She smiles. “How about a treehouse?”

“In my sleep.”

She nods. “What about a crib?”

I stop short. “Yeah,” I say so quietly it’s barely audible. “I can make a crib.”

She rests one hand over her stomach. I know that look on her face: she’s remembering. Every time she does, her eyes go misty as she delves deep into a past that hurts her more and more.

“There’s this superstition that says you should never buy a crib too early into a pregnancy. You’re supposed to wait until the baby is almost there.”

“I don’t believe in superstitions.”

“Neither did I,” she says, her tone rippling with melancholy. “Which is why I went out and bought one right after my three month check-up.”

I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but I figure it’s similar to when I shared details about my mother with her. It’s not a conscious choice. It’s like it’s being ripped out of her by a force she can’t see or name or resist.

“It was this beat-up, secondhand piece of crap,” she continues. “And I probably spent too much on it. But I was obsessed with making it my pet project during my pregnancy. I wanted it to be the best crib on the planet. I wanted my baby to see that the world could be beautiful.”

I’m quiet for a moment, my breath fogging in the damp, cool air. “What did Adrian think about that?”

She laughs cruelly. “He told me I wasted money on a useless piece of junk.”

Her cheeks turn pink with shame, as pink as the rose bushes surrounding the gazebo. We’ve gravitated together during the conversation, and she seems to be realizing just now how close together we are.

“Um, it’s cold. I should—” She steps back quickly. When she does, her bare foot collides with one of the cans of paint. It tips, tumbles, and soaks her ankles and the bottom hem of the blanket with off-white flecks.

“Shit!” she gasps as she stumbles forward too late to dodge it. Her foot catches the edge of the blanket, throwing her off-balance, and she trips right into my arms.

I catch her out of pure instinct. But once my hands are on her, it’s like they’re fused there. I couldn’t pull them off if I tried.

“You’re freezing,” I whisper.

“You’re warm,” she whispers back.

There it is again—the pulse of a moment that feels significant in a way neither of us can possibly explain. We’re just looking into each other’s eyes, all too aware of the physical contact. All too aware that we should break it off.

All too aware that neither of us wants to.

In the end, I do the deed. “Here,” I say gruffly, grabbing my shirt where I’d tossed it over the railing and handing it to her. “Wear this.”

“Isn’t that against the rules?” she teases.

“I’ll make an exception today.”

“Such a gentleman.” Smirking subtly, she steps back, eyes me deliberately… and drops her blanket.