At 7:12 that Tuesday morning, he stood at our bathroom mirror knotting his tie with one hand while checking emails with the other. He had that steady, self-pleased energy some men wear like expensive cologne. Not loud. Just constant. He was forty-five, broad-shouldered, handsome in a polished, practiced way, and he had spent seventeen years building Callaway & Associates into one of the most admired architecture firms in the Northeast.
He looked at me in the mirror while I sat on the edge of the bed rubbing lotion into my stomach.
“You should rest today,” he said.
“I’m nesting.”
“You’ve been nesting for three weeks.”
“That’s because babies don’t care about deadlines.”
He smiled, but only with his mouth. “Don’t wait up tonight. Client dinner ran long last Thursday, and this one probably will too.”
Tuesday. Then Thursday. Then Tuesday again. A rhythm so normal by then it was almost invisible.
He bent, kissed my forehead, and left behind the smell of shaving cream and cedar aftershave. I listened to his footsteps go down the hallway, the soft chime of his keys in the bowl by the door, then the low growl of his car pulling out of the driveway.