It’s Thursday night. I haven’t seen Natalie since the doctor appointment, since the ultrasound, since we watched that tiny body wiggle on the screen and listened to the heartbeat fill the room. A week is not actually that long, but it feels like I have been stuck in a holding pattern for months.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it and her response comes faster than I expect.
Natalie
You don’t have to buy things yet.
Jake
Too late.
I grin at my phone while she types. The dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Natalie
Fine. Come over. But if you bought something ridiculous, I’m returning it.
Jake
See you in 20.
I grab my keys and head out to the garage, where the unassembled crib sits in the back of my SUV next to a bag from the pharmacy. The crib is top rated, convertible, all the safety features. The kind of thing you end up buying after two hours of reading reviews you did not know you cared about until you suddenly do. I already built the one for my house last night, so at least I know what I’m doing.
Traffic is light for a Thursday, so it only takes fifteen minutes. I haul the flat-packed crib box up the walk, and before I can knock, the door swings open. Every thought in my head flatlines.
She’s wearing my shirt. The gray one she took from my bedroom that night. It’s faded and soft-looking, hanging off one shoulder, paired with shorts that show off her long, tanned legs. Her hair is down, loose waves falling past her shoulders, and her skin looks like it’s glowing in the moonlight.
She’s stunning. I’m staring. I know I’m staring, but I can’t stop. All I can think about is how badly I want to peel that shirt off her. How easy it would be to step inside, close the door behind me, and kiss her until neither of us can remember why we’re supposed to be keeping our distance.
I’m in so much trouble with this woman.
“You bought a crib.” Her voice is flat, but her eyes give her away. There’s amusement there, threaded through the disbelief.
I force myself to focus. “I bought a crib,” I confirm, clearing my throat.
“Jake, I’m barely in the second trimester.”
“Never too early to prepare.”
She steps aside to let me in, shaking her head. “You’re insane.”
“Practical,” I correct, maneuvering the box through the doorway without taking out a plant in the process. “Where do you want it?”
She pauses, and looks unsure. “I guess the guest room?” She says it like she is trying the words on. “I haven’t really thought about this yet. Where things are going to go.”
“That’s okay. We have time to figure it out.”
She gestures down the hall. “Second door on the right.”
I carry the box through the living room, past the cozy couch and the built-ins packed with novels and scripts, past a coffee table littered with notebooks and highlighters.
The guest room is small but bright, hardwood floors and a window that looks out over the side yard. There is a futon, a small desk buried under notebooks and pens, and several stacks of books that look like they are mid-organization.
“When you are ready, I can help you move things around,” Isay, setting the box down. “I can put it next to the futon for now.”
She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe what?”
