We also continued to eat dinner together three or four times a week. Half of those were with my aunt, the other half with his family, often including his grandparents. His dad had left town on the Monday after our date on a two-month consulting gig. Bryce didn’t know exactly where he’d gone or what he’d be doing, except that it was for the DOD, but he didn’t seem particularly interested; he just missed having him around.
Really, about the only thing that changed for Bryce and me was the times when we were taking a break from my studies or when we set the camera aside. In those moments, we talked more deeply about our families and friends, even recent events in the news, though Bryce had to carry those latter conversations. With no television or newspaper, I was pretty clueless about the state of the world—or the U.S., or Seattle, or even North Carolina—and honestly didn’t care all that much. But I liked hearing him talk and he occasionally posed serious questions about serious issues. After pretending to think about it, I’d say something like “That’s difficult to answer. What do you think?” and he’d start explaining his thoughts on the matter. I suppose it was also possible I learned something, but lost in my feelings for him, I didn’t remember much. Every now and then, I’d again find myself wondering what he saw in me and I’d feel a sudden pang of insecurity, but as though reading my mind, he would reach for my hand, and the feeling would pass.
We also kissed a lot. Never when my aunt or his family could see us, but pretty much every other moment was up for grabs. I’d be writing an essay and take a second to collect my thoughts, then notice the way he was watching me, and I’d lean over to kiss him. Or after examining one of the photographs from the file box, Bryce would lean in and kiss me. We kissed on the porch at the end of an evening or as soon as he stepped into my aunt’s house to tutor me. We kissed at the beach and in town, near his house and outside my aunt’s, which sometimes meant ducking behind the dune or around the corner. Sometimes he’d wrap a strand of my hair around his finger; other times, he’d simply hold me. But always, he’d tell me again that he loved me, and every single time it happened, my heart would start beating funny in my chest, and I’d feel as though my life was as perfect as it would ever be.
*
In early March, I had to see Dr. Huge Hands again. It was to be my last appointment with him before the delivery, since Gwen would continue to supervise my care for the rest of the term. Right on schedule, I’d begun having the occasional Braxton Hicks contraction, and when I told the doctor I wasn’t a fan, he reminded me that it was my body’s way of getting ready for labor. I did the ultrasound, avoided even a glimpse at the monitor, but let out an automatic breath of relief when the technician said that the baby （Sofia? Chloe?） was doing just fine. Although I was trying hard not to think of the baby as a person who belonged to me, I still wanted to know she was going to be okay. The technician added that mama was doing fine, too—which meant me, but it was still weird to hear her say it—and when I finally sat down with the doctor, he went over a bunch of things that I might experience in the last stage of my pregnancy. I pretty much stopped listening once he said the word hemorrhoids—it had come up during the pregnant teen meeting at the Portland YMCA, but I’d forgotten all about it—and by the time he finished, I was downright depressed. It took me a second to understand that he was asking me a question.
“Maggie? Did you hear me?”
“Sorry. I was still thinking about hemorrhoids,” I said.
“I asked whether you were exercising,” he said.
“I walk when I’m taking pictures.”
“That’s great,” he said. “Just remember that exercise is good for both you and the baby, and it will shorten the time your body needs to recover after delivery. Nothing too intense, though. Light yoga, walking, things like that.”
“How about riding a bike?”
He brought a giant finger to his chin. “As long as it’s comfortable and doesn’t hurt, that’s probably okay for the next few weeks. After that, your center of gravity will begin to shift, making balance more difficult, and falling would be bad for both you and the baby.”
In other words, I’d be getting even fatter, which I knew was coming, but it was still as depressing as the idea of hemorrhoids. I did like the notion that my body might get back to normal faster, though, so the next time I saw Bryce, I asked if I could bike along with him on his morning runs.