Page 17

“It’s a nice sofa, man,” he says, bumping my arm with his elbow.

I nod and let my gaze drift to my wife, who insisted on the creamy chenille piece with a chaise lounge seat.

I predict I’ll be taking many naps on that thing, and when she’s gone, I might end up sleeping there.

I miss her too much when the bed is big and empty.

I’m about to tip my head back and take a swig of my beer when Peyton drops down suddenly and sits on the edge of the chaise section.

“You okay, babe?”

She shakes her head and leans forward, practically tucking her head between her knees. I leave my beer on the counter and hop over the love seat to sit next to her. My hand rubs circles on her back, her shirt damp and cold.

“You overdid it today,” I say, feeling bad that I let her help in the first place. She hasn’t had muscle spasms in a while, and she’s so damn strong that I sometimes forget that physical exertion can take a toll on her.

“I’m just a little light-headed. I’ll be fine,” she says, lifting her head enough to give Whiskey a thumbs up from across the room.

“I can handle moving stuff around the room, dude. Why don’t you take off and get back to Tasha and the kids. I need to force her to quit for the day and maybe take a hot shower,” I say.

Whiskey guzzles the rest of his beer and leaves us with his belched words, “Sounds good.”

I follow him to the door, then lock it behind him.

“He’s a real romantic,” Peyton jokes, holding her arms up so I can peel her wet shirt over her head.

“I could have gotten one of the guys to help, or hell, had your dad come up for this. I’m sorry.”

Peyton shakes her head and grabs my arm as she lifts herself back to her feet.

“I know this place is temporary, and it’s not really ours ours, but it’s our first on our own. I wanted to decorate it my way, and do things on our own, and just . . .” She blinks a few times and sits back on the couch, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Babe, we should get you out of the wet clothes. Let me carry you.” I scoop her into my arms and carry her to the main bathroom where all her toiletries and our towels are still in the department store bags we bought them in this morning.

I flip the shower on to warm the water as Peyton slips out of her shorts and bra. She sits on the closed toilet to pull her wet socks from her feet when she suddenly freezes, her mouth falling open.

“You okay?” I drop to a knee and touch her chin. Her eyes flicker to mine but remain as wide as her mouth. I can’t tell if she’s in shock, about to be sick, or suddenly remembered something deeply important, like leaving a stove burner on.

“Peyt?”

She blinks a few times, then licks her lips before pulling them in tight. Her smile shows itself slowly at first, and I mirror her expression, mostly because I have no clue what is going on, and she’s acting really weird.

“Wy, I think you need to run to the drugstore. Like, now. I need to pee on a stick.”

I stand up before her words fully register but stop after taking a step toward the door. I flip around to face her again.

“Wait, you think . . .”

She nods, but her movement is subtle, like she doesn’t want the universe to see her say yes.

“Shit. Uh, okay. Yeah. There’s one down the block. I’ll just . . .” I spin in place a few times before Peyton breaks me from my daze.

“Just go!” she tells me.

Panic rushes through my veins and I’m finding it hard to function. I can’t locate my keys, my phone, or my wallet. I can barely find my way out of the bathroom. I center myself for a breath in the kitchen, where I spot my wallet and phone.

“Lock up behind me,” I shout, flying out the door and down the hallway to the elevator. I press the button a few times, but when I don’t hear any movement coming from the elevator shaft, I opt for the stairs.

The stairwell exits into the back of the mailroom, and I zip by a couple checking their mailbox as I rush to the lobby and out the main doors.

The rain seems to have let up, but the sidewalks are wet and the roads puddled.

I splash my way across the street, dunking my already soaked shoes at least six times before reaching the drugstore.

I don’t know what sort of test Peyton usually buys, and I’m not sure what the difference is between the fifteen-dollar kit and the thirty-dollar one, so I snag an assortment and rush to the checkout.

