He doesn’t say anything.
She does. “A professional hockey player with assets that rival those of a small nation and you?—”
“She didn’t know I played hockey. She asked me if I had protection,” he chuckles, and I want to kick him in the balls. “And when she met me in that circle, she didn’t recognize me. Had she seen me in another circumstance?—"
She laughs, “If that is true, I assume you’re in therapy for your bruised ego, because,” she stops and laughs again.
“I hope your tits sag you rotten twat,” he grumbles, making her laugh even harder.
“This is brilliant, utterly brilliant.” She laughs harder now.
I wake smelling his scent — vetiver, clean skin, and winter— and feeling his presence, and even though I was flattered by what he said to her, I don’t trust any of this. I keep my eyes closed.
Then I feel hair tickle my belly that is somehow exposed, and lips press against my skin,my stomach.
“Schlaf gut, mein kleines Herz.”
Sleep well, my little heart.
And if that wasn’t enough to make a very logical woman swoon, I hear him move around the room, the bed dips, and he whispers, “Much cooler,” and then, “Gute Nacht, Schatz.”
And then he’s gone.
Eventually, I drift.
But sleep doesn’t last. I wake up hours later, restless. I feel Lucy’s head, she’s warm but not hot. Three days of this is going to be hell, I stare at the ceiling, tracing the lines of light that leak through the gap in the curtains.
I listen for the sound of him in another room, but nothing. Maybe he’s on a run, or already gone to the arena, or maybe he’s just out there, awake like me, wondering how to make sense of the last twenty-four hours.
I sit up carefully and slip out of Lucy’s room and head to mine to use the bathroom, finding my hair a tangled mess, cheeks flushed, eyes shadowed, and still in yesterday’s clothes. I splash cold water on my face and remember I need crackers; they helped yesterday. If I eat a few before.
I hesitate for a second, then tiptoe down the hall, pausing just short of the doorway when I see him. His back is turned. I watch the set of his shoulders, the way he moves, and I feel an odd flutter.
I’m going to start documenting when it happens, because it feels like it’s when he’s in the same proximity.
He turns, mugs in hand, and sees me watching from the shadow of the hallway.
“Morning,” he says, voice softer than I think I’ve ever heard it.
“Morning,” I echo as I glance at the clock, “You’re up early.”
He shifts one mug to his other hand, like he’s been caught mid-thought.
“I didn’t want to wake you or Lucy,” he finishes. “I made a list last night and placed an order.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I murmur, stepping fully into the kitchen. The floor is cool under my feet.
He gestures to the counter. It is a lot.
“For Lucy,” he says, slipping into that calm, precise tone that feels like armor. “Children’s acetaminophen and ibuprofen. Pedialyte freezer pops. The good ones. Plain toast bread, saltines, applesauce, and bananas. Soup, a wide variety of them, all would work well with toasted cheese.” He smirks. “She loves cheese.”
“The WIC program. Free cheese. Cheese sticks are a self-serve meal.” She says, scowling down at the granite countertop.
“I have no idea how she birthed the two of you.” He shakes his head and points back to the counter, “Humidifier. Two thermometers.”
“Two? We already have one.”
“We do not gamble with fevers in this house.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a small box. “And this, a video baby monitor.”
