Unsteady Ground

Britt

Of the rollercoaster that is romance and renovation, here we stand at yet another juncture in the ever-twisting saga. Tonight, I bear witness to a domestic ballet of bickering and building. Britt, armed with ambition and power tools, declares war on the mundane. She transforms Holden's sanctuary with the force of a whirlwind, leaving no corner uncovered, no vanity unadorned. As for Holden? Well, let's just say he's learning that home is where the hearty debate happens—over drawer space and the existential purpose of pumpkin spice soap. This is where power drills meet puzzled glances and where every screw and sidelong look tighten the bonds of this curious courtship. Will these changes build a lasting foundation, or are they just pretty facades? The walls might not talk, but they definitely echo.

Playlist: "Anything Can Happen" by Tors

When I emerge from my new office, Holden is waiting in the living room. He's as grim as an undertaker as he presses his hands together and takes a deep breath. "Britt. Darling."

"Oh, man. Are we going to fight?" I pout. "But I'm hungry. Can I at least start the Tovala before we argue? I want to get some food in me before the inevitable make-up sex."

Holden opens his mouth. Closes it again. His eyes sweep over me thoughtfully. Score. I don't know what we're fighting about, but I'm already stoked for the next part. I skip off to the kitchen. It feels like an eggplant and chickpea kind of night. I start both of our meals.

His sour mood hasn't lifted by the time I return, although he's no longer sitting by the couch. He's moved to the mouth of the hall.

"Can we talk now?" he asks.

I bat my eyelashes. "What is it, snookums?"

Holden closes his eyes for a moment, probably to avoid caving to my witty personality and undeniable charm. "You know how space is important? Personal space, I mean? You really like your new office. I, however, really miss my bathroom."

I tilt my head to one side. "What's wrong with it?"

He points to the door of the room in question. "Look around. See for yourself."

"So dramatic," I stage-whisper as I sidle past him. As soon as I step into the room, I feel lighter. It looks so good in here. "Oh, it's wonderful. I can just feel the tension draining from my body. Great soothing color scheme. Better lighting. More storage. Lots of big fluffy towels. What's to complain about?"

Holden lurks in the doorway. He does not have the look of a man whose tension has drained away. "There's siding inside the house."

I point to the material in question. "It's not siding. It's shiplap. Joanna says…"

His nose wrinkles in a confused frown. "Who's Joanna?"

"Chip and Joanna? Fixer Upper? The Magnolia empire?" I wave my hand, encouraging him to put the pieces together and am met with nothing but a blank stare for my troubles. "No bells. Okay, so shiplap is great for hiding imperfections."

"It's two walls!" Holden protests.

"Quite frankly, you're lucky it's not the whole house. Would you really rather have those janky old walls exposed again?"

He eyes the shiplap with open mistrust. "No," he says after a while. "It's fine, I guess. If you like it. That's not the real problem, though."

I tap my toe on the floor. "Please, share with the class."

Holden points to the vanity. "I need to understand where my stuff went."

"Oh, simple. I replaced the bar soap with this lovely foaming hand pump—pumpkin spice soap! They think of everything. Your toothbrush is with mine in the covered holder over here, because ew, toilet bowl mist. As for everything else…" I pull open the smallest drawer on the unit and do jazz hands over the open top. "Ta da!"

Holden peers into the drawer. It is, admittedly, pretty full, but the drawer organizer I got him keeps everything easy to find. He grunts, presumably in acknowledgment of my genius homemaking skills. "Okay. But why do I get one drawer? What's the rest of this stuff?"

"You only need one drawer. See? Everything fits." I keep doing jazz hands in the hopes that it will eventually sink in.

"But the rest of it. What's up with the rest of it?"

"This one's makeup." I point. "This one's brushes. This one's hair. Do you want me to look so unpresentable that you're embarrassed to be seen with me?"

"You'd be gorgeous without a stitch of makeup, but I'm still not understanding." Holden presses his hand over his face. "Why are brushes and hair separate?"

"When I say brushes, I mean makeup brushes. Hair is both hair brushes and hair ties. See?" I open the drawers to prove my point. "Dividers. And product. I really maximized space here."

Holden stares down at all the stuff I've accumulated over the last few weeks. I've been in Sorrowville for just shy of a month now, and yes, I've had to order a lot of things from Blink. In my defense, I've gone out on my own a couple of times. The local salon also has a surprisingly broad selection of mid-range beauty products which, while not my usual brands, are a steal compared to what I'd spend at Sephora. And I always get to chat with Giselle, who is so classy that she reminds me of home. It's a win-win.

He prods through my makeup brushes with one finger. "This doesn't seem a bit much to you?"

"Not at all. In fact, I've really dialed it back. In Minneapolis, I turned my spare bedroom into my walk-in closet. See?" I swipe through my phone for photo evidence.

Holden's eye twitches. The tic increases as I flip through a few more photos. "Is that a chandelier? And a sheepskin rug?"

"It's faux," I explain.

