Page 30 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“It’s effective,” I say, and finally let my eyes rest on her.
“I’m not ready,” she blurts, a breathy confession that shakes on the landing. “I thought I was ready to be a mother. Today the crib looked too big and the onesies looked too small and the internet told me a list of things I don’t even know how to pronounce, and I can’t do this, Lucas. I can’t?—”
Her voice breaks and the rest turns to air.
I move slow, like approaching a skittish pup, like she’s not going to trust a fast hand. “Sit,” I say softly, steering her to the couch. “Feet up.”
She obeys, breath stuttering. I bring water, tissues, a blanket from the back that smells like her laundry soap. I crouch in front of her and she puts her face in her hands, shoulders shaking in aftershocks.
“I’m sorry,” she says between breaths. “I don’t cry like this usually.”
“You do whatever you need,” I say. “Crying is allowed. Crying is encouraged. Crying has excellent ROI.”
That pulls a wet laugh. “Is that a military thing or a you thing?”
“Me. The Army just taught me about sandbags.”
She peeks up. “Sandbags?”
“Keep the water where it belongs. Keep the flood from winning.” I take her hand—open palm, no surprise. “Right now we lay sandbags. One at a time.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Start is dinner,” I say. “Did you eat?”
Her silence is answer enough.
“I’ll cook,” I say.
This is where most men would order takeout and call it chivalry. I head to her small kitchen, wash my hands, take an inventory a quartermaster would envy. Pasta. Olive oil. Garlic. Canned tomatoes. A sad lemon. Parmesan that’s fine if you don’t read the date.
I set water to boil and talk from the threshold where she can see me. “Here’s the plan. We’ll eat something warm. We’ll make a list of the five things you actually need—not the internet’s panic list. We’ll break each into tiny tasks. And then we’ll throw the panic list away.”
She sniffs. “What about the part where I’m incapable?”
“We’ll factor that in.” I stir the sauce. “I’m very good at carrying more than my share.”
She closes her eyes at that, like she’s going to cry again. She doesn’t. She just breathes.
By the time the pasta is steaming in bowls, her color is back. We eat at the coffee table like college kids, knees touching. She twirls noodles and tells me the baby felt like a goldfish an hour ago and a drummer now. I shovel calories and don’t comment on the way her gaze keeps darting to my mouth when I describe a decent swaddle like it’s a military knot.
After, I clear the dishes and return with a pen and a legal pad, ready to make panic into small boxes. She laughs when I sit—an actual laugh this time, light and a little disbelieving. “You came to fight my to-do list.”
“I came to fight anything that gets in your way,” I say.
She swallows. The air changes. The room goes softer at the edges.
“Sandbags,” she says, voice barely above the hum of the heater.
“Sandbags,” I echo.
We don’t get to the list, because thanks is moving through her body like electricity and I can see the moment she decides to touch the source.
“Lucas,” she says, and it lands different than when anyone else says my name.
“Yes,” I answer, because it feels like the right word.
She shifts on the couch so our knees align. One hand slides up from the blanket to my cheek, tentative at first, then firmer when I don’t move. “I’m sorry about the other night,” she whispers. “The way I sent you away. I was scared of… everything.”
