Twenty Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of a banana.
the front step. I’ve been here for enough time that a child riding their bike outside has now passed behind me twice.
It is deceptively nice for March—a fool’s spring, if you will. Fellow Canadians will ditch the heavy winter jackets and boots and inevitably fall into a deep, dark depression when the snow returns someday next week. Every year, we’re shocked by such a thing—as if the collective memory develops amnesia. But I like that about us humans. How willfully blind we can be to the gloomy realities ahead.
In reality, we aren’t safe until April. Or maybe even until after my birthday, in May.
Still, at least I’m not literally frozen on the front step—dreading meeting Bo’s dad.
While I was at work today, Bo picked his dad up from the airport. He’s staying with us for four days before he goes back to France, enough time to see his son ring in his thirtieth birthday. Bo, on the night we met, called his father, Robert, his best friend. He’s also his only living family member. So zero pressure to impress the guy. Nope, none whatsoever.
He’s going to love you.
Damn, I sure hope so.
When the little girl on her bike passes a third time, eyeing me suspiciously, I decide enough is enough.
“Hello?” I call out, stepping inside the front entryway.
I hear music coming from the dining room and the electric whirl of some sort of machine from the kitchen. A stand mixer, I think. Do we even own one of those? God, I should probably offer to cook some time.
I shrug off my jacket and shoes and follow the sounds of laughter coming from the kitchen.
“Hi, just me,” I say, turning the corner. In the kitchen is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen… and his son.
Holy mother of—No, actually. Holy father of Bo.
“Hey!” Bo says, circling the counter to stand next to me, smiling brightly as always. “Win, this is my dad, Robert. Dad, this is Win.” Bo pronounces Robert with a French accent, and I nearly swoon. There’s not enough oxygen in this room. He should have prepared me. I should have requested family photos.
“It is so good to meet you, Winnifred,” Robert says in a thick accent, lifting his flour- and dough-covered hands in the air. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve been kneading bread.”
“Dad went to make himself a sandwich and saw we were out of bread,” Bo says, bending to speak into my ear. “I did offer to go to the store.”
Robert has all of Bo’s similarities in height, natural charm, and build, but his hair and beard are peppered black and grey and trimmed shorter. They also have different eyes in shape and colour—Bo’s wide hazel eyes to Robert’s smaller deep brown. The deep lines and creases around Robert’s lips and eyes speak to a man, like his son, who loves to laugh. If this is a sneak preview of what Bo will look like in thirty-ish years, then I better get to work locking that shit down.
Too bad Bo doesn’t have the accent.
Though… I wonder if he’d speak French in bed if I asked nicely.
Oh my god, Win. Focus! It’s your turn to speak!
“It’s good to meet you too,” I squeak, swallowing. “Bo’s told me so many wonderful things. And please, call me Win or Fred.”
I don’t miss Bo’s crooked smirk when I offer his father the nickname that, until very recently, I was not fond of. I don’t miss, either, the warm affection in Robert’s eyes as they land on my stomach.
Robert picks up the ball of dough, passing it back and forth between his hands, an eyebrow quirked toward his son, the same lopsided smile under his moustache that I know well. “He also speaks of you very, very well…”
Bo clears his throat. “How was work?” he asks, walking behind me toward the dining room.
I peek my head around the corner to watch as he pulls his work chair away from his desk and brings it over to me. “Oh, uh, fine.” I say as he gestures for me to sit. My feet were killing me, but this might be a tad over the top. “The to-go guy came back,” I say, giving in and sitting.
“That’s the third time this week!” Bo says excitedly.
Robert looks between us blankly.
“There’s a man who comes into the café and orders everything to go but always stays for hours and works.” As soon as I say it out loud, I realise how mundane that story really is. When I told Bo about him, he sort of picked it up and ran with it. We created a whole backstory for the stranger. Bo theorised that he’s secretly in love with one of our other patrons and is waiting for the right time, and I agreed.
