I pull into my building's garage, Wyatt’s back seat loaded with the smaller bags, with the rest of it getting delivered later this week. I take the elevator with all my loot, suddenly nervous.
What if she's changed her mind? What if being here made her realize this was a mistake?
But when the doors open into my apartment—our apartment now—I find Sloane curled up on the couch, fast asleep. A statistics textbook is open on her chest, rising and falling with her breath. Her curls are pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing yoga pants and one of those soft-looking sweaters that makes her look impossibly small and vulnerable.
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
I leave the bags by the elevator and move quietly into the kitchen. The sink is full of dishes—I really should have cleaned up before I left for work. I roll up my sleeves and start washing, careful to keep the water running softly so I don't wake her.
Dish by dish, I work through the pile. Plates, glasses, silverware. It's meditative somehow. Calming after the disaster of the therapy session.
"Tucker?"
I turn to find Sloane sitting up, rubbing her eyes. The textbook has fallen to the floor.
"Hey there, gorgeous." The words slip out before I can stop them.
She groans, but there's no heat in it. "What time is it?"
"Almost five. You hungry?"
"Starving. And my feet are killing me." She looks down at them with betrayal. "Since when is unpacking so exhausting?”
"Since you're growing two Stags.” I dry my hands and move to the couch. "Here. Let me."
Before she can protest, I lift her feet into my lap and start rubbing. Her eyes close immediately, a slight sound of relief escaping. I will my crotch not to respond to that sound, and that’s probably the most challenging task of my day. And that’s saying something.
"Oh my god. That's amazing." She practically purrs.
"My dad said he used to do this for my mom when she was pregnant." I work my thumbs along her arch.
"Your dad's a smart man."
We sit like that for a while, me rubbing her feet while she relaxes into the couch cushions. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, painting everything gold.
This feels right. More right than anything has felt in a long time.
"I bought some stuff," I say eventually. "Baby stuff. It's by the elevator. I can put it in your room or wherever you want."
"What kind of stuff?" She talks with her eyes closed, and it’s familiar. Comfortable. I like it.
"Crib sheets. A stroller. Some other things Sandra said we'd need."
"Who's Sandra?"
"Lady at BabyLand. She was very helpful."
Sloane opens one eye. "How much stuff?"
"Some stuff."
"Tucker."
"A reasonable amount of stuff for someone having twins."
She tries to sit up to look, but I press gently on her ankle. "Stay. You're comfortable. I'll show you later."
"I can't believe you went baby shopping."
