“Yes. Because you own three T-shirts and one pair of presentable jeans. I say this with love, but the bar for your aesthetic judgment was not high.”
He lays flat on his back, pulling me with him. I shift to my side, head held in one hand, my fingers playing notes onto his bare chest.
“But the color works. I want to keep it. And I want to add a proper rocking chair. Something with a wider seat, so I could fall asleep in it if I needed to, because everything I’ve read says thefirst three months are essentially a survival test dressed up as a bonding experience and nobody sleeps in their actual bed.”
He laughs. Low, rumbly. It vibrates through his sternum.
“What else have you been reading?”
More than I should admit. Eleven tabs about infants are open on my phone at any given time. I’ve been reading about feeding schedules and sleep regression and something called the fourth trimester, which sounds invented but is apparently a legitimate developmental stage that nobody warns you about until you’re already in it.
“I’ve been researching formula because I’ll have to formula-feed, and the internet has split into two warring factions on this topic: one that treats formula like it was engineered in a villain’s laboratory, and another that says fed is best, which seems reasonable but also has the energy of a phrase specifically designed to make formula mothers feel marginally less guilty about a decision that was necessary to make. I mean, shit. I’ve heard of slut-shaming, but mom-shaming takes it to a whole other level.”
“Have you talked to Raven about it? Don’t some surrogate moms breastfeed?”
“I could. But I don’t want to treat Raven like a dairy cow,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. “She’s already growing an entire person inside her body. I am not going to also ask her to produce milk on demand like some kind of human cafeteria. She’s a surrogate, not a vending machine. And I’m sure she has a life she wants to get back to. She’s young. She doesn’t want to be tied down with this baby.”
Saylor is quiet for a moment. Not the uncomfortable silence of a man who’s lost. The attentive silence of someone who’s debating sharing exactly what’s on his mind.
I assume his question and force his hand. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever it is you’re holding back at the moment. You’re team breast-is-best?”
“I’m young,” Saylor says. “Subjectively.”
“Objectively,” I supply, “but go on. Yes, you’re young.”
“And I want to be tied down with this baby. Just for the record. You don’t have to do this alone.”
My eyes close. His heartbeat beneath my ear is steady and slow. I think about the tire swing and whether it needs replacing or just a new coat of sealant. I think about a girl with Whit’s red curls reaching for a board book on a low shelf while afternoon light filters through sage-green curtains. I think about sitting in a rocking chair by the window, watching the oak tree, holding a baby who doesn’t know yet that she was fought for, that two women went to war in a courtroom so that she could grow up in a house with a tire swing and words painted on a wall that say you are so loved. I think about giving that little girl a dad worth calling…Dad.
But is that Saylor? Does he really know what he’s signing up for? Hell, do I?
“I’m still picturing a girl,” I say, changing the subject so I don’t have to force a design that doesn’t quite make sense yet. “With Whit’s hair.”
“Me too. Curly little fire ringlets.”
“I want this baby to know she was chosen. Not inherited. Not awarded by a court.Chosen.Because the woman her mother trusted most in the world decided, before this baby ever existed, that she was worth fighting for. All I want is to do right by her. To do right by Whit.”
“You are, Celeste. You don’t have to try so hard to prove yourself. You’re already seen. You don’t just have a good heart. You have a tireless heart. One that’ll never stop beating for the people you love. So relax. Trust yourself, Lessi.” Saylor’s arm tightens around me. His lips press against the top of my headand rest there for a long moment, like he’s sealing something. A promise he hasn’t officially made.
We keep talking. About crib mattress firmness and baby monitors with cameras and whether there’s a pediatrician in the city that Forrest might recommend. Saylor retells the story about the neighbor’s two-year-old who called him “hammer bang-bang man” and whether that little girl could be a future playmate. About whether I should hire a night nurse for the first month or whether that undermines the entire point of choosing this with my own hands.
It dawns on me like diving into ice water. I’m shocked into awareness. Saylor didn’t just fall for me. I believe his feelings are genuine. I believe he thoroughly enjoyed our sex marathon over the past twelve hours. But more importantly, Saylor is falling for the idea of a family with me.
Way more permanent. Way more risky. Way too dependent on me being something that I’ve never been before.
But how can I not take the risk? I always hoped for a man who listens. A man who hears me say popcorn brands matter and drove to three stores. A man who hears me say college was the happiest time of my life and built a time machine in my living room. A man who understands pressure, and how to relieve it. Someone who understands what I need even before I do.
That man is lying next to me. He deserves a chance.
“Hey, Celeste?” Saylor’s voice has gone drowsy. Warm and slow, muffled slightly against my hair.
“Hmm?”
“I’m really happy right now. Fearless, almost. And I haven’t felt like this in a very long time.”
