“Nothing remotely worth complaining about,” I say. “The nausea is persistent and creative in its timing, and I’ve developed a relationship with saltines that borders on romantic. But Wren is getting a sister, and I’m thrilled.”
“Me too,” Eleanor says. Two words. No elaboration. But her eyes stay on my belly for a beat longer than necessary, and I can see the math she’s doing. It’s the same math she did standing in front of Whit’s grave a year ago, recalculating what family means and where she fits inside it.She fits.It took us both a while to build the door, but she walked through it, and she’s not leaving.
She stands, smooths her trousers, and begins a slow tour of my office that I’ve come to recognize as her post-meeting wind-down ritual. She straightens a frame on the credenza. Adjusts the angle of a vase on the windowsill. Runs her finger along the edge of my bookshelf and inspects it for dust, which she finds, and addresses with a look of personal betrayal directed at my cleaning service.
“You know,” she says, pausing at Patrice, “this gown is extraordinary.”
“Thank you.”
“The color is exceptional.”
“It’s Regal Plum.”
Eleanor tilts her head, considering. “That’s not bad. I might have gone with Imperial Amethyst, but Regal Plum has a certain accessibility.”
“Imperial Amethyst? Damn, Eleanor.” I hand over nothing but air. “Here’s the crown. Consider me humbled. That’s a great name. But no, we’re going with Regal Plum.”
“Why?”
“Because I want this to feel approachable. I want women to feel like they can wear it, not like the dress is going to wear them.”
“Is it all finished?”
“Yes, except for pockets. We’re working that into the final production.”
“Pockets?”
I look at her very seriously. “Yes, pockets. Like Target dresses.”
Eleanor nods like I just insulted her religion. She touches the sleeve of the gown the way I’ve seen her touch Whitney’s headstone—with reverence, with grief, with the quiet understanding that beautiful things are worth protecting even when they can’t protect you back.
She finally bores of the gown and continues through my office to investigate the imperfections. I have a conversation with my best friend that takes place entirely inside my chest.
You planned this, didn’t you, Whit? You absolute menace. You knew leaving me with Wren would shackle me to your mother until the end of time.
I can almost hear her laughing. That big, room-filling laugh that made strangers turn and stare and waiters bring extra bread because they wanted to be near whatever was making someone that happy.
I love her, Whit. She drives me insane, but I love her. And she loves Wren in a way that would make you cry, the good kind, the kind where you’re not sad but your body needs to do something with all that feeling so it picks crying because it’s the only release valve big enough.
I hope you can see this. I hope wherever you are, you can see that the people you loved figured it out. It took a cemetery, a bankruptcy, a fake engagement, a real one, a marker ring, an Australian, a puppy, a caseworker named Janet,a check written in a cemetery, and one deeply unfortunate conversation about mozzarella sticks, but we figured it out.
I miss you. Every day. But I’m not sad anymore. I’m just grateful. For the trust. For the time we had. For the little girl with your red hair who is about to come through that door any second now because I can hear her father’s boots in the hallway and she’s probably chewing on his collar.
Right on cue, the office door opens and Saylor walks in with Wren on his hip.
She’s gotten so big. A year of growing has transformed her from the scrunched, fist-clenching bundle I held in the hospital into a bright-eyed, copper-haired tornado of opinions and motion. She’s wearing a yellow dress that Ada picked out and tiny white shoes that she’s already kicked off, because Wren has inherited her mother’s hair, her godmother’s stubbornness, and apparently Whit’s feelings about uncomfortable footwear.
“Look who it is, sweetie,” Saylor coos, bouncing her gently on his hip. “Mummy and Grandma.”
Wren’s face splits into a grin that takes up her entire head. She reaches for me with both arms, fingers opening and closing in the universal toddler signal forgive me to that person immediately or face consequences.
Saylor sets her in my lap, careful to protect my belly. She settles against my belly with a comfort reserved only for mama. I’ve been her pillow, couch, and bed for so long, this little girl has a permanent butt print in my lap. I never thought I was a cuddly person. When I met Saylor, I realized I was wrong. When we met Wren, I realized I wasverywrong. She pats the bump twice with her palm, which she’s been doing for weeks, not because she understands what’s inside but because she’s noticed the bump is new and she’s conducting an ongoing investigation.
Saylor leans down and kisses my temple, and the warmth of his mouth lingers on my skin the way it always does—notfading so much as settling in, becoming part of the ambient temperature of my life.
“How’d the run go?” I ask.
“Sixteen-minute mile, but Mum ran the whole time.” He grins, and the pride in his face is luminous, the kind that can’t be performed or manufactured. “The whole thing, Celeste. Start to finish. No cane, no stops. Doc Yassa said her mobility has improved forty percent since the surgery. She cried after. I cried after. Ruby cried after, but I think that’s because she wanted a treat.”
