For his part, Grant had made good on his promise to worship my body in any shape and form it took. When I was nine months pregnant, when I was postpartum and sported intense purple-and-blue stretch marks across my belly, and when my body had shrunk its way back to normal.
“You’re looking fancy.” I sat on our bed with Georgie in my arms, then leaned against the headboard and grabbed my nursing pillow to prop our son over it. “You don’t have to impress me, you know. Iwillput out at the end of the date.”
“I’m forever going to try to impress you.” After he finished buttoning up his dress shirt, he walked over to his closet to retrieve his jacket. His tone was clipped. Dry. He was Old Grant again. The one before we’d found out we were pregnant. “How’s George doing?”
Okay,almosteveryone called him Georgie.
“Georgie is doing great. Just carb-loading before I leave him for all of ninety minutes to grab a bite.”
But it wasn’t just a bite. Grant had a whole thing planned for us. He hadn’t told me where we were going, but he’d flown my parents in from New Jersey to watch Georgie, so I was guessing it was somewhere nice. It was the first time we were going to leave him with someone who wasn’t one of us, and frankly, I was struggling a little with the idea of letting go.
I had no idea how most women were expected to just up and leave their babies after three or four months of maternity leave. It was inhumane and cruel. I was so grateful to be in a privileged position to be able to spend time with my son, and I reminded myself of that, especially during times when things were tough.
Grant ran his fingers over his hair in front of the mirror, then turned around and walked over to us. He kissed the top of Georgie’s head, staring at him upside down. Georgie washaving none of it, though. His eyes were closed and he was solely focused on getting his meal, purring like a cat.
“Hey, son. Your mother and I need to get going, so please wrap this up. I know this is hard. I’m a fan of her boobs too. But I promise you’ll have her back in no time.”
Twenty minutes later, we jogged to our car and started driving. A thick layer of snow covered everything within sight. New York winter was brutal, but Minnesota winter tested your will to live.
Still, I loved it here. We’d created something that was uniquely ours. The house was spacious and beautiful, and before winter hit us, fall was absolutely stunning.
“Where are we going?” I asked Grant.
He was rubbing his lips with his fingers nervously, checking that his messenger bag was in the back seat through the rearview mirror. “Patience, my love. It’s right around the corner.”
A few minutes later, we parked in front of a striking Tudor-style estate. It appeared to be stunningly preserved, even while covered in a white sheet of snow.
“Plummer House.” Grant unbuckled, then immediately reached into the back seat to retrieve his messenger bag. Was he hiding a down payment for a house there in cash or something? Why was he so fixated on his bag? “I rented it for the evening.”
“Are we picnicking?” I gasped. Even better, we could DoorDash McDonald’s. Surely they delivered here.
Grant circled the front of the car and opened the door for me, then ushered me into the house. When I walked in, I was speechless.
Fire crackled in a fireplace, and a dinner table was set for two people only. The place was gorgeous and tastefullyfurnished from the inside. Heavy wood beams and wooden flooring.
But what hit me more than anything was the scent of delicious food.
Honey-glazed roasted chicken. Freshly baked bread. Onion soup. Garlic mashed potatoes and cinnamoned apple pie. My mouth began to water. The place clearly wasn’t a restaurant, but some kind of a historical landmark, so I wasn’t sure where the food had come from.
Grant pulled a chair out for me at the table, and for the first time since we’d met, I noticed his hands trembling around the carved old wood of the piece of furniture.
“I’m guessing we won’t be having ramen and chicken nuggets this year.” I flashed him a smile, blushing—blushing—despite, and perhaps because of, who he was to me. I had discovered in recent months that no milestone was enough to steal away from the magic of Grant Gerwig. Not even after he had crouched between my legs for ten hours straight and watched my vagina being torn open by his unproportionally big-headed son.
“I now understand why female dragonflies fake their own death to avoid mating with their male counterparts!” My roar ripped through the dry, cold air of the hospital room. “If you think you’re getting anywhere near me after putting me through this, you have another thing coming.”
“No ramen and chicken nuggets for us this year,” Grant confirmed.
I elevated an eyebrow, watching from my periphery as a waiter in a traditional black-and-white uniform scurried from the kitchen door with a bottle of red wine. He presented it to me with elegant fingers.
I tapped my finger on my lips. “If I’m going to pump and dump, might as well drink something I like. Do you guys have, like, a Cosmo?”
The waiter’s eyes widened in horror, his skin turning a sickly shade of green.
“Sweetheart.” Grant reached to touch my knee under the table. “It’s a Château Lafite-Rothschild Pauillac 2000. It’ll go very well with our meal.”
I googled the name of the wine on my phone and nearly choked on my saliva. It cost like a New York rent. In Brooklyn, but still.
After our wine was poured, Grant took my hand and looked into my eyes and said, “Layla, there’s something I wanted to ask ...”
