Killian marches about twenty feet out from the pool, raising his palms in a ‘see?’ gesture. “This will give us room for some deck chairs and some tables.”
Tristian storms over and snatches the measuring tape from his hand. “Those can go outside of the fence!”
“Why the fuck,”’ Killian asks belligerently, “would they go outside of the fence?! Who wants to walk around to a gate after checking their phone or having a sip of beer? That’s asinine!”
“Rath,” Tristian says, waving me over when he notices me. “Give us your opinion. We need a fence around the pool to keep the baby out, but—”
“This idiot thinks it should be right up on the edges.” Killer demonstrates this by pointing to a little orange flag that’s been buried into the grass. “Tell him that’s stupid.”
I look at the grass, then the pool, then at both guys. “Yeah, I’m just gonna level with you here. I couldn’t possibly give less of a fuck. This is some shit-tier rich-people problems, guys. Where’s Story?”
They both looked annoyed at my lack of investment, but Tristian tosses the measuring tape aside, saying, “I think she’s upstairs napping.”
“Oh.” Well, that works out nicely. “Carry on, then.”
But before I can walk away, Killer mentions, “Maybe I should go up and see if her back still hurts.”
Tristian adds, “I should take her a smoothie, too. The ones I’ve been making have been helping her with morning sickness.”
“I think fucking not,” I snap, thrusting a finger at them. “Three to four is our time. Tristian gets her at the ass crack of dawn and Killer gets her all night. But the afternoons are mine.”
Tristian raises his hands defensively. “Geez, fine. Bite our fucking heads off about it.”
But Killian’s eyes narrow. “What exactly is it you do from three to four?”
Catching on, Tristian adds, “Yeah, you’re so touchy about it. Are you painting her toenails or something?”
Killian slides him a look, muttering, “Fuck off, I painted her toenails last week.”
“What we do from three to four,” I stress, giving them both a threatening look, “is none of your business. Enjoy your urgent fence crisis, you lame-asses.”
I trudge back inside and then up the stairs, stopping on the way to grab the paper bag I’d stashed in the nursery a few days ago. When I carefully push the door open, the sight of her on the bed greets me. She’s above the covers, fully dressed, like maybe she just collapsed there. I’m quiet as I enter, closing the door softly behind me. After a second of thought, I lock it, too. She’s on her back, right in the middle of the mattress, pillows stacked up around her. Her belly rises up, so fucking cutely round that we have a hard time keeping our hands and faces off it. She’s at the end of her second trimester, which is why we’ve set up these little afternoon dates.
Around week 25, your baby may begin responding to voices and other noises.
I unpack all the supplies, laying them out on the bed as I kick off my shoes. I’m careful not to jostle her too much as I settle in at her side, my head beside her belly. Propped up on an elbow, I take a moment to observe the bump. It’s kind of fucking freaky to think there’s a human being in there. It’s kind of fucking freaky to think I made the human being in there. Slowly, I ease the hem of her shirt up, tipping down to press a kiss to the highest point. My hand still seems large in comparison when I press my palm to it in a gentle hello.
Like Story, I never knew my dad. Maybe he would have been awesome, or maybe he would have been utter shit at fatherhood. Either way, I don’t exactly have anyone to look to for advice. The closest thing to a role model I ever had was Daniel Payne, and the thought makes me scowl.
I don’t know what makes a man a good father.
But I know the kind of father I would have wanted.
With a deep breath, I pick up the book. “The Light Behind Your Eyes, by Jan Clare,” I read, giving the belly a peek of the cover. Keeping my voice quiet, I turn to the first page. “Once upon a time, a brave girl was on her way to see her Mommy.” I turn the book so the illustrations are visible; a girl in a cape skipping through an autumn forest. “This girl was so brave, she de—” I take a second to sound the word out in my head. “—decided to take a shortcut through the…” Hm. This is a harder word. I glare at the letters, annoyed this isn’t one I’ve memorized yet. “The Bramble Woods,” I finally figure out, flipping to the next page. Annoyed, I mutter, “I’m better at this than it seems—trust me.”