Chapter 23: A Key of Her Own

At twenty-six weeks I owned two paint rollers, one stepladder, and a sister who would not shut up about yellow.

"Yellow is a lie," Macy said, from the top of the ladder. "Babies don't care about yellow. Babies care about sleep."

"It's a calm color."

"It's the color of a school bus."

"It's the color of a sunrise," Samson said.

He was kneeling on the floor of the second bedroom with a drill and a crib that had arrived in a dozen boxes.

He'd been kneeling there since seven that morning.

He wore his old gray sweatshirt, with a pencil behind his ear.

"Thank you," I said.

"I'm not on your side. I'm on the baby's side. A baby wants to wake up inside a lemon."

"You've been a doctor for twelve years, and you don't know what a baby wants?"

"I know she wants this crib built by Tuesday."

Macy pointed her roller at him.

"The crib is not the problem. You've put the slats on backward."

"I have not."

"There's a picture on the box!"

"The picture is wrong!"

I stood in the doorway with a glass of lemonade and my hand under my belly.

I laughed until I had to hold the frame.

His coffee maker was on my kitchen counter.

His terrible socks were on my bedroom floor.

He'd moved in on a Sunday, with four cartons and a houseplant, and he hadn't asked me twice.

His phone rang on the windowsill.

He looked at the screen, and then at me, and I saw his shoulders change.