Little close to home, actually, now that I think about it.
But regardless, Bo is good at that. Taking something little and making it feel grand and important. Just like he’s done with every step of the pregnancy. Every answer to our nightly questions. Everything is worth celebrating to Bo. Worth getting excited about.
“But yeah, good day.” I turn to look at Robert. “How was your flight?”
He nods several times, covering a glass bowl with a tea towel. “Good, good, fine. The food on the plane was terrible, but it was a smooth journey.”
“I see where Bo gets his cooking skills,” I say, pointing to the bowl.
Robert smiles proudly, his face pointed down to his feet. “Ah, well.”
“I’m not half as good,” Bo says, throwing a chocolate chip into his mouth, cradling the jar from the pantry against his chest.
“I don’t know. I’m still thinking about that soup you made on day one,” I reply.
“The butternut squash?” he asks, and I nod. “Why didn’t you say so? I’d have made it again.”
“Oh, well… you already cook for me every day. I’m not going to start making requests.”
“I’ll make it this week,” he says, throwing another chocolate chip into the air and catching it between his teeth. I clap for him as he curtsies back at me, his hand still gripped around the jar.
Robert laughs under his breath, glancing quickly between us. I realise immediately that I’ve probably interrupted their time together and should make myself scarce.
“I’ll give you two some space,” I say, pushing off the chair’s armrests to stand.
“No,” Robert says, halting me, his eyebrows pressed together in obvious offence. “No, no, no. Sit, please. Please,” he repeats, opening the fridge. “This is what Robbie and I do. We talk and cook. You must stay and provide us with some fresh material,” he says, pulling out the egg carton and milk. “How does quiche sound?”
I settle back into the chair. Bo’s hand falls to my shoulder, patting gently before he walks toward a cabinet and pulls out a cutting board and places it on the counter next to his dad and ditches his jar of chocolate chips.
“Quiche sounds delicious,” I say, smiling at both men and crossing my legs under me, settling back against the chair.
The quiche was delicious. I had three servings, and I could have had more if my stomach would allow it. It took about an hour to prepare after Bo convinced his dad to use the crust we had in the freezer instead of making it from scratch. All the while, I got a front-row seat to their family’s dynamic.
They’re surprisingly affectionate for father and son. A lot of hands across shoulders to pass by one another, a few quick pats of Robert’s hand against Bo’s cheek to encourage him or tease him in equal measure.
Robert is less timid than Bo is. He has a booming, throaty voice and isn’t afraid to talk with his hands. Or his whole body, for that matter. But he’s still got a gentle presence about him too, like Bo. The way they interact makes me even more excited to have a kid to throw into their dynamic. It would be very funny to add a third character to their routine.
After dinner, the men choose a record together and begin cleaning up, insisting I rest some more. I fetch a bottle of nail polish from my room and set myself up on the floor in front of the coffee table as Edith Piaf plays from the adjoining room.
Robert joins me soon after, kicked out of the kitchen by his son, balancing a glass of wine as he dances into the room, his body walking in time with the dramatic French singer.
“She was my wife’s favourite,” he says, pointing to the other room. “That’s how I knew Joanna was the one. Excellent taste. In men too, obviously,” Robert says, his voice echoed by the wineglass he’s speaking into.
I laugh, folding a piece of paper towel to put my hand over top of. “Bo told me that you and Joanna fell in love very fast. Ten days, right?”
“Yes. Ten days is all it took to go from strangers to married.” He takes a long sip, his eyes held on mine and teasing just like his son’s. “Seems you’re both taking a slower pace.”
I bite my lip, looking back down at my nail polish on the table, opening it.
“Yes, ignore the old man’s silly comments. Very wise.”
I smile, shaking my head as I dip the applicator into the mauve polish, pinching it between my thumb and the side of my palm in my right hand.
“Was this from an accident? Or sickness like Bo?” he asks, pointing at my right hand.
