Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I look to Natalie to see what she thinks. Again, I wonder if I should have brought her in on this. Maybe she had a different paint color in mind for the room.
“We can change anything you want—the color of the walls, the crib, whatever. The designer put those drapes up and she assured me they’ll make the room really dark at night, but if you don’t like the color, we can—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off, but still, she stays silent. She walks forward into the room, straight to the crib, and lays a hand on the side of it, running her palm back and forth across the white wood. After a long moment, she asks, “Did you build this?”
“Yes.”
She nods her head over and over and I chew my lip, staying near the door. She’s suspiciously quiet and I’m still worried I made a misstep until she glances up and I see tears welling in her eyes.
She laughs and wipes them away. “It’s good.”
“Yeah? You like it?”
She nods again, unable to speak.
“I picked the room closest to the master, and that closet is huge. You can fit plenty of tiny baby clothes in it.”
She wipes her cheeks, and maybe I should just stop talking. She looks in the closet as if to verify what I said and then runs her hand along the drapes at the windows, peering out to the trees just beyond. Finally, she turns and walks toward me, not stopping until she’s right in front of me so she can wrap her arms around my waist and squeeze me close.
“I love it. I love you. I can’t believe you did this for our baby.”
“And for you. For us. I want us to live here together. I want us to be a family here.”
November
Thanksgiving in Boston is always a gamble. Occasionally, we get a rare warm holiday, but this year, it’s snowing out, causing delays at the airport and traffic out on the streets. Everyone’s trying to get somewhere in a rush. Fortunately, my parents flew in yesterday to celebrate with us. Natalie’s parents aren’t here and my brothers are on the road for football games, so there’s only the four of us and Noah.
Natalie’s not actually here at the moment. She had to work at the hospital today—one of the fellows had to be there and she drew the short straw—but she should be home any minute and dinner is almost ready. I’ve let my parents handle most of the meal, though I did help my dad with the turkey. Noah brought beer and wine and a cheese plate.
“Is it safe for Natalie to be out in weather like this?” my mom asks, frowning as she glances out the window over my kitchen sink.
“It’s a short walk back from the hospital.”
“Still…maybe you should go pick her up?”
Noah grunts. “Not in this traffic. She’s better off walking. It’ll only take five minutes. The roads are totally jammed.”
My mom grumbles under her breath, clearly not happy. She’s worried about Natalie, and I’m not all that surprised. We told my parents about the pregnancy last night. My mom leapt off the couch and screamed with excitement before wrapping Natalie up in her arms. She didn’t let go of her for the next half-hour as they sat on the couch in the living room with their heads bent together while my mom talked Natalie’s ear off, no doubt telling her stories of what I was like as a child.
Meanwhile, my dad patted my shoulder and nodded. “That’s exciting, Con. I’m happy for you.”
Neither one of them asked whether or not we’re planning to get married. I’m glad. I’m not sure I’d be able to broach the subject with a straight face. I have a plan, after all.
“You think the snow is bad for the baby?” my mom wonders aloud, glancing between Noah and me.
It’s like she thinks we live in the Arctic Circle. Natalie has lived in Boston for years; she isn’t naïve about winter storms. Still, we’re all relieved when the front door opens and she walks in, bringing light flurries of snow with her.
“Oh my gosh, it smells amazing in here!”
I walk over to greet her, helping her take off her jacket and scarf. She’s in jeans and a red sweater. Her hair hangs in a loose braid, and if we were alone, I’d lead her straight upstairs. I love her in red.
My mom is here though, right behind me, asking Natalie if she wants a cup of warm tea.
“Oh, that sounds nice. Thank you.”
“And here, we need to get you off your feet,” she says, ushering Natalie into the living room. You’d think she was nine months pregnant with the way my mom is treating her. If you didn’t know better, you wouldn’t even realize Natalie was pregnant. Still, my mom forces her down in the comfy recliner (the one my dad has been using to binge-watch football) and props up the footrest so Natalie has no choice but to lie back.