Page 103 of Never Forever

She held the door and I took a step forward, but turned to see Matt standing there with that glass of water he didn’t want. Hesmiled at me, quick, fleeting. A blessing. A go-ahead. An I’ll be right here.

The smile gave me the space to do this myself. Like he understood. He was honoring me and my privacy in this unbelievable situation we found ourselves in. He would push, but only so far.

That was so Matt. So my Matt. So much my first love. My last love.

“You want to come in with me?” I asked him. I saw the words hit him. Fill him.

I might regret this. Later. Right now, in this moment, Angel Krasinski on my shoulder, it was the right thing to do.

He set the glass down and followed me into the doctor’s office.

Where it was confirmed that we were having a baby.

He reached across the arms of our chairs and grabbed the back of my hand when the doctor said it. I turned my hand so my palm pressed against his and twined my fingers through his.

Matt

We weresilent leaving the doctor’s office. We were silent getting into the truck. I was thinking seven million things but didn’t know how to say any of them. I wanted to pull her into my arms. I wanted to bring her onto my lap, put my hand inside that dress. I wanted to feel her.

Hold her.

“You going to drive?” she said. She had big sunglasses on and I couldn’t see her eyes.

“Yeah,” I said, still not moving.

“Matt?”

“Can I just… hold you? For a second.”

She was silent and I took my courage in hand and reached over to slide her glasses off her face. Tears stood out on her lashes but didn’t fall.

“Carrie,” I breathed, terrified that she was scared or hurt.

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s happy. They’re happy tears.”

“You’re having a baby,” I whispered. Because yes, I was with her. Yes, I was excited. But this was her dream. Her body. She was making a baby right now in front of my eyes.

She nodded, the tears in her eyes filling and filling but never falling, like she wouldn’t let them. Instead, she wiped them away with shaking fingers.

“Hey,” I said. “Come here. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I pulled her into my arms, her strong little body curled in my lap, and I felt like for the first time since we got the news, I could breathe all the way down to the bottom of my lungs. We just held each other for a second.

Years ago, someone left a book on the ferry about a man named Victor Borge – who was this comedian who played the piano. Victor said laughter was the shortest distance between two people.

Because I wanted to shrink the distance between us, I let myself laugh. I let myself be happy.

A baby.

Our baby.

It was a God damned miracle.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, still distant.

“It’s not funny,” I said, my chest and belly shaking, which made her shake. Which made her scowl harder. “It’s happy.”

“You really are happy?”

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