Page 4

Paul whoops, and a flock of swallows bursts from a bush on the shore, birds and batting wings swirling in the air. Suddenly I’m in the air, too, my legs wrapped around Paul’s waist, his hands firm on my backside. He twirls me around in the tiny space between the seats, and I laugh, from relief and at Paul’s reaction—a stunned but unapologetic joy.
“You’re pretty strong for an old man.”
“I’m not an old man. I amtheman. My swimmers are badass. They arefierce.” I laugh, and he puts me down. “How do you feel? Any other symptoms?”
“A little tired still, and kinda pukey in the mornings. Once I eat something, I’m usually fine.”
“This is...this is amazing. I can’t wait to tell everybody. Let’s go home and make some calls.”
“Paul, can we just...I don’t know...keep this quiet for a little while longer? At least until I see the doctor and she gives us the green light. I want to know everything’s okay before we go telling the whole world.”
Worry flits across his brow. “What, you think this baby might not stick?”
“No, but it’s still so early. I want to see this baby with my own two eyes and be sure. Let’s just wait until after the first ultrasound, okay?”
“Okay, but so you know, I have a good feeling about this little guy. He’s going to be fine.”
I lift a brow. “Littleguy?”
“Well, yeah. An adorable baby Keller to carry on the name.” He presses a hand over my lower stomach and smiles. “Paul Junior.”
Now,thathis mother would approve of, a carbon copy of her precious son. I think back to Diana’s reaction when we told her we were getting married, the fake smile that tried to crack open her cheeks when Chet walked me down the aisle. I am not what she pictured for Paul—I’m too young, too unpolished, too poor and crass. She thinks that sometime very soon, her son will snap to his senses.
But a baby... A baby changes everything.
“What if it’s a Paulette?”
Paul makes a face. “God, no. I can’t saddle my daughter with a name like Paulette. She’ll grow up and go onDr. Phil, talking about how we ruined her life. She’ll never speak to us again.”
Neglect, alcoholism, a felon father and a mother who had no business ever pushing out kids—now, those are some things to bellyache about on national television. This baby will have everything Chet and I didn’t: a real house with real walls to keep out of the cold, a fridge filled with food, clothes that don’t come from a church basement bin. Two parents who stick around, who don’t disappear for days at a time or get carted off to jail.
And, as corny as it sounds, love.
I smile over our hands at my husband. “I do have one more request.”
“For the love of my life? The mother of my child?” He lifts my hand to his lips, presses a frosty kiss to my knuckle. “Absolutely anything.”
“When it’s time, you get to tell your mother.”
3
When I wake up the next morning, I’m alone.
I stare at the black sky pouring through the bedroom window and listen for the sounds of Paul, pulling on clothes in the closet or banging around in the kitchen downstairs. There’s nothing but silence. An empty house, holding its breath.
Already left for his daily morning run, a six-mile trek around the hills to the west of our house, which means there must not be much snow on the ground. When we went to bed last night, it was really coming down, but the ground was probably too warm still for it to stick.
The clock on the nightstand reads 6:04, earlier than usual for Paul, but not unheard of, though I wouldn’t have expected it today. Not after the glass of red he downed with dinner, followed by a gold-labeled bottle he pulled from the wine fridge, champagne that costs as much as a month’s worth of groceries.
Paul’s not normally much of a drinker, but yesterday’s news sent him sailing far past his tipping point. I picture him huffing up Suicide Hill, cursing himself for that last glass, and maybe the one before. Poor guy must really be hurting.
My untouched flute stands full on the nightstand—“for toasting,” Paul said as he poured, “not drinking.” The last of the carbonation clings in tiny bubbles to the glass, next to Paul’s empty one. I eye the liquid in the bottle, only a few inches or so. Paul is the only person I know who recuperates from a hangover with an early-morning run. One good hill, and his metabolism will have burned through the alcohol like propane, which, now that I think about it, is probably why he looks so good.
But all last night, he googled and drank, googled and drank.
“It says here there’s only one percent chance of getting pregnant on the pill,” he’d said, looking up from his laptop.
We were in bed, our backs propped up by pillows and the headboard, our bare feet tangled on top of the comforter.