He shudders and averts his gaze. "It's a straight up faux pas."

Why do I get the impression this man is judging me. So, I'm a girl who knows what she wants and works hard so she can have those things. Sue me. "Oh, so you don't know Chip and Joanna, but you know faux pas."

Holden snorts. "I'm an athlete, not an idiot. I went to college, Britt. And you're in Sorrowville, not Minneapolis. And this is my house, not…" He stops short.

"What?" I drop my phone on the vanity counter. I've been more amused than anything until this point, but something's shifted in his tone, my heart is suddenly racing. I only wanted to help. To make his life better. To leave a piece of me behind so that every time he stares at that stupid paint or shiplap he thinks of me and the time we shared. Is that wrong? Is this it? The moment he tells me that I'm too much, that I'm too controlling, that he wants his house and his space and his life back? The past month has been great, but I've been waiting for the catch. Maybe I've found his breaking point.

Is Holden Travers' mask slipping?

Tierney would call this catastrophizing. But Tierney isn't here.

"You didn't even ask me," he says. "And what am I supposed to do with all this crap when you go?"

"Is that what you want?" I demand. "For me to go and to take all my crap with me?"

Holden's head snaps back as though I've slapped him. "No. What? No! You're the one who's always going on about how you're here for a good time, not a long time. I'm not supposed to get attached, but I'm also supposed to be fine with the fact that you're changing everything to suit your tastes. It's confusing. And it's honestly kind of selfish."

"I wanted to make things nice for you as well as for me. And this room looks amazing," I snap.

"To you!" Holden takes a step forward. His face is flushed. I think he's actually upset, not just yanking my chain like I first assumed. "The room looks amazing to you. What am I supposed to do with that when you're gone, huh?" He jabs a finger at the shiplap again. "What am I supposed to do with your office? Are you planning to come visit? Are we going to try long-distance? Or are you going to leave me with weird siding on my bathroom wall, an office I'll never use, and a bunch of appliances I don't know how to operate?"

I back away until my knees hit the toilet. I've never been so angry that my vision blurs, but it's happening now, and it occurs to me dimly that we're really having our first fight over tasteful bathroom furnishings. Dude, like know which hill to die on. This isn't even a hill. It's a smooth runway—okay, maybe a slight incline—and he's choosing to fall on his sword? Although it's probably not about the furnishings. Not really. Most fights are placeholders for deeper issues.

And Holden seems more hurt than angry.

I don't think he wants me to leave, even though he's not saying it outright.

My heart, however, feels like it wants to claw its way out of my chest. My stomach hurts, my head's pounding, and I just want out.

Claustrophobia, I think. I just need some air.

"Let me by you," I snarl.

Holden immediately steps aside. "I'm not keeping you here against your will, Britt. I would never." He looks miserable, but I can't stop to comfort him. I need to move. I need to be somewhere, anywhere, but here. There's no worse feeling than when you get attacked for what you thought was a good deed.

The timer goes off in the kitchen, and I bolt from the room. Or at least, I try to. My legs are doing weird things, my arms are stiff, and the room is tilting sideways like we really are on a ship and I don't have my sea legs.

Oh, fuck, I think as the tilting intensifies. Holden calls my name, but my ears are ringing, and I black out just before I hit the floor.

* * *

"Hey, babe. Britt. Can you hear me? Fuck. Oh, fuck." Holden's arms are warm and solid, and his panic pulls me back into consciousness. I can't have been out for more than a few seconds, but I feel like a sack of potatoes. Old potatoes. Old, mushy potatoes.

"The Tovala," I rasp.

Holden already has his phone out, but when he hears my voice, he drops it to the floor. "What was that, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. That's a new one. Future Britt is going to have all kinds of feelings about that. Future Britt, by definition, is not here either, so she can go fuck herself. I have more pressing concerns. Like regaining consciousness and control of my limbs.

"The Tovala," I repeat. "Turn it off. If you burn this house down, I swear to God I will put more shiplap in your next house's bathroom."

Holden laughs, or sobs, I can't really tell. "Okay. Shit. Should I call an ambulance?"

"No." I try to sit upright, but I'm still in potato mode. Better to just lie here and breathe. "Unplug the Tovala, bring me some water, and we'll go from there."

"Okay." Holden scrambles to his feet. I close my eyes and take a few breaths while I pull myself together. That was weird and scary, but I'm not in pain. If anything, I'm lightheaded.

I laugh against the carpet of the hallway. Then I remember how old that carpeting is, and how much I'm looking forward to redoing the flooring. I flop onto my back with all the grace of a sea lion so that I won't breathe in any more old carpet particles than necessary. God, it's probably dust mites from last century mixed with mold. No wonder I feel like passing out.

Holden rushes back to my side with a glass of water and helps me sit up. I sip slowly, leaning against him for support, and also because it feels nice. Warm and solid. Reliable. And kind. I want to nuzzle my face into his shoulder and just breathe in the smell of him. He smells like home.

Future Britt is going to have some shit to say about that thought, too.

