The Break(5)

The heat turns on with a rumble, smelling smokier than it should. I look to Gabe to see if he notices, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He’s looking at me like he’s not sure what to do, but then he slides toward us. He’s big—six three—and when he comes close the mattress dips and I gasp, worried Lila will roll into the empty space and he’ll crush her. None of this happens, but my pulse pounds just the same, and I flash back to the soaked hospital sheets, the gown that didn’t cover enough. I shake my head to clear it, but it’s still there: the way my body—all of me, toes to teeth—couldn’t stop shaking.

Gabe props himself onto an elbow. His gray T-shirt rides up and I can see the curve of his bicep, his forearm flexing. I’ve always loved Gabe’s hands, and I try to focus on them now, to push away the images of the hospital. I touch the swell of Lila’s stomach. “I think I remember getting to the hospital,” I say. “I keep thinking of the gown.”

Gabe opens his mouth like he wants to say something.

“What?” I ask, nervous. The whir of the heater fills the air between us. Our bedroom gets so much hotter than the rest of the apartment.

“There wasn’t really time for a gown,” Gabe says. “Not until much later. They cut off your jeans and covered you with a blanket.”

I swallow. It feels like when you lose a file on the computer and nothing you do will bring it back.

“Maybe you’re just mixing it up with later,” Gabe says carefully, “after it was all done.”

“After what was all done?” I ask. “The birth?” What a weird way to say it.

“Yeah,” Gabe says, his body leaning toward us, making the bed dip again. “After the birth.”



I inch closer to Lila, wanting to put her onto my chest but knowing I’m supposed to share her with Gabe, too.

“We should sleep while she’s sleeping,” Gabe says, his eyes roving Lila’s face. “She’s so beautiful,” he says, and I swear he’s about to cry again. It throws me. “We could sleep a few hours before her night feeding,” he says hoarsely, swallowing back whatever emotion was there.

“Okay,” I say. I kick away the blankets, too hot.

Gabe flicks off the lamp and the room goes dark. I feel him settle next to Lila, but it makes me too anxious to have him sleeping next to her. What if he falls into a deep sleep and rolls over? I pick her up and settle her on my chest. I listen to the sound of Gabe’s breathing, feeling the solid weight of Lila on me as my own chest rises and falls.

I think of June again, imagining her in her trademark high-necked white tank and boyfriend jeans, dressing nothing like so many other young people in New York City with their partially shaved heads and bleached hair, nose rings and minidresses. June was such a throwback, like an early-twenties version of Blake Lively with long highlighted blond hair and golden skin.

What if I go to her tonight?

I know where she lives, and the neighborhood bars and shops she likes, because I truly listened to her all those times we went out with her and Gabe’s screenwriting agent, Harrison. Back on those double dates late into the starry New York nighttime I was someone entirely different: my bestselling novelist persona, I guess, someone smart and maybe even glamorous; someone June might have looked up to. Ever since Lila came it’s so different; I’m so different. I’m just so scared all the time.

I should be the one to apologize to June. I do so much better face-to-face, when I can explain myself, and really, how much worse could it get if I saw June again? Anything I could ever say or do to her would pale in comparison to what I already did.

My thoughts soften as I lie there, eyes open, counting the cracks on the ceiling, tracing the spiderweb of lines with my gaze. Over and over.



Yes.

That’s what I’ll do—I’ll go to June tonight. I’ll wait until Gabe falls asleep, and then I’ll slip out and find her. Because it makes sense to tell her I’m sorry in person, to see her again.

Just this once.





THREE


Rowan. Monday night. November 7th.


A half hour later the clock says six p.m., but it may as well be midnight. Gabe is fast asleep, muscles no longer twitching, his whole body gone still. I inch out of bed as quietly as I can, but the friction of my skin makes a zip across the sheets. I freeze, Lila against my chest. When Gabe doesn’t move I keep going, a gentle slither against the sateen he likes, marveling, as always, at how quiet this apartment is. It must be the way our old building is constructed so solidly, a fortress that blocks out the traffic screeches and human screams below. I’m glad it’s quiet for Lila, but a part of me still craves the chaos—I can admit that. You can’t live in the city for this long and not be someone who needs the live-wire fray of New York.

I tiptoe across the floor and out of our bedroom toward a dim light in the kitchen. Lila’s snowsuit is moon white against our leather couch, and I lay her down gently, making a shushing noise and praying she won’t cry out. Her limbs feel too fragile as I guide them into the armholes. I keep having awful moments of envisioning something terrible happening to her—like her bones snapping as I try to fit her into the snowsuit—and my entire body shudders. When I imagine it, it feels so visceral, as if it really happened.