Matt: Calm yourself. I know you live for my scintillating conversation.
More than he knows.
Matt: Anyway, all that to lead up to the fact that I know you already know how big he is because you keep unfolding the corner of the pages of my pregnancy bible.
The pregnancy bible is one of a number of parenting books that have appeared in the house over the past couple of weeks, but the pregnancy bible, as he calls it, is kept on his nightstand. It’s super stalkery, I know, but I look at it every day after he’s left for work. Though I’m careful to replace it each day exactly as I found it.Or so I thought.
I guess there’s just something heartening in reading the pages Matt has read the night before. The facts he learned before dropping off to sleep, maybe to dream about them. The cute facts, not the horrifying ones. The stuff of dreams, not the stuff of nightmares.
Anyhoo, my stalking gig makes me feel connected to Matt in a way that negates my fear that he’ll discover what that connection costs me.
Me: Not me.
Matt: So that wasn’t one of your many many hair ties I found on my bed?
Damn.I roam around his big, beautiful house every day while he’s out working, discovering little things about him without him knowing. I’ve learned he’s a closet romantic (not such a stretch of the imagination) thanks to the romance titles I found slotted among the business, philosophy, and history books on his shelves. I don’t believe for one minute they all belong to Letty.
While he once said he can cook—back in October, when I admitted I couldn’t—I have yet to see evidence of this. Instead, he has a private chef called Mary. Mary is a grandma of three and an absolute darling. I know this because we’ve chatted as she’s prepped dinner.
In fact, I love how chatty Mary is. Almost as much as I loved hearing how Matt pays her full time but tells her not to bother coming in every day, but just to keep him stocked up in meals instead. She also let me in on the secret that Matt has a bit of a sweet tooth, not that you’d know it from looking at that body of his. But she showed me where his stash of candy is. By the sheer amount, I can tell the man loves strawberry licorice. Think Twizzlers.
But his condom stash I found all on my own.In his bathroom vanity. Left-hand top drawer. At the back.I might’ve counted how many were in the box. I might also know that number hasn’t altered since I moved in.
It seems Matt is also a bit of a slob, though I’m not sure I wouldn’t be too if I just dropped stuff and a team of (paid) fairies relocated those items to their rightful spots. I guess that’s why he’s teased me about my own habits. He said it’s like I think I’m being graded on my tidiness.
Old habits, I guess. Except for the hair ties he teases me endlessly about.
These and others are the little nuggets of Matt I stash away like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Facts, knowledge, thoughts, and feelings that I’ll save for future reflection. Some day when it’s too late to cave, because every day I’m fighting my growing feelings. It’s hard not to be seduced by the idea of a man who’d give up his world to follow me.Me and his baby.
And that’s what I tell myself is at the heart of our connection. That Matt is a good man, a decent man who’s doing the best he can after finding himself in this situation. While I battle the idea of him and me, he’s given in to the temptation of family.No matter how less than ideal, less than pristine, our origin story is.
Coming clean would be a disservice to him. Worse, maybe even a repeat of history. And I will do everything in my power to avoid passing on my own traumas to this innocent. Every time I rest my hands on my stomach, I swear to the life inside me I’ll be the best mom I can.
Which includes my very careful response to his accusation.
Me: I really don’t know what you’re talking about.
Matt: Unfolding the pages that I’ve folded feels like a judgment ...
Me: It is. Only heathens don’t use a bookmark.
I thank the Lord and all the stars above that this is what he chooses to call me out on. Instead of the fact I’ve been lurking in his bedroom.Lying on his bed.
Matt: I’m pretty sure the definition of heathen is a person (or persons) who makes another lose their place in a book they’re currently very avidly reading.
Me: Fine. I’ll order my own copy.
Matt: Don’t. I like that we’re reading the same copy. I wouldn’t even complain if you read it over my shoulder.
Me: Now *that* is the behavior of a heathen
How is it he seems to know when I need to smile?I ask myself as my phone vibrates almost immediately again. Sliding the message open, I pad across to the kitchen to fill my water glass. The apartment is modern, neat, if not a little institutionally sparse. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a through-lounge diner, plus a tiny galley kitchen, which I barely use. Because I can’t cook. Currently. Maybe I should use my current free time to hone my culinary skills. Can’t feed a toddler on takeout leftovers.
Matt: Harry Potter or Twilight?
He has his ways of learning about me. And I have mine.Snooping and grilling Mary.
Me: HP. Ravenclaw all the way!
