My shoulders tense immediately.
“Before you say anything,” he adds, anticipating it, “this is not overstepping. It is about being comfortable if you feel distance is a good idea. If Lucy feels well enough so that you can sleep in your own room, this lets you stay out of her space so you do not get sick.”
“She is not going to like that,” I say.
“And neither will you,” he agrees calmly.
“She’d sneak into my bed anyway.”
“Possibly,” he concedes. “But with less coughing directly into your face if this turns into a cold.”
I narrow my eyes, and he moves on quickly, like he knows exactly where my tolerance ends.
“And immunity boosters,” he says, pointing to a plethora of bottles, “that are safe for … you. Lucy is sick, and I do not want you sick.” I cross my arms. “All optional.”
That helps.A little.
He pulls more boxes from a bag and sets them on the counter.
“And tea,” he says. “For Lucy, chamomile with honey sticks and Throat Coat. Pediatric-safe.”
My chest tightens despite my best effort not to feel… supported. First the girls and now him. It’s a lot.
“And for you,” he continues, quieter now. “Ginger-lemon. Peppermint. Raspberry leaf. Vitamins,” he says, and I look at the bottle that says, prenatal vitamins. “All safe. I checked.”
My breath stutters.
Then he sets down a tin and then several more. Elegant. Expensive. Absurd. “And for Anneliese.”
I blink.
“She’s here a week, and she drinks tea like it is a competitive sport.” I don’t like that, not at all. “Black tea in the morning. Darjeeling or Assam. Floral in the afternoon. Evening, oolong or rooibos. No chamomile. She claims it tastes like despair.”
“She is?—”
“She is deeply unlikeable, unapologetically,” he replies. “But will be helpful with the families. She’s important to me. She will keep her distance from Lucy and you, she knows there are boundaries.”
“She… knows —”
“You are with child,” he says quietly.
The words land hard.
“I didn’t know,” I admit.
“I know,” he points to the Band-Aid where blood was drawn, and I quickly take it off. “You just found out.” He turns toward the stove and quickly changes the subject. “Eggs?”
“Lucy does not like Eggs Benedict or poached eggs.”
“So scrambled and sunny side up,” he shakes his head and releases an exaggerated sigh. “So boring.”
My eyes stay on the crackers for a second too long, and then I see a massive wall calendar. I was going to buy one, but thought better about spending that thirty dollars. It’s Color-coded and already has names written neatly across the top.
Hildy.
Lucy.
Lenzin.
