Page 28 of Never Quite Gone

I stood in the middle of my bedroom after hanging up, feeling like an archaeologist in my own life. Every surface held evidence of what Michael and I had built – that pretentious antique dresser we'd hauled home from Brooklyn, vacation photos grinning at me from silver frames, his unreadArchitectural Digestsubscription still arriving like clockwork every month.

The morning light caught dust motes dancing through the air, turning them into tiny stars that seemed to pulse with possibilities I wasn't ready to face.

The door flew open before my knuckles could hit it twice, Rachel's pregnant form filling the doorway like an accusation.

“You're late. By exactly twelve minutes, which is somehow worse than being really late.”

“Good day to you too,” I replied, accepting the coffee. “And I'm not late. I'm operating on doctor time.”

“Is that like teacher time?” She arched an eyebrow. “Where 'just five more minutes' means the bell rang twenty minutes ago?”

“More like firefighter time,” David called from inside. “Where 'be there in five' means I'm still in bed!”

“I heard that!” Rachel shouted back, but she was grinning. “Get in here, Doctor Punctuality. These walls aren't going to paint themselves.”

The house radiated weekend warmth – coffee brewing, something sweet in the oven, and the particular chaos of a home improvement project in progress. Rachel had turned nesting into an Olympic sport since getting pregnant, and apparently I was her designated training dummy.

“Please tell me those are the good cinnamon rolls,” I said, following my nose to the kitchen. “The ones from that place on 82nd?”

“Nope.” Rachel popped the 'p' with satisfaction. “Better. David made them.”

The kitchen looked like a Pinterest board had exploded, with my brother-in-law standing in the middle of the blast zone. David's 'Hot Stuff Coming Through' apron clashed magnificently with his FDNY shirt, flour dusting his dark hair like premature gray.

“You're just showing off now,” I told him, snagging a roll still warm enough to burn.

“Someone in this family had to learn to cook after you chose scalpels over spatulas.” David grinned, flour dusting his dark hair. “Though I guess you technically still cut things for a living.”

“Different kind of knife skills,” I agreed through a mouthful of cinnamon heaven. “Holy shit, these are good. When did you get so domestic?”

“Probably around the time Rachel started crying at commercialsabout baby products.” He dodged the dish towel my sister threw at his head. “What? You cried at the diaper ad yesterday!”

“It was a very moving diaper ad,” Rachel insisted, settling onto a kitchen stool with the particular care of someone carrying precious cargo. “The baby looked just like you!”

“All babies look the same,” I pointed out, reaching for another roll. “Wrinkly potatoes with attitudes.”

“Just for that, you get to tape all the baseboards.” Rachel pointed imperiously toward the stairs. “Every single one of them. With your fancy surgeon hands.”

“Abuse of medical training,” I protested, but I was already heading up, coffee in one hand and cinnamon roll in the other.

The nursery waited like a blank canvas, morning light streaming through windows that desperately needed Windex. David had arranged the painting supplies with the same precision he probably used for his fire gear – everything lined up and ready for action like some kind of home improvement tactical unit.

“Your Type A is showing,” I told him as he appeared with more supplies.

“Says the man who color-codes his surgical instruments.”

“That's different. That's professional.”

“Uh-huh.” David surveyed the room with tactical assessment. “Okay, game plan. I'll handle the rolling since I've got the reach. Eli, you've got edges and corners with those steady hands. Rach?—“

“Supervisory position,” Rachel interrupted, lowering herself onto the rocking chair we'd assembled last weekend. “The baby book says to avoid paint fumes.”

“Convenient,” I muttered, but I was smiling as I started measuring and taping.

“So,” Rachel said after a while, her tone way too casual. “Sofia tells me the hospital's getting exciting.”

I focused on my taping like it required neurosurgical precision. “If by exciting you mean the usual chaos, then yes.”

“Mm-hmm. Nothing to do with tall, dark, and developer?”

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