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Kiersten
Me: Just pulled up to your house. I packed a couple bags, but I’m only carrying one ;) You bring dinner.
Nathan: Be there in about 30. Got the bags and will get the food.
Grabbing my lightest duffel of the bunch, I trek through the muck and head inside Nathan’s two-story townhome. It always baffles me that for as many years as we’ve been friends, I’ve only been here about fifteen times. My stint of bed rest here just over a month ago almost added up to more days spent in his place than all the years combined.
My first assumption is that Cami or I hog the party invites. Our houses are always open for a place to chill, and Nathan has a typical bachelor pad. A few dark pieces of living room furniture, a tall corner lamp with a carved wooden base, a dining table that I know he doesn’t eat at. The walls are bare and have been since Janessa passed away. She used to have a myriad of photos of the two of them covering the walls. When she died, I think Nathan couldn’t bring himself to keep staring at the painful shots and took them all down.
My second assumption has always been that this is a sanctuary of sorts to Nathan. After he cleared out, stowed, or sold anything that reminded him of Janessa, he grew to embrace the solace here. I think he liked keeping his home all to himself.
Which raises the question: How is he going to feel with his son living here too?
A sick feeling rises inside me. We still haven’t discussed custody and how we’ll work it out. I imagine the infant stage will be the hardest. I could make a strong argument for keeping him with me at all times, and I’d put money on Nathan backing down. Even if I feel it’s for the best, and I do since I’ve decided to breastfeed, it feels like a crappy position to put my best friend in.
If working mothers can deal with pumping over eight hours and being away from their babies six weeks postpartum when they’re forced back to work, I can manage a few overnights a week.
At least that’s what I’ve started to tell myself because it won’t be long before this little one is here.
On that thought, I ascend the staircase to the second floor. Nathan put so much care in setting up my nursery so I didn’t have to worry about it, but did he do the same for himself?
His second level has a master bedroom with a private bath, two extra bedrooms, one of which I stayed in during my bedrest, and an extra full bathroom. I’m grateful we both have more than enough space to raise a baby, but is it awful I want to argue that mine is safer being a one-story without stairs?
All these hypothetical arguments bursting into my head add to the sick feeling from earlier. We can do this without a fight. I know we can. So why am I preparing like the next World War is about to begin?
My initial question about the nursery is answered before I even hit the second floor. The bedroom across from the staircase is propped open. From where I stand on the third to top step, I can see it’s fully decorated inside.
I should feel relief he took this seriously enough to prepare for our son, but something about his preparation sends a pang to my chest. If Nathan wanted more from me, from this situation, why would he go to such great lengths?
I wave my hand in front of my face as if I can brush aside the hormones and tread the rest of the way into the nursery.
The breath is stolen straight from my lungs. This room…The complete opposite to the rest of the sterile house. This room looks lived in and full of love. The crib is gray and sits center in front of a wall painted in olive green palm leaf patterns. Above the crib hangs three full-color paintings of safari animals—a giraffe, a zebra, and a lion cub.
A fully functional rocking horse waits in the corner for our son to be of appropriate age, but until then it’s an adorable addition to the décor. The floor is covered in a soft, plushy rug. Finally, kitty-corner to the crib is a high-back white, cushioned chair that I can already tell will be perfect for bedtime stories and late-night snuggles.
My chest aches.
Whereas most of my furniture came from an outing with Cami and the rest was selected for me and gifted at my baby shower, I can tell Nathan’s wasn’t. He obviously took a lot of care in creating this special room for our baby, coordinating down to the crib bedding.
I think I’ve underestimated my best friend, and this is just another thing in a long line of new realizations.
I wander to the chair, needing to test it out for research purposes. It looks so comfortable that I may need one for my own house. Sinking down with the help of the armrests, I stumble over something on the floor. I use my foot to kick out whatever it is from beneath the chair. Nathan probably dropped a box or something when setting his nursery up.
Rather than cardboard like I expect, a wicker box filled with papers comes into view. I think I throw out a vertebra in my attempt to lean over and retrieve it. Sweat dots my brow as I drop it low as if I’m on the dance floor at a swanky nightclub, and I almost say screw it. Almost. Curiosity to the point of stupidity is my second biggest personality trait besides the stubbornness of a mule.
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nbsp; Getting back up is even worse than going down, and I second-guess not wearing a Life Alert like I joked not long ago. I finally manage to get my ass in the chair and the box in my lap. I kick my legs out in front of me and cross them at the ankles. I’m going to have to put this box on a table or something because there’s no way I’m getting it back beneath this chair when I’m done.
Thinking on how to go about just that, my name scrawled on the top piece of paper grabs my attention. That damn nosiness slithers out of me until I’m lifting the sealed envelope out of the box and turning it in my hands. I can tell from the neatness and the swirls that the writing doesn’t belong to Nathan. Regina, perhaps?
I slip my finger beneath the flap and work the seal open. A piece of folded notebook paper comes into view. I retrieve it and discard the envelope beside my hip. The letter rustles as I shake it open and hold the paper before my face. My other hand caresses my belly as I read:
Kiersten,
I desperately hope you read this someday. I’d almost say it’s my dying wish. Speaking of dying, if you’re reading this at all, it means I’m gone, and Nathan has been alone for some time. This isn’t a letter to ask you to take care of him—I know you’ll already be doing that. This is a letter asking you to love him.
OhMyGod. Holy crap. I shouldn’t be reading this. Why is there a letter addressed to me from Janessa? Does Nathan know? The envelope was sealed, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t around when she penned it.
