“Oh, Eve, please don’t be swayed by slippers,” Willa says from where she’s scrubbing the counter in her kitchen. “It’s nice that he thought to get you a gift on the one holiday of the year when literally everyone gets literally everyone a gift, but still it’s just a pair of slippers. The bar is so low it’s just in the basement for men, isn’t it?”
Isamu and I are laughing and rolling our eyes at Willa’s tirade. She’s started rage-washing dishes and calling to us over the faucet.
“Eve can be swayed by that if she wants to be swayed by that!” Isamu insists. “Sure, they’re just slippers, but he went to a store and told a salesperson that Eve was pregnant and then got her an appropriate gift. That’s not nothing!”
“If I see some video proof that he told the salesperson that Eve was pregnant with his baby and he wanted to select a gift to show his commitment to co-parenting and the salesperson recommended those slippers, then I’ll give him the points. Otherwise it’s bupkis in my book.”
I was going to put the slippers on, but instead I find myself fitting them back into the shoebox. “Do you hate Ethan just because he has a girlfriend?”
“I don’t hate him! I’m sure he’s really great. But, yes,” she finishes up. “It bugs me that he has a girlfriend.” She tosses the sponge in the sink, rinses her hands, and comes to sit next to me on the floor. “I just want you to have someone who is absolutely nuts about you and wants to raise a kid with you and is proud to be the father of your kid. This guy hit the jackpot and he’s throwing it all away on some other chick.”
Isamu makes eye contact with her and she sighs and turns to me. “Let me see these slippers.”
I nudge the box over to her and she picks them up one at a time, inspecting them.
“Quality stitch work,” she concedes. “And the gel liners are nice. Try them on.”
Pleased with her approval, I model them with a walk from one side of the room to the other.
“Very nice,” she says with a nod.
“Very nice,” Shep parrots, coming out of his room. “Are we just admiring Eve in general or is there something specific? And how come nobody told me Eve was here?”
“I don’t knock on the door of that masturbation den,” Willa says with a curled lip.
“I’m sorry,” he says, flopping onto the couch. “Would you rather it was a sex den? I thought you told me no visitors.”
I stop walking, momentarily stymied by the idea of Shep being the proprietor of a sex den.
“Slippers,” Isamu says, talking over the Balders. “We were admiring Eve’s slippers.”
Shep leans up, peeps the slippers, and gives me a robust nod. “Yes, those are very nice.”
“They were a gift from Ethan,” Willa says with a completely straight face and even tone. How does she still manage to inject a sneer?
“Oh.” Shep flops back onto the couch. “You met up with him again?”
“Yeah. We’ve been texting here and there and he asked to meet up so we could talk in person.”
“What’d you talk about?” Shep asks.
“Something else,” I say, waving my hands in the air. “Sorry, I meant can we talk about something else?”
I haven’t mentioned to Willa that Ethan brought up my sexual history. But I just got her to admit she doesn’t hate him, so I don’t want to undo progress.
“So, Michigan tomorrow, huh?” Willa asks, throwing me a bone.
“Yeah. I fly in the afternoon.”
“Want me to come?” she asks casually. Her eyes darken menacingly. “I’ll make sure your brothers take the news well.”
I laugh. I love when Willa’s on my team. “Better stay here. I don’t think we can threaten my family into being happy for me.”
Isamu gets out his mandolin—his newest musical experiment—and starts fiddling around with it. We all listen and chat and Willa decides we’re allowed to eat dinner strewn around her living room.
Afterward, the conversation slides easily from Isamu’s next gig to Willa’s New Year’s resolution (a six-minute mile and the side splits) to whether or not Shep should get a bird (no, according to the two owners of the apartment).
I start yawning.
“Hey,” Shep says with a tap to the back of my hand. “Before you head home, I have something to show you. C’mere.”
I follow him to his room. He’s standing in the doorframe, his hands in the pockets of his sweats, grinning hugely at me.
“Welcome,” he says.
“Why, thank you.”
He goes in and sits at his desk, waking up his laptop. “Hold on, I have to get it set up real quick. Make yourself at home.”
This room is very much a guest room. It’s painted a lavender purple with framed black-and-white photos of wheat on one wall. The bed is white on white and neatly made. Only a half-drunk water glass on the nightstand proves that someone lives in here.
I haven’t been in a Shep bedroom since we were in high school. Once when he was out of town, I was sleeping over with Willa and she woke up with the stomach flu at around midnight, so Corinne set me up in Shep’s bed for the night. I vividly remember that room. Navy blue walls, a green patchwork quilt on his bed, and a gigantic poster of Baywatch babe Carmen Electra on the inside of his closet door.
He does a double take over his shoulder. “What are you smiling about?”
“Your Baywatch poster.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Lotta fond memories of that poster.”
“Do you still have that green quilt?”
He looks up at me in surprise. “The one from my bed? Yeah, actually. It’s boxed up with most of my stuff. There wasn’t enough space here for me to really unpack, so most of it’s in storage for now.” His eyes slice over to me for just a moment. “When were you in my room in high school?” He reaches up with his socked toes and gently nudges my thigh until I park myself on the edge of his bed. His big foot settles next to my hip.
