Page 88 of The Bartender's Baby

Unlike the day Genevieve gave birth, which did not go as planned, between her water breaking in the car and Dylan getting pulled over for speeding. Though the officer had let him go when he realized what was happening, it had, according to Gen, put Dylan in a foul enough mood that he shouted at everyone to help Gen anytime she whimpered in pain. It was a long labor, but their baby finally made his appearance at the end of September. They named him Bennet, but apparently, Gen had to be talked down from naming him after some character in a fantasy romance novel she loved. Though he was a Matthews, the little guy looked like a Kozlowski through and through, with big blue eyes and a full head of wavy chocolate-brown hair.

The day we went to meet him, George in tow, Dylan playfully complained about how much his son looked like Nate, but the love and support between the two men was obvious. Especially when they both held their babies in their arms, talking by themselves in the corner, so Gen and I could swoon over them.

But as September slipped into October, I could tell something was bothering Nate. He had been quieter than usual, lost in his own thoughts even when we were together. At first, I figured it was just stress from the restaurant opening, but even as Tabby Cat thrived, he remained distracted.

There were moments of levity, like when we finally settled on our Halloween costumes, George as a cow with Nate and me as farmers, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes as it normally did.

After we finished our pumpkin carving, I took George up to feed him and put him to bed while Nate cleaned up the kitchen, and I spent that hour contemplating what I would say to him. Contrary to my sarcasm and quick comebacks, I was actually terrible with confrontation. I had trouble expressing my emotions and telling people how they might have been hurting me. It was why I had hated living in the house with my dad and Beth, and why it had gotten even worse after he died. I couldn’t properly get my points across. I couldn’t verbally defend myself to her. I cracked way too easily. And then later with Danny, we were terrible at communication, neither of us capable of talking about our grief with each other. There was never going to be a happy ending for us after our baby died. It just wasn’t possible when we were so inept.

But I wanted to do better now.

I had to in order to keep our family healthy and whole.

Nate and George were my happy ending, and I was determined to keep it that way.

I found Nate sitting at the kitchen table, Lucy in his lap as he typed something on his phone. I walked over, making my entrance obvious with noise. I didn’t want to scare him like I sometimes did by accident, and I wanted to let him know that I had a purpose.

He glanced over as I pulled out a chair, the legs scraping on the floor, mumbling a “Hey.”

I set my chin in my palm. “Thanks for cleaning up.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, attention on his phone. “You don’t need to thank me.”

I watched him for a few seconds, tension crawling up my spine. “It feels like I do need to.”

He set his phone facedown on the table and paid me his full attention. “Need to what?”

“Thank you.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

I bit my lip, still unsure how to start, afraid to stumble. “I feel the need to thank you for everything you’re doing.”

He shook his head, obviously confused.

“You know…how you take care of the house and me and Frog. I… Thank you.”

He threw his attention out to the window, the dark night sky illuminated by a few stars. It was after ten, and by now, I was usually in bed with my pajamas on, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t pretend like I didn’t know something was wrong.

I set both of my hands on the table, picking at my chipped purple nail polish. “Is everything okay? I know the restaurant has kept you busy, but you seem…off lately.”

Still keeping his gaze outside, he combed his fingers through his hair a few times then scratched at his beard. Any other time, I would follow with my fingers since I loved the sounds the short bristles made, how it felt against my fingertips, but I didn’t dare right now. Merely waited.

He eventually exhaled audibly and brought his eyes to mine once again. “I guess… You know it really bothers me when you say thank you. I cleaned up the kitchen because our kitchen needed to be cleaned up, not because it’s some gift to you.”

I swallowed thickly, a foreboding feeling clawing at my throat, smothering my words. When I didn’t reply, he shook hishead, sighing quietly. “It’s not…” He dug into his hair again. “Listen, I love you. I love you, and I know sometimes stuff is hard for you. I get it. I really do, but…”

“But what?” I asked so softly I almost didn’t hear it myself.

“You never talk to me.”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “What do you mean? We talk all the time.”

“No, I mean really open up. Share what you’re thinking and feeling.”

My unease began to curdle into defensiveness. “I do. I try.”

He leaned forward, his elbows thumping on the table as if tired. “I tell you I love you all the time, but you never say it back. You never initiate it. So you thanking me for cleaning the kitchen makes me feel like shit.”

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