Drew stopped dead in the frame of the laundry room door. The white pastry box from the downtown bakery dangled from his fingers, tipping sideways until powdered sugar sifted onto his work boots.
For three long seconds, he didn’t speak. He just looked at me.
I was on my knees on the cold laminate floor, gripping the plastic rim of the utility sink with both hands, trying to pull my lower body upright without engaging the torn muscles in my pelvic floor. Clara was screaming in her bassinet two feet away—a sharp, hungry cry that rattled inside my skull. My gray sweatpants were damp at the waistband where an ice pack had melted through, and the deflated blue vinyl of the air mattress sagged behind me like a discarded pool toy.
“Hannah?” Drew’s voice didn’t sound like him. It was pitched low, trembling with a sudden, dangerous confusion. “What… what are you doing in here?”
“Help me up,” I whispered. My throat felt scraped raw from dehydration and tears I had refused to let fall while Eric was in the house. “Drew, please. Grab my arms. Under the shoulders. Don’t let me pull.”
He dropped the bakery box. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the cardboard lid popping open to reveal strawberry muffins crushed against the linoleum. Drew crossed the narrow space in two strides, knelt into the spilled laundry detergent powder near the drain, and slid his thick, calloused hands under my armpits. He lifted with his legs, taking all my dead weight until my feet found traction.
The pain from the third-degree repair tore through me like a serrated wire, hot and blinding. A sharp gasp tore out of my mouth, and I clamped my teeth into Drew’s denim jacket to keep from screaming.
“I’ve got you,” Drew muttered, his chest vibrating against my cheek. “I’ve got you, Han. Lean on me. Put your weight on my hip.”
He turned me slowly and eased me down onto the little two-step plastic utility stool Eric had left by the dryer. Once I was seated, Drew turned immediately to Clara. His large, scarred hands—hands that spent sixty hours a week framing custom homes—lifted the eight-pound infant from the bassinet with astonishing gentleness. He brought her to his chest, cradling her head against his neck while rocking rhythmically on his heels.
Clara’s cries hitched, softened into jagged hiccups, and finally quieted as she inhaled her uncle’s familiar scent of cedar sawdust and fresh air.
Drew turned back to me. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath the skin along his beard line.
“I went upstairs,” he said, speaking slowly, as if every word had to be measured to keep him from roaring. “The bedroom door was cracked. I thought you were in there sleeping off the delivery. I walked in to put your plant on the nightstand.” He swallowed hard. “Barbara was in your king bed, Hannah. Snoring under your down comforter with an eye mask on.”
I closed my eyes. The shame burned worse than the physical pain. “Eric said her knee was bad.”
“Her *knee*?” Drew’s voice spiked, and Clara gave a tiny start. He instantly dropped his tone back to a vibrating hiss. “Her knee? You had major surgical repair four days ago! You can barely stand! Why the hell are you sleeping next to a washer and dryer on three inches of leaking plastic?”
“Eric said it was temporary,” I whispered, staring down at my bare feet. The linoleum was icy. “He said the stairs were too dangerous for me. He told my mom I chose this. He told everyone I asked for the privacy.”
“Did you?”
I looked up at my brother. Drew was two years older than me. We had grown up sharing a drafty attic bedroom in our parents’ old house outside Murfreesboro, listening to our father scrape together overtime shifts to keep the lights on. Drew had taken punches for me on school buses. He knew the exact pitch of my voice when I was lying to save someone else’s feelings.
“I asked for my bed every single day,” I said, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and running down my chin. “I begged him on Tuesday. I begged him on Thursday. He told me I was making things difficult. He said his mother drove four hours from Knoxville to help us, and the least I could do was be gracious.”
Drew’s eyes went completely flat. It was a terrifying look—the same expression he had worn the day our neighbor’s pit bull had cornered our childhood dog behind the shed.
“Where is he?” Drew asked quietly.
“Home Depot. Getting fertilizer for the lawn.”
