fair point."
He's watching Harper try to eat my finger, his expression in the soft, unguarded mode that only comes out when it's just the three of us.
I've cataloged these expressions without meaning to.
The focused one for hockey. The careful one, when he's asking something he thinks might be too much.
This one is completely present and not trying to be anything else.
An older couple at the next table leans over. The woman's face lights up.
"What a beautiful baby. How old?"
"Five months," Tyler says. "And she already has a tooth."
"Oh, an overachiever!" The woman beams. "She has her daddy's eyes."
She does. Same blue, same shape. No one has ever looked at Harper and not immediately seen Tyler.
"How long have you two been married?" the man asks pleasantly.
I open my mouth.
"Not married yet," Tyler says easily. "Still working on convincing her."
The couple laughs. I stare at him.
He says it with such casual warmth that it sounds like a fact, like it's inevitable, like it's just a matter of time and patience on his part. The couple coos some more about Harper before returning to their coffee.
"Yet," I say, when they're out of earshot.
He meets my eyes over the rim of his cup. Something steady in his expression. "Neither of us corrected them."
He's right. I had my mouth open, and I said nothing. I don't know when I stopped correcting people who assume we're together. I don't know when that started feeling like more work than it was worth.
We finish our coffee in comfortable silence, Harper passing between us when she gets fussy. Tyler makes faces at her that make her laugh, and I watch them, trying not to feel what I'm feeling.
On the walk home, his hand finds the small of my back when we're navigating a cluster of people on the pavement, guiding me around them. It stays a beat longer than necessary once we're clear.
Then, as we walk, his other hand brushes against mine every few steps. Not holding hands. Not quite. But close enough that it feels like a question.
"Thanks for coming," he says as we turn onto our street.
"Tyler, it's literally—"
"I know it's your job." He stops walking and turns to face me, and there's something open in his expression that he's not trying to conceal. "That's not what I meant."
My heart does something complicated that I choose not to identify.
"I'm glad I'm here," I say. Because it's true. That's the problem; it's completely, inconveniently true.
Something shifts in his face, hope and heat underneath it, and for one moment on the pavement outside his house with October light cutting through the trees, I think he might say something that changes everything.
Harper starts crying.
We go inside. Tyler disappears upstairs to get his gear for practice this afternoon, then comes back down with the careful distance in his manner that we both use when we need to reset.
I watch his car leave from the living room window, Harper drowsy against my shoulder.
Not married yet. Like it's a foregone conclusion. Like, it's just patience.
I press my lips together and look at my parents' photo on the shelf across the room.
This is so much worse than I thought it would be.