“Oh, no. From birth.”
“It’s funny. Bo didn’t mention it. Even though he speaks of you a lot.”
I raise a brow at him, shaking my head at his blatancy. “I’m sure it would’ve come up.” But I sort of love that it didn’t.
“Dieu, j’adore cette chanson!” Robert exclaims, jumping from his seat. “Monte le son, mon fils!”
I dropped French after grade ten, but I’m fairly certain Robert just said he loves the song and asked Bo to turn it up. Or that he loves cats and asked Bo for a slice of pie. One of those two things. Based on the fact that Bo appears from the kitchen and moves to turn the volume up, I think I got it right the first time.
Bo flips a tea towel over his shoulder before leaning against the archway to the kitchen, smirking at Robert performing with gusto.
Robert dances over to Bo, clasping a hand around his shoulder as the song builds toward the chorus. Then both men sing, or rather shout, the chorus together. Robert somehow manages to not spill any of his wine as he shakes both arms up in the air above his head, using his whole body as an instrument.
I laugh, bobbing my head along to the music, as they start performing some sort of terrible can-can routine side by side.
“You must imagine it with all four legs, you see!” Robert shouts to me over the song. “And also the feathers and jewels and whatever else,” he adds, gesturing to his torso.
Bo kicks him hard with his prosthetic foot, and Robert gapes at his son, wincing as he laughs.
“Seems like it kicks just fine,” Bo says, shrugging away from him and going back to the kitchen as he smiles to himself.
I twist the lid of my nail polish closed and begin blowing on my nails. Robert lingers next to the record player, tracing one finger along his wife’s collection, pulling out a few and inspecting them as he goes.
Once the music ends, Robert and Bo join me in the living room. After a few stories about the jazz band he’s playing with back in Paris and a handful of suggestive comments alluding to the relationship between Bo and me—or lack thereof—Robert excuses himself for bed. Claiming he’s evaded his jetlag long enough.
Which is exactly the moment I spot the extra pillow and blankets laid out on the corner chair and realise Robert has Bo’s room for the next few days. Until now, I haven’t thought of our sleeping arrangements for the visit, but there’s no way Bo should be on the couch. He won’t fit.
“You’re not seriously considering sleeping on the couch, right?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t discovered the magical sleeping powers of this couch.”
“For a nap, maybe, but it’s not at all big enough for you to sleep on. You’ll mess up your back.”
“I did find myself wishing I could detach both bottom halves of my legs.” He laughs, bringing his glass of water to his lips.
“Seriously, though, you’ll be miserable.”
“I’ll go to the store after our appointment tomorrow and pick up an air mattress.”
“I can take the couch tonight,” I offer.
“What? No way.”
I roll my eyes at his immediate dismissal. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he says, dripping with sarcasm, “maybe because I’m not making my pregnant—” He stops and tenses, then with a quick shake of his head, starts again. It was less than a second for the whole series of movements, but I noticed it all in agonising detail. What was he going to say? My what? “I’m not going to make a pregnant woman sleep on the couch,” he says firmly.
C’mon, Win. Three seconds of bravery. An innocent enough offer. You can do this.
“Well, we could share my bed…” I say, forcing my voice to sound indifferent. But then Bo studies me far too intently. His brows knitted together and his head tilted. And I feel myself struggling to not take it back or chase it with some overwrought disclaimer.
“We could,” Bo says, nodding, his eyes still narrowed on me. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind?”
I think I can find the kindness in my heart to share a bed with you, sure.
“Yeah, why not?”
“Totally sure?”
“Yep,” I say, clearing my throat.
“At least until tomorrow, when I go to the store.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Sounds good… I’m going to take a shower before bed. Um… feel free to set up your stuff in my room. I’ll sleep tucked against the wall—I like it better that way.” I have to consciously stop my feet from running to the bathroom Road Runner style once I’m done speaking.
