Page 159 of Slapshot Baby

I drive to the studio early and work on the master bedroom bay window design. I draft several versions of the built-in seat adjusting depth for the cushion, adding storage underneath the cushion.

My measurements are clean. My notes are detailed.

I skip lunch because my stomach turns every time I look at food. I buy a water bottle from the cafe downstairs and drink half of it over four hours.

My phone is still a flat black rectangle that’s dark without the call I need.

I’m not going to look at it.

But I’ve already looked at it thirty-seven times. Or is it forty-two?

Day three.

Morning sickness slams me so hard I barely make it to the studio bathroom. My knees hit the industrial tile. I grip the rim of the toilet and retch until my stomach is empty and my eyes are streaming.

The bathroom is cold and echoey and nothing like the warm oak six feet away in the workspace Kai handed me with both hands.

I rinse my mouth, fix my hair, walk back to the drafting table.

My junior designer is giving me a worried look but I pay her no mind because I’m perfectly fine.

Composed. Cool. Professional.

Laura's renovation plan glows on my iPad. I see the kitchen where she gave me scones, the height chart penciled on the doorframe in fading graphite. Kai, age 6. Kai, age 8.

My stylus hovers over the bay window sketch. The tip trembles against the screen.

I'm drawing a built-in seat for the bedroom of a woman whose son hasn't spoken to me in days. Designing the home where he grew up, surrounded by evidence of a family that welcomed me in, while the man who invited me into that family has gone completely silent.

My vision blurs. The iPad swims.

My stylus clatters onto the table. Both hands go flat on the surface, fingers spread, pressing down because if I grip anything I'll snap it. My shoulders curl inward. The muscles along my spine seize.

You're fine. He's angry. People need space when they're angry. You gave him space and he's taking it and this is healthy.

A tear hits the drafting table. Then another.

I fold forward until my forehead touches the cool surface of the table. My body shakes. Tears hit the iPad screen and slide across Laura's kitchen floor plan. Naomi comes to me and starts patting my back.

I cry until my ribs ache and my nose is completely blocked and the studio lights feel too bright through my swollen eyelids.

Then I close the iPad and drive home with both hands white-knuckled on the wheel and my jaw clamped so hard my molars grind.

I'm over it. Fully, completely, definitively over it.

That afternoon, my phone rings.

It’s an unknown number with a local area code. My thumb hovers over decline but something in my gut won't let me press it.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

Kai's voice. Low, tired, stripped.

Those two words are enough to make my knees give out. I catch the kitchen counter with my free hand, hip bone hitting the edge. The phone presses against my ear so tight the case cuts into my cheekbone.

"Kai." His name comes out cracked.