Chapter 2

It all went downhill once Abbie arrived home.

August decided that he was not going to eat his dinner and instead fuss and cry and refuse to be soothed. Abbie couldn't set him down without him starting to scream, and she had a feeling why he was so unhappy: when she looked in his mouth, she saw that his lower gums were bright red. She sighed. A new tooth. August teething was like her husband without enough sleep: fractious, fussy and loud.

With August unwilling to sit in his high chair, Abbie didn't start on dinner until she put him in his crib at 6:00—still crying, but not as loudly. She could hear him hiccupping as she began to chop the vegetables, and she had the absurd desire just to sit and cry like her son had been doing all afternoon. But she had wanted to make lasagna with salad and bread for Ichabod tonight before she told him about the pregnancy, and by God, nothing was going to stop her.

"I'm going to get this fucking lasagna made if it's the last thing I do…" Abbie muttered to herself as she chopped the onion and stirred the noodles in the pot of boiling water. As she sliced the last bit of onion, her hand slipped and she sliced her index finger; blood welled and ran down her hand, onto the cutting board and the vegetables.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck!" Abbie turned on the faucet at the sink and drenched her finger in the cold water, hissing at the sting. She then pressed a towel to her finger, holding it tightly, counting down the seconds. But the bleeding wouldn't stop—it wouldn't need stitches, but deep enough to be obnoxious. Swearing under her breath, she went to the bathroom, wrapped her finger in a combination of toilet paper and band-aids, and then returned to the kitchen. She threw out the bloodied vegetables and cleaned off the cutting board as best she could with a bandaged finger. "I just want to make some goddamn lasagna, for the love of Christ. You try to do something nice and this shit happens," she said to herself. She was glad Ichabod wasn't around to hear her swear—he'd just raise one of his stupid eyebrows in mock disapproval.

Abbie had been so focused on her cut finger that she didn't realize the timer had gone off for the noodles long ago, and when she dumped them into the colander, they were mushy and overcooked. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Abbie warded off tears. She never cried, but pregnancy loved to make her hormonal and weepy. "I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry," she chanted, taking deep breaths, in and out.

She threw out the ruined noodles, boiled new ones, and began cooking the meat. Of course, now it was close to 6:45, and Ichabod would be home within the hour. He taught American history courses at the local college; his specialty being, of course, the Revolutionary War. Abbie liked to go through his textbooks, point out the name of a famous person, and ask if he'd known him or her. And because this was Ichabod, he usually had.

Abbie placed the lasagna in the oven around 7:00, and began to work on the salad. It was slow going with her bandaged finger, and it was 7:30 by the time she had managed to cut all of the vegetables. It was also then that she heard the front door creak open and the footfalls of her husband arriving home. She heard him place his book bag in the closet before he entered the kitchen. "You're cooking?" he asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Abbie glared over her shoulder. "Yes, what does it look like?" She knew her own voice dripped with her irritability, but her patience had run dry over an hour ago. "Go sit down so I can finish this."

Turning back to the salad, she heard Ichabod turn but then walk up behind her. "What happened to your finger?" He took her left hand in his, eyeing the ridiculous toilet paper band-aid combination Abbie had slapped on it. "My God, Abbie, are you all right?"

Abbie glanced up and saw that blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage. "Fuck," she hissed before walking to the bathroom, Ichabod following her. "I cut my finger chopping onions," she explained as she threw the bloodied bandage in the trash. Her finger instantly welled blood, and Abbie wrapped it in more toilet paper, her movements erratic with frustration.

"Here, let me—"

Abbie jerked her hand from Ichabod's. "No, I'm fine, just go sit down, okay?" Her voice had tightened, and she felt herself on the verge of tears. Her husband's concern wasn't helping. "I'm. Fine. Go."

Ichabod stood a moment, watching her, an eyebrow slightly raised. Then he nodded and left, but his eyes told her he'd figure out was wrong sooner or later.

