The apartment is too quiet this morning.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet either. I’m sitting at the small kitchen table, coffee going cold in front of me, watching Natalie move back and forth between the bedroom and the living room like she’s trying to burn off nervous energy.
She’s not frantic or pacing. But she is restless. Folding a throw blanket that doesn’t need folding. Straightening a stack of mail that’s already neat. Picking up her phone, setting it down again.
I recognize it because I do the same thing before a fight.
“You don’t have to keep moving,” I say finally.
She glances over her shoulder. “I know.”
She keeps moving anyway.
I lean back in the chair and scrub a hand over my face, trying not to smile at the same time my stomach knots. A few months ago, I didn’t even know how to sit still with her in the same room without feeling like the world might implode. Now I’m watching her fuss over throw pillows while we get ready to drop two life-changing bombs on her brother.
Progress, I guess.
“You excited?” she asks, not looking at me.
I don’t pretend. “Yeah.”
That gets her attention. She turns, studies my face like she’s checking to see if I mean it. I do. Completely.
“I’m also scared shitless,” I add. “But mostly excited.”
Her mouth curves into a sm
all, careful smile. “You don’t seem scared.”
“That’s because I’ve spent most of my life pretending I’m not,” I tell her. “Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
She comes to the table and sits across from me, tucking one leg up under herself. There’s a softness to her now that still catches me off guard. Not weakness. Just ease. Like she’s finally breathing after a lifetime of holding it in. We’ve had a few weeks to get used to our new life, but today there’s a different challenge. One that neither of us have been looking forward to.
Rick’s coming home.
It’s not that I’m not excited that my best friend is finally being released from the hospital, or that Nat isn’t happy her brother is coming home. Just that we haven’t told him.
About us.
About the baby.
“I keep thinking about how we’re going to say it,” she admits. “Like if we choose the wrong words, it’ll blow up.”
I snort. “It’s Rick. It’s gonna blow up no matter what words we use.”
She exhales, rubbing her hands together. “I don’t want him to feel like I lied to him.”
“We didn’t lie,” I say gently. “We just didn’t dump everything on him while he was laid up in a hospital bed.”
She nods, but the worry doesn’t leave her eyes.
“He’s protective,” she says. “And I’m his little sister. That’s… a hard shift.”
“I know.” I reach across the table and take her hand. “He’ll get there.”
She laces her fingers through mine. “You sound very confident.”
“I sound hopeful,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
