Chapter 1: The Unboxing
The cardboard box yielded with a dry crunch under my fingertips, the sound too loud in this empty, echoing room. I pulled out a familiar linen tablecloth, the blue and white stripes suddenly achingly out of place. This wasn’t our Manila balcony, where the humid air smelled of frangipani and diesel. This was Portland. The air here smelled of pine, damp earth, and the sharp, chemical scent of fresh paint on cheap drywall.
I smoothed the cloth over my swollen belly, a useless gesture. Nothing fit here. Not the cloth, not me.
From the doorway of what was to become our bedroom, the rhythmic thunk-thunk-screech of a mallet and an Allen key provided a jagged soundtrack. Jason, shirtless and gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, was wrestling with the behemoth of our new bed frame. His lean muscles corded with each effort, his glasses slightly fogged. He looked focused, competent, a provider. A stranger.
“Almost got this side rail,” he grunted, not looking at me.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching. The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling cast his shadow, a giant puppet on the wall, all exaggerated motion and no substance. Boxes stood like sentinels around him, their secrets still folded in newsprint and bubble wrap.
In the main living area, the other sounds were more orderly. The clean click of plastic parts snapping together, the low murmur of calm voices. Nathan and Daryl were assembling the flat-pack kitchen cabinets. Through the archway, I could see Nathan’s broad shoulders straining against his thin t-shirt as he lifted a cabinet carcass. His reddish hair was damp at the temples. Daryl, blond and steadier, read from the instruction manual, his voice a quiet counterpoint to Nathan’s physicality.
“Slide the cam lock into the post, turn it ninety degrees,” Daryl said, his fingers precise.
“Got it,” Nathan replied, his voice smooth, persuasive even in this. “See? Teamwork. Foundation of a good home.”
A pang, sharp and sudden, hit me just below the ribs. Not the baby kicking. Something else. A homesickness so deep it felt like a physical tear. I wanted my mother’s voice, my sister’s laughter, the familiar chaos of our own kitchen. Not this sterile, particle-board evolution happening in my new American living room.
Jason stood up, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. The bed frame stood assembled, a skeletal promise in the center of the room. He walked over to me, the sawdust on the floor whispering under his boots.
“Done,” he said, and planted a dry, absent-minded kiss on my forehead. His mind was already elsewhere. On the next task. Always the next task.
My stomach chose that moment to let out a long, low growl. The sound was comically loud in the quiet.
Jason’s face softened, the first real crack in his practical facade all day. “Someone’s hungry.”
“The baby is,” I said, my hand automatically cradling the curve. “And me.”
He nodded, already reaching for his phone. “I saw a place. Turkish snack bar, about a mile down the road. Köfte, kebabs. Hearty stuff.” He scrolled, tapped, put the phone to his ear. His eyes never met mine.
I watched him, this man I loved, who felt a million miles away even when he was right here. His broad back was to me as he spoke into the phone. “Hello? Yes, do you deliver? To the Maplecrest complex?” A pause. His shoulders slumped a fraction. “No delivery. Right. The restrictions. I understand.”
He hung up and turned. The guilt in his blue-grey eyes was fleeting, quickly buried under a layer of resolve. “I have to go pick it up. They said twenty minutes for the order, but with the line… maybe an hour total?”
An hour. Alone in this half-built space with the sawdust and the shadows and the two men in the other room.
“I’ll come with you,” I said, but it was a weak offer. The thought of waddling two miles round-trip was exhausting.
“No, no, you rest. You’ve been on your feet all day.” He placed his hands on my shoulders, his grip firm, final. “Nathan, Daryl!” he called out, walking toward the archway.
The sounds of assembly stopped. The two men appeared, Nathan smiling easily, Daryl wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Sarah’s hungry, I’m running to get food,” Jason said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “It’ll be about an hour. Can you guys… keep an eye on things here?” His gaze flicked to me, then back to them. “Just… keep an eye.”
Nathan’s smile widened. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, his athletic frame relaxed, his eyes holding a glint that the bare bulb couldn’t quite account for. “Don’t worry, Jason. We’ll hold down the fort.” He paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat. “We’ll keep a good eye on Sarah.” Another beat. His voice dipped, taking on a timbre I’d heard him use from the pulpit, intimate and knowing. “When the workmen come.”
Daryl chuckled, a soft, polite sound. Jason huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the tension breaking. It was a guy thing. A joke. Just a joke.
But Nathan’s eyes, for that split second, held mine. They weren’t joking.
“Right,” Jason said, clapping Nathan on the shoulder. “Thanks, guys.” He came back to me, kissed my cheek this time. “Order you the mixed grill? Lots of meat for the little one.”
I just nodded, my throat tight.
Then he was gone. The door clicked shut, a sound as final as a lock turning.
The silence after his footsteps faded on the path outside was immense. It swallowed the echo of the joke, leaving only its shape behind.
I stood in the center of the living room, the unfinished kitchen to my left, the doorway to our skeletal bedroom to my right. Sawdust motes drifted in the slants of late afternoon light cutting through the blinds.
Nathan and Daryl looked at me.
Daryl offered a gentle smile. “Can I get you some water, Sarah? We hooked up the fridge. It’s running.”
Nathan just watched, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted slightly. The confident pastor, the quietly influential friend, now the only other adult in my unfinished nest. His gaze felt like a physical weight, a new kind of attention in the void Jason had left.
“Water would be good,” I managed, my voice smaller than I intended.
Daryl moved to the kitchen. Nathan uncrossed his arms and took a single step forward, his work boots silent on the bare subfloor.
“So,” he said, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. “Finally alone.”