F
ollowing behind Caleb in the moving van, Sarah and I pull onto a quiet street lightly dusted with snow and lined with mismatched,
picturesque older homes. The sun is out today, and it’s glistening against the ice-covered black roof of house number fourteen. Bo’s house.
We planned for me to come visit a few weeks ago, but between Bo taking on a new project at work, my general level of exhaustion, and a few winter storms, we just ran out of time.
It’s stupid cute. A Tudor-style bungalow with a high gabled roof on the right side and dark brown timbering over top of the white stone exterior.
“You didn’t tell me he lived in Snow White’s cottage,” Sarah says, parking in front of the house. Caleb is parked in the driveway to the right of the home and is already unlatching the back of the truck before we step out to meet him.
“I wonder if the seven dwarves will come help us,” Caleb says, turning to face us as we come up behind him.
“I just made that joke,” Sarah chimes, sickeningly sweet, swatting her husband’s ass. “Wait, is Bo not here?” she asks, looking between the driveway and the front door.
“He’s at a work conference all weekend—it’s a once-a-year thing. He should be back tomorrow. He thought it would be nice for me to have some time to settle in by myself.”
Sarah hands me a box of plants, passed to her by Caleb, who’s standing in the back of the moving van. “Perfect. That means we can snoop.” She wiggles her eyebrows, mischievous grin in full force.
I take the box and make my way across the gravel driveway to the front door. I put in the code Bo texted earlier, and the door beeps and unlocks itself. A small entryway with gorgeous, mosaic blue tiling under a black welcome mat greets me. Against the lime-washed white wall is a row of coat hooks with a dark wooden shoe bench beneath.
There’s a narrow door straight ahead of me, a closet presumably, and a rounded archway to the left that leads into the living room. With a heavy- framed window facing the front of the property and a hollowed mantel of a nonfunctional fireplace, the living room certainly does feel cottage-like. Those and the wooden beams across the high ceilings work to add a cosiness to the otherwise undecorated room.
Bo doesn’t seem to have many personal items. There are a few books on the coffee table and a set of wall sconces on either side of the mantel, but other than that, the walls are bare. A simple grey sofa sits in the centre of the room, standard to most single men I’ve ever encountered, alongside a matching wingback chair in the corner next to the window. I wonder if I can steal the spot next to it for my plant stand. They’d get great sun there.
Moving farther into the home, I step into the adjoining room that is designed to be a dining room. Currently, the only pieces of furniture in here are a desk, tucked into the far corner and topped with a monitor and piles of loose sheets of paper, and a walnut media unit housing an impressive vinyl collection. There must be hundreds of records organised into the slots below the speakers and turntable that sit on top of the unit.
Until now, I haven’t considered that the man I made a baby with could have terrible taste in music. Or, even worse, could be one of those people who doesn’t like music at all. That should absolutely be a determining factor when considering who to mix DNA with. So when I spot a Nat King Cole record next to Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits, I thank Bo silently for being someone with taste, for the sake of our child.
To the right of the media unit, through another wide archway, is Bo’s kitchen, which appears to be the most updated room in the house. Under long rectangular windows overlooking the large snow-covered backyard is a wall of dark-grey bottom cabinets with white marble-top counters, separated by a stainless-steel gas oven. Between those cabinets and where I stand is an island with no overhang for sitting. In the centre of the island is a deep, matte-black sink. The cabinets on the far wall form an L-shape, stopping just before a narrower archway leads to a brightly lit hallway. Between the cabinets and the archway is an equally beautiful stainless-steel fridge with an ice dispenser.
That’s right. A fucking ice dispenser! I am that bitch now.
“Okay, so it’s a very cute but very blank canvas,” Sarah says, coming up behind me and placing a box on the kitchen counter. “With your plants and a little sprucing, this place will be absolutely perfect.” She throws her arm
around me, jumping once with giddy excitement. “What are you thinking? Why are you looking so sad?”
“The idea of having a constant supply of ice is making me a bit emotional,” I say, raising a slow finger to point at the fridge.
“Your priorities are, as always, impeccable,” she says, pushing past me toward the hallway. “Let’s see what your bedroom looks like.”
I follow her down the hall, caressing the fridge longingly as I pass by.
“He left all the doors open so you could look around. That’s thoughtful,” Sarah says over her shoulder, disappearing into the farthest bedroom.
I peek in the first door on the left to see a decently sized square-shaped bedroom with the same white lime-washed walls and dark flooring as the rest of the home. There’s a simple walnut-coloured bedframe pushed into the far corner under a blind-covered window and not much else, other than a glass dome ceiling light. My new bedroom, I presume.
