Out On a Limb(38)

Sarah hands me a box of plants, passed to her by Caleb, who’s standing in the back of the moving van. “Perfect. That means we can snoop.” She wiggles her eyebrows, mischievous grin in full force.

I take the box and make my way across the gravel driveway to the front door. I put in the code Bo texted earlier, and the door beeps and unlocks itself. A small entryway with gorgeous, mosaic blue tiling under a black welcome mat greets me. Against the lime-washed white wall is a row of coat hooks with a dark wooden shoe bench beneath.

There’s a narrow door straight ahead of me, a closet presumably, and a rounded archway to the left that leads into the living room. With a heavy-framed window facing the front of the property and a hollowed mantel of a nonfunctional fireplace, the living room certainly does feel cottage-like. Those and the wooden beams across the high ceilings work to add a cosiness to the otherwise undecorated room.

Bo doesn’t seem to have many personal items. There are a few books on the coffee table and a set of wall sconces on either side of the mantel, but other than that, the walls are bare. A simple grey sofa sits in the centre of the room, standard to most single men I’ve ever encountered, alongside a matching wingback chair in the corner next to the window. I wonder if I can steal the spot next to it for my plant stand. They’d get great sun there.

Moving farther into the home, I step into the adjoining room that is designed to be a dining room. Currently, the only pieces of furniture in here are a desk, tucked into the far corner and topped with a monitor and piles of loose sheets of paper, and a walnut media unit housing an impressive vinyl collection. There must be hundreds of records organised into the slots below the speakers and turntable that sit on top of the unit.

Until now, I haven’t considered that the man I made a baby with could have terrible taste in music. Or, even worse, could be one of those people who doesn’t like music at all. That should absolutely be a determining factor when considering who to mix DNA with. So when I spot a Nat King Cole record next to Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits, I thank Bo silently for being someone with taste, for the sake of our child.

To the right of the media unit, through another wide archway, is Bo’s kitchen, which appears to be the most updated room in the house. Under long rectangular windows overlooking the large snow-covered backyard is a wall of dark-grey bottom cabinets with white marble-top counters, separated by a stainless-steel gas oven. Between those cabinets and where I stand is an island with no overhang for sitting. In the centre of the island is a deep, matte-black sink. The cabinets on the far wall form an L-shape, stopping just before a narrower archway leads to a brightly lit hallway. Between the cabinets and the archway is an equally beautiful stainless-steel fridge with an ice dispenser.

That’s right. A fucking ice dispenser! I am that bitch now.

“Okay, so it’s a very cute but very blank canvas,” Sarah says, coming up behind me and placing a box on the kitchen counter. “With your plants and a little sprucing, this place will be absolutely perfect.” She throws her arm around me, jumping once with giddy excitement. “What are you thinking? Why are you looking so sad?”

“The idea of having a constant supply of ice is making me a bit emotional,” I say, raising a slow finger to point at the fridge.

“Your priorities are, as always, impeccable,” she says, pushing past me toward the hallway. “Let’s see what your bedroom looks like.”

I follow her down the hall, caressing the fridge longingly as I pass by.

“He left all the doors open so you could look around. That’s thoughtful,” Sarah says over her shoulder, disappearing into the farthest bedroom.

I peek in the first door on the left to see a decently sized square-shaped bedroom with the same white lime-washed walls and dark flooring as the rest of the home. There’s a simple walnut-coloured bedframe pushed into the far corner under a blind-covered window and not much else, other than a glass dome ceiling light. My new bedroom, I presume.

Next door is a smaller bedroom with light-grey walls, a long vertical window that overlooks the backyard, and a small built-in closet to the left. It’s also completely empty apart from some ethernet cables tangled in the far corner, a wi-fi router, and a half-filled box labelled Donate.

Realising that this is the room intended to be the baby’s nursery, I lean against the doorframe and admire it a little more carefully, noting the way the afternoon sun creates a small rainbow on the wall closest to the closet. I wonder what Bo would think of painting the room yellow. I think it would take that little cluster of afternoon light and make it feel even brighter.

When I turn around to wander towards the next room, Caleb is standing silently behind me. His eyes are locked over his shoulder, then he slowly turns his attention toward me. We share a shy, hopeful smile.

“Baby’s room?” he asks simply.

I nod.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” I say, tears threatening to spring loose.

“It’s a great room.”

“You think?” I ask, my voice wobbling. I laugh at myself, wiping a single tear away. “Oh my god, these fucking hormones,” I complain. “It’s nice though, right?”

“Hey,” Caleb says, outstretching one arm. I walk to him, letting my head rest on his chest. He pats my shoulder a few times, then grabs hold of it and shakes me against him, laughing in a mocking yet gentle manner. “This is good, Win. This is a great place, and that’s a perfect room. Don’t be sad. Don’t cry.”