Ichabod enjoyed his students—the absurdly young freshmen, the "adult" students, even the disenchanted grad students—but today had been difficult, talking with his superiors—on a Saturday, no less—about a student who continued to plagiarize every assignment. And thanks to college policy, Ichabod could only fail the student on the plagiarized assignments and report him to the dean each time, something that chafed his sense of honor each time, since those reports resulted in little action against said student. When Ichabod had taught at Oxford, plagiarism had resulted in instant expulsion. Not so much in 21st century America.

But now he was home, to his wife and son, and he planned to drink a glass of rum and enjoy Abbie's company. His lovely wife, his fellow Witness, the mother of his child—Abbie had brought him more joy than any man could ever expect or deserve.

He sat down on the living room couch, concerned about his wife swearing the kitchen, her finger wrapped in toilet paper. He heard her open and shut the oven. "Toilet paper? We had better bandages during the war," Ichabod thought to himself. But these thoughts totally fled his mind when he heard the unmistakable sound of glass hitting the floor, and glass shattering, and then crying. Great, heaving, keening crying.

Ichabod raced to the kitchen, only to see Abbie on her knees on the tile, attempting to sweep the shards of the wine bottle into the dustpan, sobbing as she did so. "Abbie, are you hurt—"

Abbie sat back on her heels and covered her face in her hands. And cried. "I. Broke. The. Wine!" she sobbed.

Ichabod could only stare for a beat or two, uncertain how to proceed. Abbie didn't cry: she was resilient, his wife. Absurdly brave, absurdly strong, absurdly smart, absurdly funny. But she wasn't much for tears: she'd once said that it was a waste of time. That wasn't to say she wasn't prone to emotion—she just didn't usually cry when she was upset. This, however, was something Ichabod hadn't seen since…

"Ah," he said simply, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together neatly. Leaning down to Abbie, he took her hands and led her out of the kitchen, making her sit in a chair. He rubbed her right hand, making shushing noises as she continued to cry. "Abbie, my love, don't cry. I cannot imagine that bottle of wine was more than $10, although I'm certain the sales tax alone would make me weep."

Laughing and hiccupping, Abbie sighed and wiped her eyes, sniffing. "Oh God, I don't care about sales tax," she moaned. "Just accept it and move on."

"I will never accept the injustice of sales tax on necessary items like food and spirits."

"Shut up. And wine isn't a necessity." Abbie laid her head on his shoulder. "Although I could use a glass right now," she mumbled.

Ichabod just took her left hand and kissed her poorly bandaged finger. "We performed better bandaging in the war. Is this why you were crying?"

Laughing again, Abbie pushed up from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. "What, from my toilet paper band-aid? Don't be an asshole. A girl has to make do with what she can find."

"Why were you crying, then?"

Ichabod knew the answer, but he also knew that Abbie needed to tell him. He watched as she sighed and bit her lip—which he adored—and sighed again. "God, this was not how I was going to tell you."

He stood up and sat down in an opposite chair, silent and waiting.

"Um, well, shit. I was making dinner and everything and then I was going to tell you—"

Ichabod just smiled at her hesitation. "Yes?"

Abbie bit her lip. "That I'm pregnant. Again." When Ichabod stood up, she added, "And it is the last time because I hate feeling like this and you can't freak out like last time—"

Leaning down, his hands cupping her face, Ichabod kissed Abbie. He could feel her relax, her muscles losing their tension, as their mouths met. Pulling away, he replied, "I won't, as you say, 'freak out.' But I may, instead, be very, very happy. And perhaps, moderately cautious."

"You swear you won't wake me up in the middle of the night again and look up everything on the Internet? Because I swear to God, Crane, if you disturb my sleep just once I'm kicking your ass out—"

Abbie's words were stuttered when Ichabod lifted her up in his arms and carried her to their bedroom. "As long as you promise not to injure yourself or frighten me like that again."

Curling her hands around his neck, Abbie sighed. "Yeah, okay, fine." As they entered the bedroom, she lifted up her head. "Oh wait, the lasagna!"

Ichabod placed Abbie on bed, his gaze on hers. "Abbie, darling, I love you, but fuck the lasagna."