Next door is a smaller bedroom with light-grey walls, a long vertical window that overlooks the backyard, and a small built-in closet to the left. It’s also completely empty apart from some ethernet cables tangled in the far corner, a wi-fi router, and a half-filled box labelled Donate.
Realising that this is the room intended to be the baby’s nursery, I lean against the doorframe and admire it a little more carefully, noting the way the afternoon sun creates a small rainbow on the wall closest to the closet. I wonder what Bo would think of painting the room yellow. I think it would take that little cluster of afternoon light and make it feel even brighter.
When I turn around to wander towards the next room, Caleb is standing silently behind me. His eyes are locked over his shoulder, then he slowly turns his attention toward me. We share a shy, hopeful smile.
“Baby’s room?” he asks simply.
I nod.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” I say, tears threatening to spring loose. “It’s a great room.”
“You think?” I ask, my voice wobbling. I laugh at myself, wiping a single tear away. “Oh my god, these fucking hormones,” I complain. “It’s nice though, right?”
“Hey,” Caleb says, outstretching one arm. I walk to him, letting my head rest on his chest. He pats my shoulder a few times, then grabs hold of it and shakes me against him, laughing in a mocking yet gentle manner. “This is good, Win. This is a great place, and that’s a perfect room. Don’t be sad. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not sad. It’s just a big change, you know?” I say, standing on my own and stepping back. “I think it’s just a bit jarring to see the room my baby will be sleeping in. That’s all.”
“I get that. But—”
Sarah appears in the hallway, windswept, as if she’s been running, distracting Caleb mid-sentence. “I found condoms. Brand new in plastic- wrapped packaging,” she announces in the tone of a news reporter.
Well, that was a sobering entrance. I look at her blankly, taking in her unblinking eyes and crazed expression. “In my room?” I ask, confused.
“No, obviously not. There’s literally just a bed and mattress in your room. In Bo’s.” She darts back inside the door to our left.
“Sarah, no! Get out of there.” I follow her in. “Stop snoop—” I cannot continue chastising her once I find myself in the centre of Bo’s bedroom. Unlike the rest of his home, this room is curated to him exactly. It’s filled to the brim with art and belongings.
One wall is painted dark green behind a slotted pine headboard. The bed is covered in greyish beige bedding and has a rustic wooden bench at the foot of it. Under both the bed and the bench is a large natural-woven rug that stops before two nightstands with open shelving and shallow drawers at the top.
On the right nightstand, there’s a collection of what, at first glance, someone could mistake for dirty magazines. But they’re actually—
“Comic books,” Sarah says, snickering.
“I’ve seen what you read on your Kindle. You’re in no place to judge.”
She raises a finger to make a counterargument, then lowers it, nodding to herself in a sad sort of acceptance.
“Do you think he’d let me borrow this?” Caleb asks, emerging from Bo’s closet wearing a knight’s armour chest piece and helmet.
“Both of you, stop. We shouldn’t be in here or touching his stuff.”
“Do you think he role plays in bed?” Sarah asks, practically skipping over to her husband before brushing her hand over the metal on his chest. “That could be kind of hot,” she says to me over her shoulder, smirking.
“Milady,” Caleb says, bending to kiss her. She giggles as their lips meet. “Oh my god, seriously? Now you’re defiling his things!”
“Seems only fair,” Caleb says, taking off the helmet and holding it to his hip. “We haven’t been able to mess around in our guest bedroom since we found out that it has some sort of magic baby-making energy.”
“That’s not how it works,” I sigh out under my breath. “Please, just—put everything back.”
“Win, I think your baby daddy might be a huge nerd,” Sarah says, walking back toward me as Caleb skulks away.
I look over her shoulder at the framed sepia art print on the wall next to the closet door. It’s a pencil sketch patent of the Star Trek Enterprise. “Well, that’s what I’m here for, right? To get to know the guy.” Definitely a nerd.
“Exactly… Which is why I looked in his drawers.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Not the same thing.”
“Tell me, Winnifred June, why does a man buy condoms?”
I pull up my shirt and point to the smallest of baby bumps that’s started to take shape. It looks more like a bloated stomach after a large burrito between my squishy, soft hips. “Maybe to avoid this?”
“No, but he hasn’t used them. The box is still wrapped in plastic.” “Sarah, what is your point here? We have an entire truck to unpack, and I
really don’t think we should be in his room or discussing the man’s sex life.” I glance over my shoulder as a thud comes from the closet where Caleb is. “Stop doing whatever you’re doing in there!” I shout at him.
“He’s not having sex with anyone else,” Sarah says, grinning like a feline.
Caleb is laughing in the closet, and I swear I hear the sound of a lightsaber opening.
