Shep makes breakfast while I take a good old-fashioned panic shower. Because Shep got a haircut for me. Shep held my hand in a movie theater. Shep slept over and pressed his forehead to mine in my bed. My life is suddenly very, very different than it was a month ago.
Ethan may have gotten my uterus pregnant a while back, but I’m pretty sure Shep got my heart pregnant. In the back of a movie theater, using nothing but his fingers.
That was gross. Sorry.
I am no longer confident this thing with him is ignorable. I…? Think…? I…? Might…? Love…? Him…?
A little?
Just a skosh, I swear.
But here’s the thing about having the father of your baby start ignoring you: you become sort of allergic to the idea of losing anyone else.
I’m not delusional. I know that starting a relationship with someone while pregnant with someone else’s baby takes some varsity-level dating skills that I likely do not have. But when the person you’d like to date is someone you’ve loved dearly since your childhood and the idea of losing him makes you want to roly-poly yourself into a forever-hole. Well…yeah, it’s not a good idea, Eve!
Not to mention the fact that what used to be my saving grace has now become the thing that lances through my mind when I’m falling asleep. A white-hot no! that makes me sweat.
It’s this: everything’s a pregnancy symptom. It used to give me comfort. These feelings for Shep don’t mean anything! Just wait until you’re not pregnant anymore and they’ll go away.
But now I can’t stop thinking Jesus Christ, what if they go away when I’m not pregnant anymore? Could I stand it? Could he?
I think I love him and I’m not sure there’s anything to do about it. Anything that would be fair to him. Anything that wouldn’t potentially destroy a decades-long relationship with someone who has made it pretty clear that he’s a lifer. If I had to make a list right now of people who will almost definitely be there for me after the baby is born, it’s him. He’s the list.
And I refuse to throw away the list just because I’d like to kiss his kiss. On top of him, naked.
Besides, the truth is, I’m not sure how he even feels. He’s never given me a hand massage in a movie theater before, but I’ve never been this pregnant and this alone before either. Shep loves me, duh, he loves me. But does he looOooOooOoove me? Because there’s a pretty big distance between the two and I’d rather not trip and face-plant in the middle.
Shep’s happy if you’re happy. Willa confirmed what I’ve always suspected. What a wonderful character trait. What a terrible character trait. Sure, Shep is flirting with me. But I’m also flirting with him. Exactly how far does this happy-if-you’re-happy thing go?
These are the thoughts I torture myself with.
In the middle of blow-drying my hair, a thought occurs. What if I pulled a little switcheroo on Shep? What if I decided to be happy when he was happy. Instead of the other way around? What if I helped him move out of Willa’s and get settled in a new spot that he loved? What if I used my spice rack superpowers and feng-shui-ed the crap out of an apartment and made a home for him?
He’s so sweet, so warm, that he makes everything blurry. But my determination to treat him well sharpens my understanding of him: Lovely Shep. Perfect Shep. Lonely, transient Shep.
Well, no more!
I shall find this man an apartment of his own if it kills me.
My new battle plan must be written on my face because he physically jolts when I emerge from the bathroom. I inhale breakfast and then clap my hands together.
“Let’s do this,” I say menacingly.
“Um. Okay,” he agrees hesitantly.
Unfortunately, the listings in my neighborhood are mostly underwhelming. There’s one nice one but it’s unbelievably expensive. My apartment is seeming more and more like a diamond in the rough.
We’ve utterly and completely confounded each of the different realtors we’ve met with today. Shep and a pregnant woman are vehemently looking for a one-bedroom or studio. I can see them grappling to understand our relationship, wondering if we’re planning for this baby to sleep with us in our room forever.
I ignore them by carefully inspecting each and every unit with jolly curiosity. Everything is interesting to me. The laundry rooms in the basements. The elevators with their sticky gates that have to be pulled closed before they’ll go. The one apartment that has a mysterious door that won’t open.
Shep is having less fun. I can see him getting more and more discouraged when his dream apartment doesn’t magically turn up.
I check the list on Shep’s phone. “There’s one more apartment to see,” I tell him. “It’ll be perfect, I swear.”
He laughs at my completely uninformed confidence. “They didn’t even add photos to the listing. I’m not optimistic.”
“We persevere!” I demand.
It’s not until we get off the train and approach the address that Shep and I realize what would have been totally obvious if we’d looked at the map a little bit harder: this new apartment is on the same block as Good Boy.
“Oh.”
Shep dips at the knee and catches my eye. “Eve, let’s go. There will be more apartments in better locations.”
“Are you here to see the apartment upstairs?” a woman calls to us from the doorway. “I’m the owner, if you want to come up.”
The owner is a short, older lady with dark brown skin and white glasses. She’s wearing a somehow stylish conductor’s cap, overalls, and Converse. She’s wiping what smells like furniture polish off her hands and when she’s done, she shoves the rag into her back pocket.
