“No, Layla. I’mpebblingyou.”
I squinted. “That seems way too kinky for me not to notice. Is that that thing where you tap your di—”
“No, pebbling is a nonverbal communication—one preferred by neurodivergent people—to show others that they think about them and want to connect with them. It’s called pebbling after penguins who drop pebbles next to ones they love for nest-building.”
I bit down on my lip. “Are you saying you want to connect with me, Grant Gerwig?”
“I’m saying I want to nest with you, Layla.” His gaze was trained on mine, unwavering, like the man it belonged to. “And that I’ve been wanting to nest with you since way before we found out we were going to be parents. I understand you’re not in a place to consider a relationship right now, and I’m not going to push you on the subject. But just know that you can always have me in any capacity you want—a baby daddy, a friend, a lover, a boyfriend, a partner, ahusband. Well, maybe not a wingman.” He licked his lips. “Definitelynot a wingman. But I can wear many, many caps. Sometimes simultaneously. I mean, look at this head.” He gestured to his crown. “Perfect, right?”
“Brilliant.” I beamed so hard my cheeks hurt. “You’re really selling it to me, just so you know. And Ineverthought I’d give love a second chance.”
“We’re no strangers to each other, Layla. We’re two people who have been slow-burn dating for years. Wework.”
“I know.” I bit down on my lip. “We just squashed a minor miscommunication trope in five seconds. The ladies at my book club are going to be so impressed. We’re so good together it’s ridiculous.”
He grinned. “How about we make a deal?”
“I like deals.”
You’d like waterboarding, too, likely, if he were the one inflicting it on you.
“Let’s commit to not dating anyone until the baby is one year old. That’ll give you peace of mind, and me time to win you over.”
“I really love this idea,” I admitted. “And you won’t be mad if I end up choosing not to be with you at the end?”
“Devastated? Yes. Mad? Not even a little.”
“Or frustrated about not being able to hook up with other people for basically a year and a half?” I cocked my head sideways.
“Yup.”
“That sounds way too perfect.” I shook my head, laughing a little. “What’s in it for you?”
“Simple.” He smiled. “You.”
Chapter Thirteen
Grant
The following week, Layla moved into my apartment.
She wasn’t kidding about having a lot of stuff. She had an unholy amount of shit. She was flirting with hoarder territory. And that, unfortunately, was the only thing she flirted with in this house.
Who needed so many hair clips? And lip moisturizers? And Stanley cups?
There were also plants. Lots and lots of them. The amount you see from a stray window while you walk around Manhattan, peeking from a stuffy, multiple-story building above a bodega, and think to yourself,Who the hell keeps so many plants in one tiny space?
Let me tell you who—the future mother of my child.
There was always a chance this was all an elaborate test to check if I was as awful as that Connor prick. If so, I planned on passing with flying colors. She could clutter my apartment to eternity and back with neon dildos, and I’d say thank you.
I worked hard on being an A+ roommate. I made her scrambled eggs for breakfast. Went on snack runs in the middle of the night for her. I even watched rom-coms with her, braving the fact that I lost an IQ point each time I completed a chick flick. (Seven points forThe WeddingPlanner, in which Matthew McConaughey told Jennifer Lopez with a straight face to only eat brown M&M’s, as they have less artificial coloring, because they’re already brown. Which, of course, is nonsense. A coating is a coating. When you suck on an M&M, you clearly see that they all turn white. That asshole was supposed to be a doctor? He gave all of us a bad rep.)
After I’d gotten animated—okay,aggravated—about M&Mgate, Layla and I agreed to each take a turn choosing a movie.
I got her to watch some horror flicks, includingRosemary’s Baby. In retaliation, she made me watch a Mark Ruffalo film.
Layla joined me on my morning runs ahead of my half-marathon, only she took the bike. She made fish in curry. Tidied up the place. Lit up candles that smelled like Thanksgiving and Christmas and Bergdorf Goodman. She lathered my feet with wart-remover ointment when my runs started taking their toll. And put a Word of the Day on our door every day with a sticker sheet attached. If a kid from the building managed to read it, they could help themselves to a sticker. They were the good stuff too.BlueyandDespicable Mewaterproof stickers. The neighbors’ children went nuts for them.