“Or Bo had so much sex he ran out and had to buy more,” I argue. Her face falls instantly. She’s so betrayed by the very notion of Bo having sex with someone else that I almost feel guilty for suggesting it. “Sar, I know your heart is in the right place, but Bo and I are not a couple from one of your books. If he was planning on having sex with me, then he wouldn’t need those, would he?”
“This logic has backfired. I’ll admit it.”
“And I’m not planning on having sex with him, which is another factor you seem to keep forgetting.”
Just then, Caleb comes out of Bo’s closet holding something in his hands, chuckling darkly. “Think he’s a mountain climber, or…?”
My throat tenses and dries at the sight of silky black rope. Caleb throws it over his shoulders like a shitty feather boa.
Sarah snort-laughs, flipping through a comic book at the side of the bed. “Put that back now and go wait at the truck,” I seethe. “And you.” I point
to Sarah, but then draw a blank. “Just… come see the bathroom with me, I guess. Neither of you are allowed to come back in here, understood?”
They both roll their eyes. Caleb stomps back into the closet, and Sarah pouts as she slots the comic book back into the stack. I make them leave the room before doing a last check that nothing is out of place. I shut the door behind us and follow Sarah into the bathroom across the hall.
It’s certainly a tight fit with both of us in here, because the large glass shower stall takes up most of the room. Black hexagonal floor tiles clash beautifully with white walls that turn to tile inside the shower with a built-in tiled bench. There’s a small vanity with a little storage underneath the sink and a mirrored medicine cabinet above.
“You’ll have to come take baths at my place, I guess,” Sarah says, sitting on the closed toilet seat.
I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to be so devastated by the lack of a tub, but the reality is hitting hard. Baths are where I unwind, process, and decompress. And over the past month, it’s where I’ve also found comfort for my tired, aching body.
“Maybe,” I pout, turning the sink’s faucet on and off again.
“Or get a tub installed? He’s got the money, clearly. The room is big enough.”
I laugh under my breath. “Yes, I’ll start making a list of demands.” I stand straighter, putting on an impression of my worst self. “Thank you, Bo, for letting me move in here because I’ve failed to become a successful adult on my own accord and got knocked up by you. How would you feel about a full bathroom renovation? And perhaps, while you’re at it, could you build me a tower to sleep in?”
Sarah smiles up at me. “Fair enough,” she says, moving to stand at my side. We look at our reflections in the mirror, and both sigh wistfully.
“Plus, the shower may be a necessity,” I say, noting the multiple grab bars installed. “I’ll miss baths, but I don’t need baths.”
“Agree to disagree,” Sarah says, fiddling with her hair as she admires her reflection with pouted lips and raised brows. I do the same, fluffing my bangs so they fall better. “We used to do this every day,” she says soulfully, making eye contact in the mirror.
“Hmm?”
“Get ready together, sharing a mirror. I miss it sometimes. I miss that old apartment a lot.”
I miss it too. I miss Marcie and my mom together, dancing in the kitchen and giggling like schoolgirls into their glasses of pinot grigio. I miss the chaos of four women trying to share one bathroom and one vehicle. I miss feeling young and carefree and naive. I wasted so much of that time wishing I was older. Waiting impatiently to get out and live my own life. But that never really happened. I just got older. And now look at me. Nothing to show for it.
“You stole all of my makeup,” I argue, avoiding the sinking nostalgia in my chest.
“Yeah, but I always braided your hair in exchange,” she quips, fiddling with a strand of my hair. Then she rubs her lips together, her eyes locking on my shoulder as she twists my hair, her mind far off. “I, uh, talked to June last night, actually.”
“Oh.” It’s not a complete surprise that my mother would call Sarah, since I haven’t returned her calls in over a month, but it is surprising that she waited until now to tell me they spoke. Usually, I get a text message from Sarah setting me straight right away. Telling me to knock it off and quit making her the middleman.
“She’s worried about you. Says you’ve gone quiet on her.” “Right.”
“I know it’s hard, Win. I know what she’s like. But you’ve got to tell her. She misses you, and I don’t think she’ll react terribly. She’d be a hypocrite if she did.”
“I know. I-I’m going to. It’s just been really busy since finding out. And processing all of these changes. And then packing up and moving. But I promise I will. I’ll call her tonight.”
“Okay,” Sarah says, dropping the now tightly braided strand of hair next to my ear. “Good.”
We smile softly at each other, facing the mirror.
“We should probably go help Caleb,” she says, her mouth twitching into a grin.
I laugh, grimacing. “Oh, shit, right. I totally forgot about him out there.” Then we sprint to the front yard.