I glance at Good Boy but turn back to her with resolve in my heart. We need to at least see the apartment first. Shep is my number one priority right now. Ethan can go take a hike.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, striding towards her with my hand out.
She shakes our hands and then directs us to the stairs and when I wobble a bit on the last landing, she clamps a hand to my elbow. “Careful, kid,” she says.
Then she swings the third-floor apartment door open and good, sweet lord it’s the perfect apartment. Sunny. An original wood mantel with terra-cotta tile work covering up where the fireplace once was. There are gigantic windows with wide windowsills, perfect for potted plants. The kitchen has clearly been updated recently and has enough room for an honest-to-God dinner table. The living room leads into a bathroom (with a window!) and the other door leads to a bedroom.
I turn to the owner. “What—why—how does an apartment this good exist?” (At this price is my implied incredulity.)
She laughs at my flabbergasted awe. “My husband and I have lived here for almost thirty years. We started renovations a few years ago and decided to rent out the top unit. We haven’t liked the last few tenants, so we decided to drop the price on the unit this time around.”
“You thought you’d get a different clientele with a lower rent?” Shep asks in confusion.
She nods. “When it was higher, we were getting a lot of young people on Mom and Dad’s allowance. They’d blow in and out at all hours, not particularly concerned about their neighbors or their neighborhood. No, we’re looking for someone who wants to live here, you know? Not just anywhere nice.” She glances at my belly. “A family looking to put down roots would be perfect.”
My heart gallops, the baby kicks, Good Boy leers from down the block, Shep smooths out a wrinkle in the shoulder of my sweater.
“Can we see the rest of the apartment?” he asks.
“Of course. The only weird thing about this unit is that you have to walk through one bedroom to get to the other,” she says, and shows us just that.
“Huh,” Shep says, his brow lowered.
“Oh, but that wouldn’t matter for you, Shep,” I insist. “One of them would just be your home office and you wouldn’t have to worry about walking through it. It wouldn’t matter.”
I say “home office” and the owner’s eyes immediately go to my belly again, but she doesn’t say anything.
She gives us a little space and as soon as she’s gone, I turn to him. “You have to get this apartment,” I tell him. “We’ll get you a sectional that’ll go here. And bookshelves. A dinner table, Shep, a dinner table. Your bed will be in the back bedroom where it’ll be insulated from street noise and have a view of the backyard. Just picture it in the summertime! All those green leaves through the window and your old green quilt at the foot of the bed? It’ll be perfect! I promise I’ll make it perfect for you!”
He laughs and puts his hands in his pockets and looks around a little more. “You really like it that much?”
“I love it.”
“And you swear you wouldn’t feel weird about coming over, given the location?”
“I…honestly, I might. But I’ll still come over no matter what. Once you’re inside, it’s heaven.”
“Are you sure?” he asks again. He walks over to me and picks up my hand. He twiddles my two rings and then sets my hand back by my side and puts his hands back in his pockets. “Because you being comfortable in my house is pretty much the only criteria I’m currently using for picking a place.”
I nearly gasp for breath, because as far as I’m concerned, he’s just attempted murder. But instead, I put my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Well, my main criteria is finding you a lovely place to live where you feel utterly at home.”
He blinks at me, nonplussed. “It doesn’t have to be that serious, Eve. I just need somewhere to land for a little—”
I press a finger to his lips. “Yeah, yeah. I’m making a home for you, just try and stop me.”
He’s staring at me from behind my hand and I know that look. That’s the look a man gives you right before he leans forwards and blows your life into a million pieces—but the owner comes back through the front door and we step away from each other.
I let them talk specifics for a minute as I keep wandering the apartment. From the front window, you can actually see a sliver of Good Boy. It’s weirdly close. Serendipitously close. My heart does a hollow little cough. I’ve got two hands on my baby bump, painting a long line from rump to head.
Shep and I leave and immediately walk in the other direction from Good Boy and turn the corner. We keep our brisk pace all the way to the train.
I’m quiet.
“You all right?” he asks before we go underground.
“Yeah. Just…I need a nap, I think.”
He plays with my rings again. “Will you text me when you get home?”
I nod.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” he says.
I nod again.
“Are you breathing?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He laughs. “Breathe, Eve. It’s very important.”
I do what he says and we head down the stairs together. His train arrives first, but he lets it pass. My train arrives second and he waits while I board and find a seat. He ducks down, catches my eye through the window and waves. The train pulls away and it feels wrong. I’m not supposed to be speeding away from Shep.
But I’m also intensely relieved. The idea of running into Ethan was a lot worse than I thought it might be. I get off the train and feel so glad to be in my safe little neighborhood. There’s the Jewish bakery. There’s the bodega where they sell hot dogs on a stick. There’s the orthopedic shoe store and the dentist that has a huge plaster tooth over the door. I’m so glad to be safe. Where I live. Where there’s nothing to run from—
I freeze halfway up my block.
Because there’s a man sitting on my stoop. He’s sweaty and breathing hard and wearing running gear.
He’s got copper-red hair and tears on his cheeks.