"What happened?" he asks, rubbing circles on my back with his big palm.

"Probably low blood sugar." I roll my eyes at my own stupidity. "I've had, like, three cups of coffee since breakfast and no lunch. I told you I was hungry."

"Bullshit." Holden takes my empty glass. "It's more than that. I'm taking you to see Doc Lindy."

"I just need food—" I protest.

He's not having it. "You can eat on the way."

I'd fight him if I had more energy, but instead, I let him carry me out to the car, and make a trip back to the house for both of our dinners and a fork, which he brings on a tray.

"This is excessive," I tell him. "This is what's too much, not the makeup."

"Eat," Holden insists. He drives in silence while I scarf down both portions.

"Good as new!" I pat my belly with one hand. "I knew it was just the low blood sugar. I feel sooo much better already. No need for Doc Lizardy."

"Lindy." Holden shoots me a withering glare, and I remember belatedly that he has a long and complicated history with illness and how quickly disaster can strike.

Between my brief meeting with his dad at the rink, and the fact that I'll never meet his mom, I guess it makes sense that he's worried. It's also kind of nice to have someone who cares about my wellbeing. My parents have always assumed that I'll take care of myself. Mom wasn't one to tolerate whining. I've gotten really good at hiding the fact that I need anyone. Mostly because so many people are disappointing.

If Holden wants to fuss over me, I guess I'll tolerate it.

We pull up outside what appears to be an ordinary house. There's a sign out front indicating that it's a family practice. The casual atmosphere does not inspire confidence.

"Are we not going to a hospital?" I ask when Holden pulls up to the curb.

"I thought you were fine?" He arches an eyebrow at me. "Besides, the nearest hospital is forty-five minutes away, and we could get stuck in the ER for who knows how long. If it's really just a blood sugar issue, we'll be out of here in no time. Don't worry, Doc Lindy knows what's up."

The office looks like a house on the inside, too, although the downstairs has been set up to accommodate a cozy medical practice. I'm guessing they get a lot of kids in here, based on the small chairs along one wall, the shelves of picture books, and the box of easily sanitized toys in the corner.

The woman sitting at the desk looks up from her computer screen. She grins when she sees Holden. "Well, look who it is!"

"Hey, Nurse Aggie." He leads me to the nearest chair and deposits me there. It's not necessary, but I don't want to argue about it. "Is Doc Lindy available?"

"I think he's around here somewhere." Nurse Aggie gets to her feet. She's got quintessential grandma vibes, from her dyed perm to her orthopedic shoes. I bet she keeps individually wrapped hard candies in her purse and has lace drapes in her sitting room.

After a fair bit of shuffling and some muffled conversation in the back, I'm shown into the exam room. Everything's clean, but it's a far cry from what I'm used to in a medical setting. On top of that, Doc Lindy—Dr. Einar Lindstrom, according to the certificates on the wall—is older than dirt so he does look a bit lizardy. As he goes through the motions of checking me over, I keep expecting him to lift his liver-spotted head and shout, "Good news, everyone!"

I answer his questions, fill out his forms, subject myself to a urine and blood sample, and wait for the verdict.

"You know," Doc Lindy tells me, "the first time I met Holden was in the hospital. I performed his circumcision." He holds up a pinky finger, examines it thoughtfully, and then laughs. "I'm guessing it's bigger now."

"Doc." Holden buries his face in his hands. "Please."

Doc Lindy winks at me. "Only joking. I've been his doctor his whole life. I hope to be retired by the time he starts needing prostate exams, but you never know—"

"Doc," Holden moans.

I chuckle and cross my legs. Beneath me, the roll of paper over the exam table crinkles. Serves him right for insisting I come to an exam that I don't really need.

Doc Lindy turns to me. "Are you ready for the good news?"

Damn, so close. I almost got my Futurama moment. "Sure, Doc. It's my blood sugar, right?"

"That's part of the reason you passed out, yes. We'll have to keep an eye on your blood pressure. It's a little higher than what I like to see. Cut back on the coffee and eat more regular meals. Nutrition is very important to a woman in your condition."

Next to me, Holden goes terribly still.

"What?" My throat is suddenly dry. I need water. And maybe one of those airplane barf bags.

No way. No. Fucking. Way.

"Congratulations, Miss Jensen." Doc Lindy's old, wrinkled face lights up with a winning smile. "You're pregnant."

Doc Lindy's words echo like a death knell in the small, sterile room. Pregnant. The reality slams into me, heavy and inescapable. My heart doesn't flutter with joy; it plummets, weighted by a cocktail of dread and disbelief. How? Well, I know how, I'll be drawing up a petition against the condom company later, but—Holden? The guy with the easy smile and easier nights? Sure, he's great, but we're not picket-fence material; we're not baby-carriage contenders. We're barely past knowing each other's coffee orders. Now, there's this—this life-altering, plan-shattering little plus sign determined to redraw every line I've carefully drawn around my future.

I have a fucking person growing inside me.