“The point is, monsters in fairy tales and myths don’t seem to match up to the real things. At least not around here.” Artie looks at me with the sweetest, sincerest smile. “You love Laurel. She loves you. Don’t worry about labels with me, okay?”
I nod, and then I have to swallow a couple of times to get to the point where I can talk again. “If I still feel this way in a couple of weeks...?” I leave the question hanging there, not sure how much Artie’s newfound knowledge about the town and how people view people like Laurel and me will change his original offer, despite what he said about labels.
He swallows hard. “I wanted you to marry me. So I could give you healthcare benefits.”
“I know.”
He continues, a slight tremor in his voice. Maybe he thinks that it makes him sound less heroic, but to me, it’s a glimpse of ahuge heart and quick mind—two things I sure as heck never saw growing up. “Well, I also think it’s a good idea so that you’d be protected if anything happens to me. You could apply for spousal social security and use the money to take care of yourself and Laurel, if you—”
“I will always take care of her. Even if I was the one who had to work,” I exclaim, and my back stiffens, shoulders pull back. There’s heat in my chest, but it’s not the soft, sensual flutters that fluster me. This feels different. Almost monstrous. Vicious.I will protect this child like she’s mine.
Artie doesn’t seem scared. He looks grateful, and he sighs deep enough to shift Laurel on his chest. “If we wait a few weeks... Well, I know that sounds crazy, but sometimes people get married for practical reasons. But it’s a real marriage, one they plan to stick with. And they’re hoping it grows into everything they want. Love. Companionship. Kids, maybe. We could wait a couple of weeks to file for Laurel’s birth certificate and a marriage license.”
I nod so hard I’m dizzy. “I’d like that, if that’s how we both feel in a few weeks.”
Artie sticks out his hand. “Okay!”
I grip it tight, a hug with fingers. “Okay.”
Chapter Eleven: November Six
November 6th, 2025
Pine Ridge, New York
There’s a lot to do when you’re a husband and dad. I see why some people are afraid of it. It’s a huge deal.
But maybe those guys don’t have women like Imogene or babies like Laurel counting on them. Every second that I haven’t been working, sleeping, or baby-ing, I’ve been filing and trying not to die in a maze of red tape.
It’s worth it, though. Imogene comes in with canned soup and crackers at lunch. She mastered grilled cheese yesterday. I hear her sweet voice reading to Laurel. I hear the splashing and giggling at bathtime. Snatches of song throughout the house, mixed with silly voices and Laurel babbles. When Laurel cries after napping in her crib, I hear Imogene thunder up the stairs like she’s on a life-or-death mission to retrieve her.
I try to keep things friendly and respectful, making sure Imogene has time to herself every day, that I’m on duty at night when I’m not working, and that I take the afternoons when I have to work at night.
Imogene seems happy. She’s met up with Libby Angelakis a few times and made friends with other ladies at the Mommy and Me class at the library.
She asked about going to a book club if I don’t need her help on Wednesday nights, and I immediately cleared my calendar so she could go, because Imogene loves books. I can tell.
I’m already wondering what books I can get her for Christmas, and if there’s a book section at Chloe’s Curiosities.
Every now and then, in the midst of the happy, busy routines where we’re moving past each other in our own orbits, Imogene glances at me, and the cosmos slows down. I find myself getting all soppy inside.
Sometimes, other things happen outside, too, and I’m mad at myself about that.
Doesn’t stop it from happening, though.
“Mail!”
“Hm?” I look up from my screen, and Imogene has the baby on one hip and a stack of letters in the other. Most are bills. One is a big envelope, like a birthday card. From my boss.
“Huh. Must be doing Christmas cards early,” I muse and open it. “How was clothes shopping?”
“I got Laurel a bunch of winter stuff for twenty dollars! And Libby dropped off some things this morning, but she wants us to give them back when Laurel is done with them in case they have another baby. I got myself a couple of things, too. Um, I— Oh!”
“Oh!” I share Immy’s exclamation of surprise when a cute card with pink giraffes slides out—and so do two gift cards. I read aloud, “‘Dear Artie, Congrats on the bundle of joy. Here’s something for her, and something for you and your wife. I remember the days of no sleep and no energy. Don’t spend it all on coffee.’”
“That’s so nice!” Imogene brushes her hand on my shoulder as she peers at the card.
I shouldn’t get so worked up from a little touch, so innocently meant.
