If someone could do it, Willow could. She’s resilient and soft just like he is. And he’s blunt and efficient. He loves people, and you can tell by what he chose to do for work, even if it’s hard to believe at first. He cares about women. And he’d hold the line if the roof fell in. He’s the sort of man who, when a thing breaks, will fix it without asking for your thanks.
That’s part of the pull for Willow. She’s hungry for someone who won’t bolt. Maybe she’s right to think that’s him.
“What I meant,” I say finally, and I stop walking and twirl her under a streetlight, “is what I said, Willow.” I stop twirling her, and we look into the sparkle of the moonlight in each other’s eyes. “You deserve someone who can be an open door, not a wall. Don’t break all your bones trying to get through a wall, like.”
“You can climb over walls,” she points out, a smile tugging at her lips like she can’t help herself.
“Not with three wee ones, you can’t,” I say with a laugh.
She smiles, that crooked thing she does that means she’s listening and also measuring me for truth. “You sound like you planned this speech in advance,” she teases.
“No. I just know Rowan well enough to give you some advice. I don’t like seeing you put effort into someone who might never appreciate it.”
“You don’t think he’ll ever?—”
“It doesn’t matter if he’ll ever. I think this is hard on all of us. I think there are people right in front of you who will be ready before he’s even considered it.” It’s too obvious, what I’m admitting to her. I want her to reach for it. I want to be the one she chooses, but I also want what’s best for her. I don’t know if Rowan is. I just know I am.
She pokes me with the tip of her shoe, then tucks her hands into her jacket and looks at me properly. “Thanks, Sean.”
I nod. “Anytime. That’s me job.”
The night is full of little mercies—a well-timed joke, a hand on the small of a back, the kind of honesty that keeps people from undoing themselves. She reaches her arm around my midsection, and I tuck her hand into my jeans pocket. She grins, and I tuck that into my pocket too.
17
SEAN
Bed rest again,at only twenty weeks. If you ask me, it’s a cruel phrase. Sounds like a holiday, like “You lucky thing, you get to lounge all day.” But I’ve seen Willow on the couch, restless as a cat in a carrier, hands fidgeting with the edge of a blanket, eyes restless even when her body can’t be. It’s not rest, it’s prison with soft pillows.
Which is why I turn up with a bag full of baby clothes. Little onesies, socks so small they could get lost in my palm, hats with bear ears. I bought it all from a store near mygaff, thinking the cute clothes might make the boring part bearable.
I don’t knock. I’ve stopped knocking. She knows the heavy steps of my work shoes on her floors by now. “Delivery service,” I call, walking in.
She’s on the couch with a nest of pillows, lookingin bits,eyes tired and dark, skin sallow, but her mouth curves into something warm when she sees me. “You again.” She sighs, mock-exasperated. “What is it today? Soup? Bread? Pasta?”
“Laundry.” I plop the bag on the coffee table, pull out the tiniest onesie, and hold it up between two fingers like it’s a flag. “Thought I’d fold with you. Domestic bliss, Willow. Isn’t this what you dreamed of, so?”
She snorts. “I never pictured you as a folding laundry kind of guy. Always figured you for a throw-it-in-the-drawer type.”
I feign outrage, shaking my head and throwing the onesie down. “With these pressed shirts, are you kidding me?” She looks at my shirt pointedly, and I look down at my wrinkled button-up with faux shock. “How did those get there? Anyway, you’re wrong. I’m a master of the tri-fold. Observe.”
I sit on the floor, cross-legged, and fold the tiny outfit like I’m performing surgery. She laughs a real laugh, her hand shooting out to hold her belly. It makes something hot and fragile spark in my chest.
“Sean Byrne, a master folder. I had no idea.”
“Mark it down,” I say solemnly. “This is my legacy. Forget the degrees, the surgical saves, the charming smile. I want the tombstone to readHe folded laundry without being asked, God love him.”
“Imagine all the women who can say the same,” she says, still smiling. Her laughter dies down, and she reaches for a pair of socks barely bigger than her thumb. “They’re so teeny tiny.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. For a second, I think she’s going to cry. I reach out without thinking and squeeze her hand. In a gentle voice, I tease her, “Aye, love, so are babies.”
She throws the socks at me and lies back down. “Okay, I’m done with you. Go fold with Cheyenne if you’re itching to fold so badly.”
“No, no, come on!” I cry out, pulling her back to a sitting position. I hold her cheeks in my hands, swollen with baby weight, and tell her, “They’ll be here before you know it. You won’t believe what you’re capable of.”
Her bottom lip pokes out just a little, and she hugs me, sniffling into my shoulder.
For just a second, I can’t believe how lucky I feel to keep her secrets, her sadness, her fears, and her laughter. I hope that I get to do it forever.
