I shifted. I got one arm under her knees, one behind her back, and I picked her up. She didn't fight it. She put her arm around my neck, and her face went to my shoulder, and I carried her out of the bathroom to the couch. I laid her down on the cushions and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch over her.
I sat on the floor beside the couch. My back against the front of it. My head against the cushion near her hip.
Her hand found my shoulder a beat after I sat down. It rested there, her fingers loose against the fabric of my shirt, and she didn't move it. I didn't move. Nova was asleep in the bouncer in the bedroom across the hall. The bathroom light was still on down the hallway, throwing a thin stripe of yellow across the floor.
I slept on the floor. She slept on the couch above me, her hand on my shoulder. The three of us in three different positions in an apartment that had been quiet for two hours, and I was where I said I'd be.
I woke first.
The light was gray through the blinds. It was early. My back was stiff from the floor, the specific kind of stiff that came fromsleeping upright against a piece of furniture, and my neck had a knot that was going to be a problem for the next two days. Audrey's hand was still on my shoulder. She was breathing the slow, deep breathing of a woman who had finally let go of something long enough to sleep.
I didn't move until I'd decided what I was doing.
I was making coffee.
I slid out from under her hand, crossed to the kitchen, and started the French press. The apartment in the early morning was a room I was learning—where she kept the coffee, how long the kettle took, the particular rattle of the cabinet where the mugs were. I made the coffee the way she drank it. I poured a cup and set it on the counter.
Nova woke in the bedroom with the sound she made before the crying started, more opinion than distress. I crossed the hall and picked her up before Audrey could. Nova's fist found my shirt. She settled. That was the word for it—she just settled.
Audrey was sitting up, hair down, eyes open, the blanket pooled at her waist. I brought her to Audrey on the couch. She looked at me carrying the baby, looked at the coffee on the counter, and didn't say anything for a beat.
I put Nova in her arms and sat on the floor next to them.
"Thank you for coming," Audrey said.
"You called, Aud. That's the point."
"I shouldn't have woken you up."
"You woke me up because you needed to. I'd rather you wake me up at two in the morning than not."
She didn't argue with me. She picked up the coffee. She drank it, and I sat on the floor beside her with my back against the couch, and Nova was between us, making the small sounds she made in the morning.
I left around nine. At the door, I stopped, put my hand on the side of her head, and kissed her forehead. It was the first time I'ddone it. Her eyes closed for a second, and she let me, and I kissed Nova on the head and went through the door before the moment could become something I'd have to explain. The bathroom floor was still in the room, and neither of us was going to pretend it wasn't.
What she'd said to me on the tile at two in the morning was the most honest thing she'd given me in weeks, and I wasn’t going to rush past it with anything that let us pretend the honesty was already resolved.
I drove home with the morning sun in my eyes and the bathroom floor in my head, and I thought about the wordneedthe whole way.
That evening. I was at her door again.
Audrey opened the door in clean clothes. Hair washed. She looked better than she had at two in the morning, which was a low bar, but her eyes were clearer, and the color was back in her face. Nova was in the bouncer. The kitchen was cleaner than it had been twelve hours ago.
I set the takeout I brought on the counter, unpacked it, and started plating.
"I want you to take a night," I said it from across the kitchen.
She looked at me.
"I'll take Nova to my parents'. They've been asking. My mom will keep her overnight. I'll cook dinner at my place." I kept my voice even. Simple. The pitch was short, and I was going to keep it short. "You don't have to do anything except show up."
Audrey blinked.
"Or your place. I'll cook here. Whatever works."
She shook her head. "No. Your place."
She said it without thinking about it long enough to talk herself out of it. I watched the decision go across her face—the quick calculation, the moment where her brain tried to build a wall, and her mouth got there first.