I ring myself out and forget to opt in to pay for a bag, so I gather up the five tests I chose and tuck them into my T-shirt the way I collected Easter Eggs when I was a kid.

My shoes squish against the sidewalk, but I manage to make it back to our apartment without pouncing my feet into a deep puddle again.

I’m about to knock on our door when Peyton flings it open, and I dash inside.

“Were you waiting there for me?”

Peyton nods, locking the door behind her as she guzzles down the last few sips in a twenty-four-ounce water bottle.

“I’ve been drinking water since the moment you left so I can go,” she laughs out before waving me toward the bathroom.

I’m panting as I stride through our bedroom, the shower still going strong. The steam is making it warm in here, and coupled with the humidity outside and the dose of adrenaline that’s soaking my organs, I feel a little bit like throwing up.

I drop the boxes on the counter before reaching into the shower and killing the spray while Peyton rips into the most expensive test kit I bought and reads the pamphlet.

“What can I do? Do you need me to get you more water? Do you need me to mix something or make you food?”

I have no idea how this shit works, and I feel pretty fucking useless.

My wife chuckles and hands me her empty water bottle.

“More water. I can’t have too much water.”

I nod, happy to get direction. I fill her bottle at the kitchen sink, making a mental note to set up the water filter tomorrow, then head back to the bathroom in time to catch Peyton about to go.

“Leave!” She waves me back out the door, and I flip around the corner and flatten my back against the wall.

“I’ve seen you pee before, babe. We’ve been together for a decade.” I laugh at the absurdity of the moment.

“I know, but I don’t want to get shy. I need to go while I can, and just . . . shh! ”

I bite my lip and hold in my laugh before uttering a quiet, “Okay.”

Several seconds pass, and I hold my breath until Peyton tells me to come back inside. She’s setting the test stick on top of the plastic wrapper it came in when I enter the room. I hand her the water bottle, and she gulps some of it down, but her gaze remains fixed on the test strip.

I move in behind her, wrapping my arms around her body and kissing the top of her head.

“I love you,” I say.

She squeezes my arm with her free hand and holds the bottle’s rim to her lips with the other, no longer drinking.

I can’t tell if it’s her pulse I feel or my own, but the thump is constant and racing.

Our bathroom smells like wet shoes and shower steam, and my forehead is covered with a sheen of sweat.

“I love you,” I say again, praying this test comes back positive. I want kids desperately, but more than that, I want this for Peyton.

Her body rocks side to side, so I go along with it and sway with her. My chin rests on top of her head, and I adjust my arms around her, holding her tighter as the test strip reveals a deep pink control line.

“We can take them all, too. Just to make sure. If this one doesn’t say you’re pregnant, maybe one of them will. I didn’t know what I was buying. That’s why I got so many, and I?—”

“Wy? Shh ,” she whispers.

“Okay,” I hum, lowering my mouth to the top of her head again and leaving it there.

We both stare at the small plastic cartridge on the marble countertop, such a rudimentary experiment to determine something so epic. Petyon’s body tightens in my embrace as the first line emerges, and when the second one appears, her body quakes.

“Is that?—?”

Peyton nods, and I peel one arm away so I can cover my mouth. I think I’m going to cry.

She picks up the test cautiously, cradling it in her palms as she turns slowly to face me. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and when her gaze lifts to mine, I see nothing but joy in her eyes.

“We’re going to be a mom and dad. You and me. Peyt, oh my God!” I cup her cheeks and kiss her forehead, everything still feeling fragile.

“I love you, Wyatt. I love you so much. I’m going to be a mom. I’m a mom.”

The reality hits her hard and all at once.

I take the test strip from her hands and move it back to the counter, then pull her back into my arms and rock us again.

We dance to the music in our heads for nearly an hour and never make it to the shower.

Hell, we never make it to the bed. We fall asleep on the carpet of our new apartment somewhere between the bathroom and the mattress with five positive pregnancy tests laid out between us.

One year just got a whole lot more interesting.