Page 118 of Nine Month Contract
My heart picks up speed as I follow him up the stairs that he’s already installed baby gates at the top and bottom of even though I told him we had months before we needed to worry about that, but he’s a “five minutes from now” man, and I’ve learned to just let him do what he needs to do to feel content.
When we round the corner into the baby room, my heart sighs happily. He’s put the white oak custom crib and rocker that Calder made for us directly under the large window that overlooks the backside of the mountain. He’s hung the mossy-green curtains I bought on clearance at my favorite JCPenney. And he mounted the quilt his mother made of all of his father’s old shirts on the open wall opposite the changing table and dresser. It’s not the girliest of rooms, but something tells me this kid of ours will care more about playing in the mud than playing with dolls.
I move over to rub my fingers along the quilted stitching. “This looks so perfect here.”
Wyatt shoves his hands into his pockets and nods as he looks at it. “My mom is going to lose it when she sees this.”
“What about you?” I ask, watching him closely.
His lips thin. “Feels right in here. Like my dad will be front row center for her whole life.”
My eyes well with tears. Damn hormones. I join him in thedoorway to admire his hard work. “I never had my own room growing up.”
Wyatt wraps his arms around me and holds me from behind. I’ve been doing this a lot lately. Confessing my past traumas. I’m not sure what it means, but it feels good to get them out. Growing up a kid in a struggling household is a very early experience of shame, and acknowledging some of the things I endured instead of bottling it all up seems to be healing in more ways than one.
And Wyatt is an incredible listener. One of the instances when the whole strong, silent type works well for us.
I pat his hands on my belly. “This kid is so lucky.”
“Yeah, she is,” Wyatt says, rubbing my belly affectionately. “Because she’ll have you for a mom.”
Mom.
I love when he says that.
I swipe at my errant tears and shake off the emotions weighing down on me. “So I’ve been thinking about names.”
“Not this again.” Wyatt groans and releases me to lean on the wall and hit me with another one of his infamous glowers. “I am running out of vetoes and am terrified we’re going to end up naming our daughter some insane barn animal name like Trumpet or Manwich.”
“Don’t come for Trumpet and Manwich!” I snap defensively. “Those two alpacas came from very troubled homes and can’t help what they’re named.”
“Okay, but you keep suggesting these fancy names, and our daughter will need something strong if she’s going to be a mountain kid, you know? Did you know that your name means noise?”
“Mine?”
“Yes, the name Trista literally means noisy.”
“You’re lying. I need to google that. Go downstairs and grab my phone.”
“Fact-check me for the rest of our lives, baby.” He kisses me on the lips and smirks. “Because when I read that, I figured that’s why we’re so perfect together. I’ve been quiet my whole life because the only voice I wanted to hear was yours.”
I roll my eyes at his cheesiness. “Well, now I can’t fact-check you because you managed to turn an insult into a compliment.”
He beams proudly, and I cross my arms and glance back over at the quilt when a thought strikes me. “What if we name her after your dad?”
“Steven is kind of an odd name for a girl, isn’t it?”
“Not if we call her Stevie.”
Wyatt’s head pulls back as he considers this, his eyes turning to stare at the quilt with me. “Stevie?”
I bite my lip and nod. “Stevie Everly Fletcher sounds pretty perfect, don’t you think?”
Wyatt turns to look at me, concern etched in his brows. “These are all my family names.”
“No, they’re not.” I poke him in the ribs, my heart warming in my chest as I say the next part out loud. “It’s my family too.”
His eyes soften as he moves in and wraps me in a big bear hug, my giant belly making it a bit awkward but no less life-changing.
