Page 62 of Odin
“Odin?” I try to turn and look at him. He’s behind me on the bed, his hands in my hair, massaging the places he just removed pins from. I’m also not one of those people who doesn’t enjoy a good head massage.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for today. It didn’t go entirely how we wanted, but I’m thankful that you’re safe, that you’re not devastated over losing the building and that you’re excited to rebuild. Thank you for being such a wonderful human being. I felt like a real bride today, but better than any of that, I know I have real friends. This love that we’re building might be small,but it’s real and it’s worth celebrating. Just… thank you so much for standing at my side, taking my hand in yours, and making me your wife.”
His hands still in my hair. He waits for a moment, gathering himself. It’s not tense. I know he’s just trying to figure out what he wants to say. He slips off the bed and kneels before me, taking my hands in his.
“Thank you for making me your husband, a future father, and one of the most blessed men in the world.”
I pull him up and hug him. It doesn’t last long before it turns into hot, hungry kisses.
Hours later, when the rest of the pins have either been picked out of my hair or ejected by rolling around on the bed and other physical activity, Odin drapes his arms around me and snugs me in against his chest. I missed this last night, and I’m extra thankful to have him wrapped around me. Warm. Safe. Protective. Steadfast.
I can’t help but think again that this wasn’t the future I ever could have imagined for myself, but it’s a good thing that the reality we create, the decisions we make, the conversations, and the hard work, all can make dreams come true that we didn’t even know we had the capability of dreaming.
Epilogue
Willow
Six Months Later
The front bedroom and the living room of the small apartment that we’re still staying in are angled towards the exterior stairs. I’m eight months pregnant, and I have the worst time sleeping. Odin bought me a wedge pillow, but I’m so uncomfortable, and I have to pee so often, that there’s only so much quality sleep that is ever going to be had in the best-case scenario.
He’s fast asleep beside me, one hand resting on my hip, when I hear the car door and the telltale clang, scuffle, clang of footsteps on the metal stairs.
I slip slowly out of bed and pick up my oversized sweater from where I hung it on the back of the door last night.
I’ve had one of those pregnancies where nothing really showed or bumped out until the seventh month, and then all of a sudden, bump it did. I kept wearing my regular clothes for as long as possible. Odin has lent me his t-shirts for bed, and I’ve bought a few new pairs of pajama bottoms that I’ve upsized. I’ve also got leggings in bigger sizes, and I’ve learned how to hack my jeans with the hair tie looped through the button, so I haven’t had to buy new ones. I don’t really want to buy clothes that I’ll never wear again, so I’ve tried to pick things that are naturally oversized. The duster is a beautiful cream knit sweater with a belt that can be cinched in, so I’ll be able to have it for years.
Odin would no doubt tell me to buy whatever I wanted, and to spoil myself, but I don’t need fancy clothes or any of the designer things to be happy. What I need is him beside me in bed every night, keeping me warm. I need to wake up beside him in the morning, and fall asleep with him at night. I need all his little texts and calls throughout the day. I need the shop, the club, my sisterhood, and this community, especially as I get closer and closer to having this baby.
I walk to the door and peek through the peephole, expecting to see someone from the club, or maybe Tarynn, or one of the other women, because we’ve all become so close, that dropping in at seven in the morning isn’t weird.
The last person I expect to see approaching the metal balcony at the top of the stairs is my mother.
My heart kicks up a noisy storm of wild beats in my chest. I’m immediately anxious and confused, but I’m also flooded with a tremendous surge of love.
I know thatthings have been said, and that some of them might be what you’d termunforgivable,but I don’t believe that truly. I don’t think there’s anything that can’t be forgiven, at least not between the woman who gave birth and nurtured me. Yes, life changed her. Yes, we had hard years. We’re still in the middle of all of that, as far as our relationship goes, but after all this time of virtual silence, I’m relieved that she’s suddenly shown up here.
I don’t hesitate to pull open the door and step out into the chilly April morning. The days are getting longer and warmer, but the nights and early mornings are still crisp. Keeping in mind, that’s still coming from someone who is very used to being a Cali girl.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” I wrap my arms around myself, aware that my hair is frizzy from sleep, my teeth aren’t brushed yet, I have zero makeup on, my pink pajamas, and bare feet. I’m aware, but not self-conscious, not even when her light blue eyes sweep over me appraisingly.
“Are you going to ask me in?” She sniffles, then stamps her feet.
She always has loved dressing nicely, and this early morning is no exception, from her high heel stiletto boots to her black sheer tights, all the way to the figure hugging black dress and beige trench that she’s leftundone.
I don’t suggest that she button it up.
I had no warning about this visit. I know my mom and she’s not the kind of person to fall all over herself, show an abundance of emotion, and say that she’s sorry. If she is, she’s going to need time to talk it out. I know people who have called her an ice queen, and I take issue with that. You can’t assume that someone is cold and hard when you can only see their exterior.
“I- sure.”
I open the door and step back. The apartment opens into a small living room, and the tiny kitchen beyond.
To her credit, Mom doesn’t even seem to notice the details. She just wipes her boots on the black mat I have in front of the door, our shoes and boots lined up in a tidy row, and goes to sit down on the black leather couch. She crosses her legs and drums her fingers nervously on her knee.
“Would you like a cup of coffee? I haven’t had one yet.”
