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“I would take some company though.” Kit leans over, grabbing a screwdriver, squints at the directions, then twists a bolt into place. He’s shirtless, sitting in the center of the rug with pieces of the crib spread around him.
“It looks good,” I encourage.
He snorts. “It looks like a lumberyard.”
“Are there supposed to be this many pieces?”
“I have no idea. But I’m going to figure it out.” He picks up the instructions, flipping to a new page with fresh determination.
I shove away from the doorway and walk toward him. Sitting on the floor is harder than it used to be since my center of gravity shifted, but I manage. I also have to nudge a slat over to recline on my palms.
“What are you doing up? Did you have a work call?”
“Nah. I just couldn’t sleep.”
“This rug is surprisingly comfortable.” My wrists are starting to hurt, so I relax flat on my back, staring up at the white plaster ceiling. “We should add some stars up there,” I suggest. “For the baby to look at.”
We agreed on an outer-space theme for the nursery’s mural. It covers the largest wall, a scattering of planets and moons and stars and one meteor shower painted on a midnight-blue background.
“I like that idea.”
I rest a hand on my stomach, rubbing slow circles and listening to the sound of wood being fitted together.
“I heard you playing after dinner,” Kit comments a few minutes later.
“It’s a new piece. It needs a lot of work still.”
“Didn’t sound that way to me.”
I smile. “I think you might be the tiniest bit biased.”
“Or I have really,reallygood instincts about pianists.”
“On par with your carpentry skills?” I tease, glancing at the crib that hasn’t gained any more pieces since I entered the room.
Kit sighs and sets the screwdriver down. “I don’t think working on it in the middle of the night is helping much.”
“Probably not the most practical time,” I agree.
He crawls over, lying down on the rug next to me and mirroring my position. “Wow. What a boring ceiling. I promised our kid it was going to be exciting on the outside, so we should definitely add some stars. Do they make glow-in-the-dark paint? If so, we should use that.”
“Probably,” I say absently.
Of course, that’s something Kit would think of. The closer I get to having a kid, the more often it’s occurring to me that Kit will be an incredible parent. He’s fun and adventurous. By comparison—maybenot even by comparison—I’m pretty boring.
Kit sails; I stay onshore.
“Five thousand for your thoughts,” he says.
I huff a laugh. “They’re not worth that much.”
“I can’t accurately assess their value unless you tell me.”
I suck on my lower lip. “Do you think I’m too … practical?”
“No,” he answers. “I think you’re the perfect amount of practical.”
I sigh. “I’m serious.”