After Dark(42)

“I think he’s been privy to too many of our comings.” I grinned.

Matt laughed and I soaked up the sound.

“I’ll make this into my office,” he said, “and we can go from there. Whatever you want. And a…” His arms tightened around me. “A room for the baby.”

Matt had tightened his arms with good reason. I jumped and tried to pull back.

“The … baby?”

“Your sister doesn’t want the baby.”

“I’m not following.”

“I’ve convinced her to have it … and I’m going to adopt it.” Matt’s tone cooled and hardened. He released me and walked back into the room. “She was very reasonable. She simply doesn’t want it. The whole situation is too painful for her, and she doesn’t want to be a young, single mother. Completely understandable.”

He moved books from the shelves into stacks on the floor. I had never, not once, heard Matt speak so sympathetically about Chrissy. My mouth hung open.

“And she doesn’t want to have an abortion. You see, she already…” He paused, lifting one of the small plush owls I’d put in his room. “Well, she felt it move. She’s giving it up for adoption. I’ll call Shapiro tomorrow and get the ball rolling, and schedule an appointment for an ultrasound. Sort out the … gender question.”

I braced my hands against the door frame. Oh, Matt was back, all right.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do I have any say in this?”

“I thought you would be happy. I can see that you’re not.”

“Matt, this is … huge. This decision.”

“I’m well aware.” He brushed past me, carried a pile of books to the library, and returned. “I know we never properly discussed … all that. And I’m not asking you to carry a child. This isn’t about that.”

“So, it’s about what?”

“Making things right.” He answered without hesitation. As he passed with the next load of books, he paused and looked me in the eye. Yikes, I’d wanted this Matt back—commanding and stubborn—but I’d forgotten how intimidating he could be. “Don’t you understand?”

“I might, if you’d asked me or talked to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, and this isn’t a question. I’m going to take care of that child. I’m going to love it the way I didn’t love him.”

“Married couples make decisions together.”

“No one’s forcing you to marry me.”

His words slammed into me with physical force. I inhaled.

Ungrateful man. Nate got that right.

I twisted the engagement ring off my finger. My knuckle burned, the skin around it bunching. Matt watched with a passive expression, which made me want to scream.

“You’re fucking right about that.” I slammed the ring atop his stack of books.

He balanced the books with one hand and pocketed the ring.

“I’ll hold on to that for you,” he said, and he breezed into the library.





Chapter 34

MATT

“What did she say?”

“Buckle your seat belt.” I glared at Chrissy until she banded the belt across her body. Her unmistakably pregnant body. My eyes lingered on her belly.

“Relax,” she said. “Everything’s fine in there.”

“We’ll know that soon enough.” I pulled away from her parents’ house.

“How’d you get this appointment so fast, anyway?”

“Easy. You’re overdue. You were supposed to have a twenty-week check.”

“Okay, chill out, Frosty. Better late than never.”

Chrissy’s abbreviated nickname actually made me smile. She’d donned me Mr. Frostypants over a year ago, in happier times.

“So, what did she say after you took the ring? ’Cause I really don’t want this baby, like, messing things up with you and Han.”

“She said…” I cleared my throat. I remembered the argument well. It happened three nights ago, and Hannah hadn’t slept with me since. She took the air mattress if I got in our bed; if I joined her on the mattress, she darted to our bedroom. “She said something like, ‘You’re a selfish fucking jackass.’ I’m paraphrasing.”

“Great,” Chrissy muttered. “And you’re still ‘holding on to’ the ring?”

“Mm. She’ll come around. Either way, I’m adopt—”

“You’re adopting this child and it means everything to you,” she droned.

I glared and kept quiet the rest of the way to the clinic.

Excepting Hannah’s surly attitude, everything was falling into place. Shapiro had another lawyer working with an agency on the relinquishment form and kinship adoption lawsuits, and my home study and background checks started next month. I wasn’t worried. Thanks to Shapiro’s tireless work over the years, my record looked pearly.

