“What kind of ravioli?”
“Spinach.”
I make a face, then I say, “Lasagna, please.”
“No spinach. Got it.”
I laugh. “I like spinach in a salad. Not cooked, though.” I wince and shake my head. “Too slimy.”
“Noted.”
Why do I like the fact that he’s keeping track of the kinds of foods I like and don’t like? I should stop. It’s a dangerous road to travel, since I know this whatever this is we’re doing is just something Nate has to do. The reason for it, I’m not sure. Maybe to make himself feel less guilty. Yeah. That’s probably it.
As we eat, Nate tells me about his day, about the jobs he’s currently overseeing. I’m amazed at the work he’s done. One night, he used my laptop and brought up his company’s website so he could show me the before and after images of renovations he’s done along with things he built from scratch. I was impressed by the scope of his projects. Everything from commercial buildings to large residential homes. I know from that discussion that he prefers the commercial side of things. “Less drama” was all he said. I assume that means that regular people, homeowners, are a pain in the butt. I could see that. Still, how amazing would it be to design and build your own home?
“So, were you a big baby?”
I guess my question shocks him, because he nearly chokes on his salad. “Wh-Why do you ask?”
“At my appointment today, the doc said this kid is going to be huge and that I may have to have a C-section. I was an average size, so I’m assuming this,” I point to my belly, “is all your fault.” I laugh.
I guess he doesn’t find it amusing, because I watch his face blanch. His normal sort of olive complexion is suddenly so white, it’s blue. “Nate?” I reach for his hand, but he pulls back.
“I’ve gotta go.”
I sputter, “You just got here.”
He shuts the lid to his salad. Pauses. Then, he’s gone. Just like that.Poof.
“What the heck just happened?” I ask as I rub my big, fat belly. “What did I say?” Choosing not to let this go, I pick up my phone and send him a text.
Me:What just happened? You can’t tell me how much you weighed as a baby? Jesus.
I wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t.
Not for days.
Five long days…
Cranky Pants:Eight pounds, nine ounces.
Finally, I get something from him. But that’s it. Nothing more. Not for two weeks.
The fucker.
19
Nate
I knowwhat you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m a dick in the highest order.
You’re right. I am.
I was living in some sort of fantasy world there for a while. A fantasy world that had me excited for work to end so I could see her, so I could be in her space. But that came to an abrupt halt the second she started asking about birth weight.
Part of me wanted to tell her that it’s none of her damn business. But it is her business. Hell, I should have thought about medical history. She’s going to need to know that, since I won’t be around.
She’s definitely going to need to know.