“Are you joking? You know how much time I spent at your house in high school. It was only natural that I’d make my way into your room every once in a while.”
He squints. “I feel like I’d remember.”
“Willa and I would go in and snoop around when you were out. And I slept in your bed once.”
His foot slips to the floor. “You slept in my bed.”
“Yup.”
“In high school.”
“Yes.”
“Where the hell was I?”
The look on his face makes me burst out laughing. “I forget. It was during the summer, so probably computer camp?”
“Fucking computer camp,” he gripes, spinning back around in his chair and clicking around on his laptop again.
Grinning at his back, I bounce on the edge of his bed. It’s excessively squishy but that’s how I like a mattress to be. And those pillows look like they might be made of—yup—memory foam magic. Firm pillows and a squishy mattress. Killer combo. I’m lying on my side now, watching Shep’s profile while he clicks and types. He looks so serious when he’s working. It’s rare to catch him in a mood like this.
The glow from his lamp is amberish and clear, like I’m looking at him through a glass of beer. I think of Shep asking the waitress for a stanky IPA and I chuckle. I think I’m immune to some of Shep’s charms because I grew up with them. It’s a little hard to find a man mysterious when you know the exact pose that Carmen Electra used to strike in his closet.
I’m warm and is it just me or is this bed getting softer? Somewhere in my brain, I hear a click and realize that the light has gone from amber to blue. There are footsteps and then a door softly closing. But then I’m gone.
I wake up in the lonely-blue quiet of two am. Shep’s scent is so strong that I think for a disorienting second that I might roll over and see him. But no, that’s just because I’m lying under the covers in his bed. The lights are out and I’m still in my clothes from the day. I wiggle out from the covers and quickly pad across his bedroom and out into the hallway. I use the bathroom and then gulp water straight from the faucet. When I emerge back into the living room, I see it. A gigantic foot hanging off the end of the couch. I follow the linear line from the toes to the ankle to the knee and there’s Shep, not fitting on the couch. The afghan is like a tea towel over his waist. He takes these never-ending breaths. In for an eternity and then out for even longer. His blood must be rich with oxygen, lazily backstroking to all of his edges.
I put a hand on his shoulder. It’s very firm and warm under his T-shirt, so I backpedal and touch him with less of my hand. “Shep,” I whisper. “Shep.”
He blinks awake, looks at me without seeing me, and closes his eyes again.
I try once more. “Shep. Shep.”
This time one eye opens and holds. “Eve?”
“You should go get in bed. I’m gonna head home.”
“Huh?” He puts two arms up over his head and now the couch looks comically small. He makes his hands into fists and then into starfish. “Wait. No. I wanted to show you something!”
He sits up and his hair is both flat and spiky. He tosses the afghan away and I see he’s wearing just a plain white T-shirt and red plaid boxers. Half dressed, messy hair and sleepy eyes, his arms and legs look ridiculously long. I’m used to daytime Shep. Nighttime Shep looks fever-warm and like he’d taste like toothpaste.
“C’mere.” For the second time that night I follow Shep to his bedroom. This time he holds the desk chair out for me and when I sit down he spins it towards his laptop.
His computer is closed so he leans over me to open it up and click into a program. He’s got one hand on the back of the chair and one on the mouse pad in front of me so it’s almost, almost like he’s hugging me from behind. Almost. He yawns in my ear and makes the HHHah sound.
For just a flash, I picture spinning the chair again, so that I would be facing him. His red boxers in front of me and his arms on either side of me. He’s a clumsy hugger, but is Shep clumsy in bed?
I mentally slap myself away from that thought.
“Here.” He retracts his arms and comes to his knees next to the chair. We’re the same height like this. “Press play.”
He’s smiling, his teeth turquoise in the light from his computer. There’s a screen with a triangle play button in the center of it. I press play.
“Is this…is this me?” I ask Shep.
“Yeah,” he says, a little shyly. “It’s you as a Powerpuff Girl. Well. Powerpuff Woman, I suppose.”
“Me as a pregnant Powerpuff Woman,” I correct him, because he’s glossed over the best part. Me, agile and kick-ass and pregnant all at the same time. Is this how he sees me? “You made this?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you could do something like this!”
“Computer camp, remember?” He gives me a little smile. “I’ve been fooling around with digital painting for a long time, but I only got interested in animation a year or so ago. Anyways. Merry Christmas.”
I watch the animation twice more, my body humming with delight, and then I swivel the chair and maybe because we’re, for once, the exact same height, our hug just notches perfectly together. My arms around his neck, his around my ribs. His chin hooking over my shoulder. I’ve accidentally got a gentle fistful of his hair and I feel my shirt slide against my skin where he grips me.
“Shep,” I say, one hundred percent unclear on where this sentence might end, just knowing I’ve got to start it. “Shep, I—”
There’s a small but unmistakable tap where my middle is pressing against his middle.
I freeze. He freezes.
“Was that…?” he starts.
