Out On a Limb(75)

Robert joins me soon after, kicked out of the kitchen by his son, balancing a glass of wine as he dances into the room, his body walking in time with the dramatic French singer.

“She was my wife’s favourite,” he says, pointing to the other room. “That’s how I knew Joanna was the one. Excellent taste. In men too, obviously,” Robert says, his voice echoed by the wineglass he’s speaking into.

I laugh, folding a piece of paper towel to put my hand over top of. “Bo told me that you and Joanna fell in love very fast. Ten days, right?”

“Yes. Ten days is all it took to go from strangers to married.” He takes a long sip, his eyes held on mine and teasing just like his son’s. “Seems you’re both taking a slower pace.”

I bite my lip, looking back down at my nail polish on the table, opening it.

“Yes, ignore the old man’s silly comments. Very wise.”

I smile, shaking my head as I dip the applicator into the mauve polish, pinching it between my thumb and the side of my palm in my right hand.

“Was this from an accident? Or sickness like Bo?” he asks, pointing at my right hand.

“Oh, no. From birth.”

“It’s funny. Bo didn’t mention it. Even though he speaks of you a lot.”

I raise a brow at him, shaking my head at his blatancy. “I’m sure it would’ve come up.” But I sort of love that it didn’t.

“Dieu, j’adore cette chanson!” Robert exclaims, jumping from his seat. “Monte le son, mon fils!”

I dropped French after grade ten, but I’m fairly certain Robert just said he loves the song and asked Bo to turn it up. Or that he loves cats and asked Bo for a slice of pie. One of those two things. Based on the fact that Bo appears from the kitchen and moves to turn the volume up, I think I got it right the first time.

Bo flips a tea towel over his shoulder before leaning against the archway to the kitchen, smirking at Robert performing with gusto.

Robert dances over to Bo, clasping a hand around his shoulder as the song builds toward the chorus. Then both men sing, or rather shout, the chorus together. Robert somehow manages to not spill any of his wine as he shakes both arms up in the air above his head, using his whole body as an instrument.

I laugh, bobbing my head along to the music, as they start performing some sort of terrible can-can routine side by side.

“You must imagine it with all four legs, you see!” Robert shouts to me over the song. “And also the feathers and jewels and whatever else,” he adds, gesturing to his torso.

Bo kicks him hard with his prosthetic foot, and Robert gapes at his son, wincing as he laughs.

“Seems like it kicks just fine,” Bo says, shrugging away from him and going back to the kitchen as he smiles to himself.

I twist the lid of my nail polish closed and begin blowing on my nails. Robert lingers next to the record player, tracing one finger along his wife’s collection, pulling out a few and inspecting them as he goes.

Once the music ends, Robert and Bo join me in the living room. After a few stories about the jazz band he’s playing with back in Paris and a handful of suggestive comments alluding to the relationship between Bo and me—or lack thereof—Robert excuses himself for bed. Claiming he’s evaded his jetlag long enough.

Which is exactly the moment I spot the extra pillow and blankets laid out on the corner chair and realise Robert has Bo’s room for the next few days. Until now, I haven’t thought of our sleeping arrangements for the visit, but there’s no way Bo should be on the couch. He won’t fit.

“You’re not seriously considering sleeping on the couch, right?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t discovered the magical sleeping powers of this couch.”

“For a nap, maybe, but it’s not at all big enough for you to sleep on. You’ll mess up your back.”

“I did find myself wishing I could detach both bottom halves of my legs.” He laughs, bringing his glass of water to his lips.

“Seriously, though, you’ll be miserable.”

“I’ll go to the store after our appointment tomorrow and pick up an air mattress.”

“I can take the couch tonight,” I offer.

“What? No way.”

I roll my eyes at his immediate dismissal. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he says, dripping with sarcasm, “maybe because I’m not making my pregnant—” He stops and tenses, then with a quick shake of his head, starts again. It was less than a second for the whole series of movements, but I noticed it all in agonising detail. What was he going to say? My what? “I’m not going to make a pregnant woman sleep on the couch,” he says firmly.

C’mon, Win. Three seconds of bravery. An innocent enough offer. You can do this.

“Well, we could share my bed…” I say, forcing my voice to sound indifferent. But then Bo studies me far too intently. His brows knitted together and his head tilted. And I feel myself struggling to not take it back or chase it with some overwrought disclaimer.

“We could,” Bo says, nodding, his eyes still narrowed on me. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind?”

I think I can find the kindness in my heart to share a bed with you, sure.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Totally sure?”