Now, if only Hannah would conform to the idea, get the ring back on her finger …

* * *

Chrissy clutched my hand while the ultrasound technician slid the wand over her belly.

Would I be required to fill this hand-holding role during the actual birth?

I felt light-headed.

The technician seemed too quiet. The thing on the screen moved constantly. Chrissy and I watched, rapt. Seth, why did you do this? You should be here. I’m not ready.

But there it was, ready or not: a grainy child-shape, my atonement embodied.

“Everything’s looking good,” the technician said.

Chrissy and I exhaled simultaneously.

“You can see the spine”—she pointed—“and the head right here. And…”

And it was a boy, though it didn’t even look human to me. Ready or not, here I come. I slipped into autopilot, nodding and listening, asking questions of the technician and then the doctor, and all the while thinking about hide-and-seek. A children’s game. Here I come.

Children need games, diversions, and food.

Constant care.

I couldn’t do this alone.

“You okay over there?” Chrissy said. It was midafternoon. I had taken her for ice cream after the appointment—she ate two chocolate cones—and drove her home. My car idled outside the Catalano residence.

“Fine. Thinking. Lots to think about.” I unlocked her door.

“I’m glad it’s a boy, you know?”

I glanced at her, my jaw tight.

“Don’t look at me that way,” I said. “I’m not about to fucking cry in front of you and lose all my man points, got it?” I smirked and she laughed, her eyes shining.

“Got it. Me neither. I have badass-girl points to protect.”

She scrubbed her face and climbed out of the car.

I watched her until she stepped into the house, and then I drove through Denver and wondered where the hell people buy baby stuff. Online, I decided. Boyish things. Solid, dark, modern furniture. A mobile of some kind. An extravagant playhouse.

Buying things, I could handle. And when the kid was old enough to read and fish and ride, I might even enjoy his company. But what to do with an infant?

Panic.

I swung by the agency and visited Pam. She hugged me like I might break and I joked that it was the gentlest she’d ever been with me.

Afterward, I wandered Denver again.

I got coffee and lurked in a used bookstore. I bought a second copy of Swann’s Way.

At last, I went home.

Home-sweet-fucking home.

I avoided the house for a while, going directly to the barn and checking on Written in Verse. She was a sweet creature. I brushed her coat and picked her hooves.

“Pretty soon I’ll be sleeping out here with you,” I said.

She rolled her eyes toward me. She’d seen a lot of me in the past two days. Hannah’s anger drove me out of the house. The stalemate between us refused to break, and I found myself seeking her out, only to confront clipped answers and quick departures. How are you? Fine. Feel like furniture shopping today? Not really. Do you want to see my garden? No.

My fucking garden: a barren rectangular patch into which I’d churned my frustration, because planting in September is pointless. I said good night to the horse and went to the garden. I stabbed at the earth with a spade. Laughable, the idea that I could nourish anything. I was a writer, not a gardener. Not a father.

“Go easy on that dirt,” Hannah said.

I stood quickly, brandishing the spade. “Hi. Hey. Didn’t hear you coming.”

She frowned and closed the gap between us. “You got some in your hair.” She brushed a clod of dirt from my hair.

Mm, she smelled good, like clover honey. She hadn’t stood this close to me since our argument, and her nearness affected me. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to look her over the way a man can look at his fiancée’s body.

“What did you get?” She pointed.

My book lay in the grass.

“Oh.” I dropped the spade. “Swann’s Way. Different translation than I’ve got.”

“I haven’t read it.” She didn’t move away from me.

“It’s a … cycle. Series-type thing.” Oh, how the tables had turned. Me, elated to get a word out of Hannah. “It’s got the perfect first line: ‘For a long time, I went to bed early.’”

She smiled and tilted her head. “Yeah.”

“It does something to you, right? The writing is dreamlike. The narrative. It moves under you. I’d kill to write like that.”