“I don’t want to see it,” Hannah grumbled. “I’m not living in the sticks.”
We argued. We returned home late, disillusioned and depressed. We wanted out of the condo—once, our sweet little nest—and we picked on it and everything. If we had one extra room—one!—I wouldn’t have to put away my fucking weights every day. Well, how do you think I feel about my yoga stuff? All I can hear is the fucking street. Then go live in your tent!
Back and forth. More homes, nothing suitable. My Monday-morning sessions with Mike became one-hour rants about the state of housing in Colorado. Hannah left for work early and stayed late. I imagined her savoring the solitude of her office—a room of her own, which I couldn’t seem to give her.
Our story continued. Untitled, a novel by Hannah Catalano and Matt Sky. We threw ourselves into it, making progress with words where we couldn’t with homes. Four, sometimes five chapters a week, fired back and forth in frustrated volleys.
One evening over dinner, Hannah announced that Chrissy was twelve weeks pregnant.
“Wait…” She counted on her fingers. “Thirteen.”
“Mm.” I plowed my rice into a pile.
“She really wants to keep the baby. She quit smoking and everything.”
“Ah.” I rolled an olive around the rice.
“I guess pretty soon they’ll be able to find out the gender.”
“Yeah.” I speared the olive on my fork.
I’d also quit smoking, though no one seemed to notice, and I was acutely aware of Chrissy’s thirteen weeks to the day. I found myself Googleing strange things throughout the month. When does pregnancy start to show? How long does morning sickness last? When can ultrasound determine gender?
“If you don’t want to talk about this, you can say so.”
“Have you seen her?” I continued playing with my dinner, prolonging the meal. Dinner and sex were our last bastions of togetherness. And sleep. Just the necessities. Otherwise I was writing out my frustrations or searching the Internet for our nonexistent dream home, and Hannah was doing the same.
“No. We’ve talked a few times. Um…” She cleared her throat. “They did that prenatal DNA test thing. So that was confirmed.”
“Ah … good to know.”
“Yup. Not that she wasn’t sure, but, double sure now. And he’s back—”
“You can say his name.” I frowned.
“Sorry. Seth is back east. Now that everything’s confirmed, and Mom and Dad know, he’s moving her into a place of her own. One of the Beauvallon condos, apparently.”
“Oh. Those are … incredibly nice.” My shoulders fell. I felt a plummeting sense of inadequacy. Nate had a family and a home. Seth had a pregnant girlfriend and he was providing for her. I lived in a hovel and wanted a family and couldn’t bring myself to talk about it.
I flattened my rice tower.
Cue the self-pity.
“I was thinking of helping her move in, since we’ll be close.”
“Yeah.” My mind spun unhappily, churning up bitterness. Maybe it was time for a new car. That Mercedes I’d been wanting …
“That was sort of a question.”
“What?” I glanced at Hannah.
“I mean, I want you to be okay with the ways I help Chrissy, like we discussed.”
“Oh.” I waved a hand and began to clear the table. Cooking was Hannah’s department; cleanup was mine. “Sure, help her move. Whatever you want.”
I stood at the sink, static.
She slipped up and hugged me from behind.
“Thank you.” She kissed my shoulder blade. “Her mood’s been getting more stable. Our talks have been nice.”
“Mm.”
Another invisible strike against me. I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, repair my relationship with Seth. Meanwhile, my fiancée was a model of mercy and love.
Her fingers grazed my abdomen. I moved a plate to the dishwasher.