“It makes a grinding noise when you brake.”
“It has personality.”
“It has a death wish.”
Grace folded her arms over her belly. “Sebastian.”
He stopped, exhaled, and dragged a hand through his hair. “Right. Sorry. Asking, not deciding.”
“Good.”
“May I buy you a safer car?”
“No.”
He looked physically pained.
Grace patted his cheek. “You’re doing great.”
He came to therapy when she asked.
At first, he sat stiffly on the sofa in Dr. Harlan’s office as if preparing for cross-examination. The first time the therapist asked how he felt, Sebastian looked genuinely cornered.
“Responsible,” he said.
“That’s not a feeling,” Dr. Harlan replied.
“It is if you’re bad at this,” Grace muttered.
Sebastian almost smiled.
Slowly, painfully, he began to learn the difference between guilt and accountability, between protection and control, between being forgiven and being trusted. Grace learned things too—how to say what hurt without apologizing for hurting, how to let herself want help without feeling weak, how to admit that part of her still loved him and part of her still wanted to slap him, and both could be true at once.
He sat through birthing class between a plumber named Eddie and a high school math teacher named Jana, both of whom recognized him from the news and then quickly pretended they did not.
Sebastian practiced breathing exercises with absolute seriousness.
“In through the nose,” the instructor said. “Out through the mouth.”
Sebastian obeyed like he was negotiating a hostage release.
Grace leaned toward him and whispered, “If you look any more intense, they’re going to ask you to lead the class.”
“This is important.”
“It’s breathing.”
“It appears I’ve been doing it inefficiently for years.”
He built Lily’s dresser by hand because Grace mentioned once that she had always imagined assembling the nursery herself. The dresser arrived in five flat boxes with instructions translated badly from another language and screws divided into bags labeled with letters that did not exist in the manual.
Sebastian rolled up his sleeves.
Grace watched from the doorway, amused. “You know you can pay someone.”
“I am aware.”
“You run a shipping empire.”
“Formerly questionable shipping empire.”
“And yet this drawer has defeated you.”
“It has not defeated me.”
The drawer slid in crooked and jammed.
Sebastian stared at it.
Grace waited.
He cursed exactly twice, both times under his breath, then took it apart and started again.
When it was finished, he stood in the nursery doorway late that night, looking at the tiny clothes folded in the drawers, the crib beneath the window, the small stuffed rabbit Megan had bought, and the felt sheep with its allegedly accusing eyes.
Grace found him there.
He did not hear her at first.
“Sebastian?”
He turned. His expression was unguarded.
“I didn’t think I’d get to stand in a room like this,” he said quietly.
Grace came beside him. Their shoulders almost touched.
“Neither did I,” she admitted.
He looked at her, but he did not reach. He had learned the sacredness of waiting.
Grace took his hand.
On a rainy October morning, Grace woke before dawn to a deep cramp that wrapped around her back and pulled her from sleep like a hook.
For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling. Rain whispered against the windows. Somewhere in the living room, Sebastian shifted on the couch, as if his body had been trained to respond to any change in her breathing.
Another ache rolled through her, low and insistent.
“Sebastian,” she called.
He was on his feet before the last syllable left her mouth.
He appeared in her doorway with his hair wrecked from sleep, wearing a T-shirt and the expression of a man prepared to fight God.
“Contraction?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
He vanished.
Grace frowned.
He returned three seconds later holding the hospital bag, the diaper bag, her coat, his shoes, and what appeared to be a folder of medical documents.
She stared at him. “Put that down.”
“It’s time.”
“It’s been one contraction.”
“It could progress quickly.”
“It could also be gas.”
He froze, clearly torn between medical panic and politeness.
Grace would have laughed if another contraction had not tightened through her body, stronger this time. She gripped the edge of the nightstand and breathed the way they had practiced.
Sebastian set everything down.
He came behind her and placed both hands carefully on her lower back.
“Pressure?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed. “There. Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
For twelve hours, he did not.
At first, they stayed at the house. Grace paced through the living room while rain streaked the glass and dawn turned the world silver. Sebastian timed contractions, rubbed her back, brought water she forgot to drink, and accepted every contradictory instruction she gave him.
“Don’t hover.”
He stepped back.
“Why are you over there?”
He came closer.
“Stop looking worried.”
He rearranged his face so badly she almost laughed.
Megan arrived with coffee for herself and a look of fierce excitement.