Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
We move to the bedroom without speaking.
He undresses me slowly, in the dark, as if he slows down enough, time might do the same.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I do.
“Good girl.”
We move together like we're trying to say something neither of us has the words for, as if we know the clock is running but won't look at it. His mouth finds my temple, my throat, the curve of my shoulder. My hands grip him like he's already leaving.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs into my hair when I come with my head back and my mouth parted. “I've got you.”
Afterward, he pulls me against his chest and doesn't let go. His breathing slows. His hand resumes its slow path through my hair, its own sort of comfort.
His heartbeat is steady under my palm. I match my breathing to his. Outside these walls, it feels as if the world is plotting against us, eager to tear us apart from each other, and the faster time ticks, the harder we hold on.
I close my eyes.
I don't sleep for a long time.
The rain has gone quiet, and I think this might be the most peaceful I've felt in years. Maybe ever.
I know what tomorrow might look like. But tonight, his hand is in my hair, and the room is warm. I let myself have just this one night when none of that is true yet.
I don’t ask him about Seamus, or Valentina, or what happens next, and he doesn’t offer any information. I tug on the familiar weight of my necklace and focus on here. Now.
Tonight we're grand.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DECLAN
Sour lollis. Small meals. Don’t let the belly get empty.
Yes, of course I can do this for her. One could argue it’s my fault she’s pregnant—the least I can do is find her something to ease her misery. Or maybe I’m just distracting myself from the real problem, which is that I’m not sorted.
What I do know is that the obstetric hematologist we decided on is Dr. Flaherty, and his Thursday cancellation is mine. I know because I spent fifty minutes on the phone with a receptionist, securing the appointment—because I know how to get what I want when I want it. The question is always what it costs. This one costs nothing.
On a Tuesday, I stop by the chemist on the way to her flat to buy some “sour suckers, something salty and sweet at the same time,” hoping it does the trick. I buy her some American-style kettle corn, salt-and-vinegar crisps, some electrolytes, turkey jerky, and a large package of chocolate because she always did like chocolate.
When she opens the door, she stares at me.
“You’re not wearing a hood.”
Maybe I’ve gotten too laid back about it. Still, she lets me in.
“What’s this?” she says with a smile, and I shut the door behind me.
“Some sour sweets. They’re supposed to help with the nausea.”
“That’s adorable, but you have to tell me when you’re coming. Erin’s supposed to be here in an hour.”
“What would Erin think if she saw me here?”
“I don’t know, but it’s too close for comfort,” she says as she sets the bag on the counter and peers into it.
“How did you know what to get? Electrolytes and sour?”
“I read a lot about things,” I say, scratching at my temple.
“When?”
“When I’m not sleeping.”
“Are you not sleeping?” she says, tipping her head to the side.
Christ. I haven’t slept since I shared a bed with her, so it’s been over a week, but I don’t tell her that. Don’t tell her I’ve been standing in Seamus’s office, staring at the sideboard, fancying myself a drink even though I haven’t had one in a long time. But I can already taste it, can already feel the way my nerves would settle and the world would go steady again.
“I also got the infant carrier situation sorted. Mostly, anyway. I’ve been going back and forth between the two safest models, and I finally found one that’s supposedly the easiest to carry.”
“Well, that’s nice.” She tries one of the sweets at the counter and makes a face so pure and terrible that I laugh out loud.
“Oh, this is genuinely horrible,” she says, but she’s laughing.
“It doesn’t have to taste good. Is it helping?”
She studies the sweet in her mouth with a look of serious deliberation as she rolls it over her tongue. “Now that you mention it, I think I’m so distracted by the horrible taste that I forgot to be nauseous for a minute.”
I smile at her. “Here, it can’t be that bad.” I pop one in my mouth, gag, and spit it immediately into the bin.
She snorts at me. “Well, you’re not the pregnant one, so it’s fine.”
The week’s been like this—stolen hours in her flat, in the strange domesticity of two people figuring out, in small and specific ways, how to make this work. The right tea. The right sweets. The name of the doctor. The minor details of a life neither of us has fully admitted we’re building together, when we haven’t even sorted the biggest things yet.