“No, no. You don’t have to read it,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I can give you the rundown if you like.”
He nods. “Yes. Sure. That would be good.”
Over the next few minutes, as we eat our lunch, I tell him the basics about Lincoln’s birth. I skip the more graphic parts because we’re eating lunch, but he absorbs every word I say without comment. Until we get to the birthdate.
He drops his fork to his plate with a clatter. “Wait. Doesn’t that mean he was born early?”
I nod. “A little over a month. But despite coming a little early, he was a healthy weight and didn’t need any time in the NICU.” He furrows his brows, so I add, “The neonatal intensive care unit. Where some premature babies spend time growing stronger before they can go home.”
I can see the gears turning in his head and I prepare for him to ask again, given what he now knows about Lincoln being born early, if I’m sure the baby is his. But he surprises me.
“That must have been scary. Being alone and having to deal with that, I mean.”
I release a huge breath. “It was. But when they said everything was fine, and I’d still get to take him home right away, I relaxed. And my family was there, so I wasn’t alone.”
He looks thoughtful. “I’m glad you had your family with you.”
My eyes sting for some unknown reason because I can’t possibly be crying about this after all this time. Can I? I came to terms with not having a partner a long time ago. Nothing has changed.
But maybe actually meeting Lincoln’s father, and confirming he’s not a bad guy, has me thinking again about what I missed out on.
I shake my head, open my eyes wide to dry the tears and say, “Let’s change the subject. It’s been way too long since I got to talk to anyone about grown-up stuff. What do you like to do for fun?”
Chapter 15
Passing Up Naps And Passing Tests
Phoebe
“Okay,wait.You’retellingme you made that?” Archer points to the fruit hammock stuffed with bananas that I have hanging under the nearest cupboard. “With actual rope? Like the rope that you can buy at the hardware store?”
I laugh at the way Archer’s mouth drops open. We were talking about hobbies we have and I told him about the textile art that I like to do and pointed out the fruit hammock as an example. “Not with rope, with macrame cord. It’s softer and easier to work with than that scratchy yellow rope you can buy by the foot. That stuff hurts your hands so much. Plus, it’s not as flexible as I like.”
“Right, okay. But you made it?”
“Yes.” I throw my hands up and laugh. “I made it. I make lots of things. Here look.” I walk to the counter and pick up my phone. “I made this wall hanging for Lincoln’s room at my parents’ place.”
His eyes widen as he looks at the wetland scene depicted on the woven tapestry in the photo. It’s the first large piece I made when I started weaving with fiber, and I’m proud of it. It shows a small pond in the middle of a field with the setting sun in the background. I like the sense of peace that fills me when I look at it. The melding of greens, blues, reds, yellows, and oranges has a calming effect, which is why I have it in Lincoln’s room at home. I like to think it helps him sleep.
“That’s amazing, Phoebe.” He zooms in on the picture and squints at it. “And that’s made of rope? Or cord? Can I send this picture to myself?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Send away. That’s a combination of different textured cords and yarn, and there’s even a little packing string in there.” What can I say? I’m not exactly a purist when it comes to my fiber art. You should see the cabinet full of art supplies at my parents’ house. It’s full of random bits of rope, string, and ribbons that I’m saving for when inspiration strikes. A professional artist, I am not. I’m more of a packrat who makes stuff with my collection of odds and ends. I do it because working with my hands is relaxing, and because I enjoy looking at the finished product. “I guess you could call me a rebel.”
“A rebel with yarn. Who would have thought? You’re a wild one, Phoebe.” He wags his finger at me and grins. “You could get a man in serious trouble.”
Get a man in trouble? What could he mean by that? That almost sounds like flirting. But that’s not possible, is it? Nah. There’s no way. I need to stop with the wishful thinking. I already got the number one thing on my Christmas list. Finding Lincoln’s father is more than enough for me. I’m not looking for romance.
“Oh, yeah,” I say with an exaggerated nod. “So wild. You know, on the nights that I’m not in bed by nine.”
“Nine? That’s late.” He laughs. “If I’m not playing basketball with the guys, I’m lights out by eight at the latest.”
Archer gets up and takes our plates to the dishwasher before focusing on cleaning up all the takeout boxes. I’m just now noticing how many there are. He must have bought a dozen different dishes.
“You want to keep the rest of this for dinner? Is your, uh, boyfriend coming home soon? I bet he needs a lot of fuel to maintain that giant body of his.”
My face scrunches in confusion. “Boyfriend? Wait, what? Are you talking about Gavin? Ew, no. No, no, no.Heurgh.” I gag so hard my face hurts, the contents of my stomach clawing their way up my throat. “Gavin’s my brother. Not only that, he’s only eighteen.” My eyes roll so hard I think I get a glimpse of my brain. “Did you really think he was my boyfriend? Gross.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth, doing a poor job of hiding a grin. “I—wait. No, that’s not—Shit. He was so protective of you when I was here with Eric yesterday that I assumed... Not to mention how good he was with Lincoln. Crap. That’s embarrassing.” He rolls his lips between his teeth, doing a poor job of hiding a grin.
