Page 106 of Fall Love

Which is why the way she said goodbye with such finality hurt so much.

Then she hung up on me.

I couldn’t solve anything over the phone. I had to get home. To her.

When I see the headlights of the SUV pull up to the house, I wait a second before popping open my door. I’m drenched within seconds. Shirt stuck to my chest. Pants like a second skin. Leather shoes ruined. None of it matters.

I reach the passenger side of the car at the same time she does, getting just as soaked as me.

“I’ve got her,” I holler over the torrential rain.

“I’ve got her,” Neve argues back.

We don’t have time for this kind of pissing match.

“Just get the front door,” I nod toward the house.

Thankfully, Neve listens and runs through puddles on her flagstone walk. I open the back door, grateful to find a small umbrella in the seatback pocket. I unlatch the car seat, then struggle to open the umbrella in the wind and rain. After dragging the blanket covering Wren’s legs over the entire seat, I lug her upward, placing the umbrella over her instead of me. I hip check the car door and rush to the open front door.

I don’t bother asking Neve for permission to enter. I let myself in and shut the door, setting down the car seat, and then snap the umbrella shut. Standing just inside the door, I’m a dripping mess. I shake my arms, as if that will help, but I’m wet to the skin and cold to the bone.

Neve bends for the baby.

“Why don’t you grab some towels? I’ll get Wren.” Her blanket isn’t wet, other than a corner. She’s still toasty and dry, although her eyes are wide at the sudden removal of the covering.

“Hey, baby,” I coo, working with shaking fingers to unbuckle her from the seat. Then I realize I can’t pick her up and pull her to me, I’m too wet.

And all I really want is to hold my baby girl.

Actually, who I want to hold is Neve.

She returns to the living room with a pile of towels and a flannel shirt over the top. “Here.”

“Thanks.” I set the shirt on the back of the chair and take a towel, rubbing it over my face and hair before tugging my shirt out of my pants.

Neve’s breath hitches, like she’s realized too late I’m about to remove my shirt. She stands perfectly still, as I unbutton a few buttons and then tug the saturated mess over my head by the back collar.

When I have the shirt pulled forward, Neve’s head is turned to the side, refusing to look at me.

I quickly scrub at my chest, then slip on the flannel shirt. My flannel shirt. Finally, I take Wren from the car seat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, her voice low.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I state. “There’s no room here.” I glance around the quaint space, restricted by the simple addition of a car seat in the living space.

“No room for you, you mean.”

The lash stings.

“No room for you either,” I argue. “There’s hardly anywhere to set the car seat. The crib is wedged between your bed and dresser. There’s no space to grow here. For a child to grow.”

I didn’t mean to start off by listing all her faults. I’m just frustrated.

“Maybe you just mean there’s no room for me in your life. Or you in ours.”

“Neve.” I exhale like she’s punched me in the gut. “Don’t say that.”

I take a step toward her, holding Wren in my arms. My socks slosh in my shoes, which squeak against her hardwood. Neve stands her ground but glances down at my ruined shoes. For her part, she’s still dripping wet as well.