Page 179 of Slapshot Baby

I build.

I sit on the floor in leggings and Kai's hoodie, assembling the frame piece by piece.

My belly gets in the way when I lean forward to tighten the bolts. The baby kicks twice while I'm on my hands and knees trying to align the side rail with the base.

The frame takes shape. I bolt the side rails on, check the stability, tighten everything twice. But the mattress platform won't click into place. I read the instructions again. I line up the pegs. Something isn't fitting.

I sit back on my heels and press both palms against my eyes.

"Come on," I whisper. "I can do this."

But I can't. Not this part.

The platform needs someone to hold one end while the other end slots into the grooves, and I have two hands and a belly and no one else in this room.

The crib is half-built. The swatches are pinned to the board. The layout is sketched. The rocking chair I found at a flea market sits in the corner with a sage-green throw draped over the arm.

Everything in this room is something I did alone. And it's beautiful and it's incomplete and it looks exactly like my life.

I hear the front door open.

Biscuit scrambles off the couch in the living room. Her bark is sharp, then stops. Then her tail starts wagging relentlessly.

My heart rams into my throat.

I know the footsteps in the hallway. I’ve just registered that they're Kai’s when I see him at the doorway.

He's in jeans and a grey t-shirt. His dark hair is pushed back but not neatly. His eyes are tired and raw in a way I've never seen on him before.

He looks at me on the floor then he looks at the room.

The swatches pinned to the corkboard. The half-assembled crib. The rocking chair. The iPad with the floor plan. The hardware scattered across the hardwood. The Allen wrench is still in my hand.

"You built a nursery," he says.

"I'm building one." My voice comes out thick. "The mattress platform won't fit."

He steps into the room, walks to the crib, kneels on the other side, and examines the grooves. He picks up the platform, tilts it fifteen degrees, and slides it into place with a clean click.

"The pegs were offset," he says.

"Of course they were."

He stays on his knees. Across the half-built crib, he looks at me.

"I went to my mother's house," he says. "She made me sit in her kitchen and pretend to be you."

"That sounds terrifying."

"It was." He pauses. Swallows. "I tried to see what you saw. You driving to the hospital ready to tell me, and I looked at you and said, "Have we met?"

My breath catches.

His voice drops. "You came to tell me about the baby and I couldn't remember your name."

"Kai..."

"I'm not finished." He says it quietly.