“You like it? Do you think it will work okay?” His forehead started to smooth out.
“Heck, yeah, times two.”
I reached for a notebook to tear out a sheet of paper, but Jesse got to it first and clipped it into place on the easel. He handed me a graphite pencil right after that. I raised the pencil to the paper and drew a few quick lines, then a few more, and before I knew it, my hand was flying across the paper like it had been starved of sustenance for months. I didn’t know what I was drawing, but it didn’t matter. It just felt good to create something again. Jesse stayed silent beside me, going from watching my face to the sheet of paper.
“God, Jesse, this thing is, like, so perfect. The angle is just right, and the height is spot-on. I couldn’t have designed this better if I’d tried.” Even when I glanced away from the paper long enough to look at him, my hand kept moving.
“Well now I’m really sorry I didn’t finish this sooner.”
“It’s not like you’ve been busy or anything, right?” I kept smiling. I felt like it was plastered to my face and would be impossible to remove. “It’s not like you’ve been packing up our condo back in Seattle, getting it cleaned, and listing it for sale. And it’s not like you’ve been laying the foundation and framing our house a mile down the road. And it’s not like you’ve been helping your dad out around the ranch and helping Garth over at his place. You haven’t been busy the last couple of months at all. I can’t imagine why you didn’t finish this easel in record time.”
He rubbed at the back of his neck and raised a shoulder. “I’m used to being busy.”
“Busy is one thing. What you’ve taken on is three full-time jobs.”
“It’s not so bad.” Another shoulder raise.
My hand paused, tipped against the easel. “Other than the few hours you squeeze in for sleep and these few minutes during lunch when you sneak back here to see me, you haven’t stopped moving since we came to Montana.” I swallowed. The shadows under his eyes seemed extra noticeable in the late morning light spilling through the window. “I’m worried about you.”
Half of his mouth curled up. “You’re the pregnant one on bed rest with a heart condition, and you’re worried about me?”
“I’m not the one trying to be everything to everyone all the time, so yes, I am worried about you,” I said, tightening my fingers through his. “You might be the one with a healthy heart, but it won’t stay healthy if you don’t take a break soon.”
He shook his head, but I knew he recognized the truth in what I was saying. A person couldn’t carry on the way he had without starting to feel like they were more toeing the line of death than life. I admired his work ethic and I respected that he wouldn’t know how to complain if someone ordered him to, but I was worried. If he didn’t back off and give his head and body some real rest, I was terrified it would be his heart that would give out instead of mine.
“I’ll be fine.” His eyes didn’t meet mine when he answered.
“Hey, I know that answer. I invented it. Don’t B.S. a B.S.’er.” I arched an eyebrow at him to make sure he’d noticed my substitute for the foul language he was worried about exposing our child to in the womb.
He acknowledged my efforts with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “Are you fine?”
“I’m better than fine. I’m fantastic. For real this time.” I motioned at my easel and him. “How could I not be?”
“Then I’m fantastic too.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “I’ll let you get back to your sketch.”
“You just got here.”
“Garth’s meeting me over at our place to help me with the rafters in fifteen minutes. I promised I’d help him move their new washer and dryer into their place when we were done.” He kissed me again, but this time it was on the lips.
“So does that mean I’ll see you at about the usual time tonight? Eight?”
“Maybe nine.”
“Jesse, you can’t keep doing this. You’re going to keel over dead one day, and how’s our child going to grow up to be a well-adjusted person with just me as a parent? I need you to keep our kid from becoming a totally pessimistic too-strange-for-their-own-good person. I need the goodness and sunny disposition you’ll bring to the parenting potpourri.”
My spiel got him to smile, but it didn’t stop him from continuing out of the room. “I’ll be there, every step of the way. Just make sure you’re with me too.”
“Does that mean you’ll be home before everyone’s gone to bed for the night?”
“It means I’ll try.” He paused when he got to the hallway. “Hey, you want me to make you a sandwich or something for lunch before I head out? I think Mom just restocked our peanut butter stores . . .”
My shoulders fell. I was doing nothing more constructive than comparing the number of freckles on my right forearm and my left—my right had two more than my left—while he was out busting his ass trying to build a life for our family. Why was he the one offering to make me lunch when I should have at least been capable of slapping a few pieces of meat and cheese between a couple slices of bread for him? Oh yeah, because I wasn’t supposed to be on my feet all of five minutes to make my husband a lunch.
“From the time I’ve had breakfast, I’ve burned a whole eleven calories. I think I’m good. But thanks.” I pointed my pencil at him. “But this is your lunch hour, slash lunch minute, so maybe you should eat a few thousand calories to replace those you used up helping your dad with the fences this morning.”