“Did you feel that?” I ask, scrambling back from him. “Did you feel that?” I’ve got tears in my eyes and shaking fingers as I take the hem of my T-shirt and peel it back. Both of us look down at my semi-rounded belly, a silvery crescent moon between us.
“I felt it,” he whispers. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his palm is flat against my belly. He’s fresh-bread hot and firm in his touch. His hand slides half an inch to one side and half an inch to the other.
“Thank you,” I whisper down to my belly. “Thank you.”
Thank you for kicking in the first place and thank you for kicking when I was flat up against someone who loves me. Thank you for letting someone else remember this moment, treasure it with a hand against my body.
“That was a kick, Shep,” I whisper to him, emotion clogging my throat.
“I thought so,” he whispers back, a huge grin on his face. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever experienced.”
He puts his other hand on my belly too. They do that half-inch slide again. He’s still kneeling in front of me, my knees pressed onto either side of his ribs.
“Is this okay?” he asks, looking up at me.
“Yes.” I nod. “No one else has actually touched it yet…so this is kinda fun.”
He presses with the pads of his fingers, as gently as if he’s testing the yolk of a cracked egg. “It’s so firm,” he whispers. His head cocks to one side. “And not quite round.”
“Yeah, I know,” I whisper back. “The OB-GYN says it’s normal. Everybody has a little bit of a different shape. And that it’ll all change as things progress.”
“Hi,” Shep says, and I realize he’s not addressing me. “Please kick again. Unless you’re too tired, and then I’ll just be happy with what I got.”
I laugh and it hurts. That’s been happening to me a lot lately. When something is good and painful all at once. No one else has talked to the bump yet.
He shifts a little on his knees.
“Let’s sit over there,” I say, and point to the bed. “And we can keep waiting.” I don’t know how these things work, obviously, and have no reason to believe there will be any more kicks immediately. But right now I have the warm hands of someone who loves me, and ending it is inconceivable. I’d very much like me and my kicking bump to be treasured. Even if just by a friend, and even if just for a moment.
He’s up off his knees and holding a hand out to me, hoisting me up, and then I’m both knees on the bed, scooting to one side and he’s sliding next to me. I recline on pillows and he’s on his side, facing me, eye level with my shoulder. His hand slides over my belly again and that’s when I have to come to terms with just how big that hand is.
There’s a deep shadow between each knuckle that I want to press my fingertips into. He’s got veins and wide, clean fingernails and I swear his wrist is the size of my ankle. I have this weird sensation like up is down and I’m falling towards the ceiling, but it’s okay, because Shep’s hand, right there, is catching me.
“Oh!” he says, lifting his head, his eyes big. “Was that one?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Just a gurgle, I think. My stomach is in there too, you know.”
“Ah. Right.”
I think I might feel a kick but I’m not sure and we both say “Ooh!” and turn to stare at each other, wide-eyed. My hand joins his on my belly and our fingertips are touching, our noses six inches away from each other.
Have I mentioned that Shep has a really good face? Kind of a big nose and a soft mouth. He’s got those friendly eyes where the top eyelid folds down and creates an angle just so. His eyelashes disappear at the ends and everything just looks so soft. Sleepy even when he’s not sleepy. He’s got a face that’s constantly inviting you to lie in a hammock and find shapes in the clouds. I’ve never seen it from quite this close up before, though.
His exhale whispers against my cheeks and I look up at his eyes. Whoops. I guess I’ve been looking pretty intently at the bottom half of his face. I lean back and he leans back but his hand stays on my belly.
“Are you tired?” he asks, and there’s a bit of gravel I don’t normally hear.
“Not really,” I admit. “Should I get go—”
“We could watch a movie,” he suggests. “Until you get sleepy.”
And then he’s rolling away from me and I’m lying on his bed with my shirt pulled up and I stare at his ceiling and all I can think about are his hands. On me. And that up-is-down feeling is back, only he’s not there to catch me and oh, God I have to go. Right now. Before everything—
“How about Spirited Away?” he asks, putting his laptop on my knees and clicking around.
An old favorite. I first watched it in his basement with Willa sandwiched between Shep and me on their couch, a bowl of popcorn filled and filled and filled by their mom.
He gets the movie started and I reach up to fix my shirt but his hand is back, hot and firm and comfortable, waiting for more kicks. “This is seriously so cool,” he says.
It is so cool. And terrifying. And I don’t even know which part I’m talking about. I’m tired and the movie is familiar and pretty and I’m warm and nervous and comfortable and freaked out all at once.
I wake up at dawn lying on my side. Shep is on his stomach, facing away from me, but one of his hands is still underneath my shirt. I get a half-second flash of a different universe. One where I’m allowed to put my face in that corner right there, the one that his neck makes against his shoulder. The universe where he’s sleepy and warm and putting his hands all the way inside my shirt. Where our clothes could all just slip a few inches in one direction or another and then I could be on top of him and I could make those big, slow breaths of his come quickquickquick.
He’s so relaxed and loose and I’m momentarily seized with longing to see him tight and frantic.
I shift so that he’s not touching me anymore and I let my blood cool, sitting in the light blue of dawn. I let myself go all the way cold. And then I carefully climb out of his bed, and I go home.