by Nicola Marsh
“Why did you choose that hospital?”
“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows shot up, disapproval radiating off her. “It happens to be the best in Melbourne, and in case you were wondering, I’m booked in there to have the baby too. Got a problem with that?”
He’d riled her. Her eyes flashed with anger as she shoved his hand off her belly.
“It’s not about being j-jealous,” he said, hoping he could get the rest of what he had to say out without stumbling. “It’s the thought of some other guy being around for you when you need support most, and that guy isn’t me when it should be.”
He held his hands out, hiding nothing. “I can get other jobs. But I won’t have this time with you again, and I want to be here for you and our child.”
If she heard his genuine intent behind his impassioned declaration, she didn’t show it. Instead, she scuttled back in her seat until her back pressed against the car door. She glared at him with wide eyes, as if seeing him for the first time; and she didn’t like what she saw.
“You should honor your commitment to Renegades,” she said, her tone oddly devoid of emotion. “Go. You can be involved with your child when you come back.”
His blood chilled. What did she mean “involved with your child”? It sounded like she didn’t want any part of him.
“What are you saying?”
She sucked in a breath and wrapped her arms around her middle, shrinking back from him farther, if that were possible.
“You were there tonight. You saw what it’s like for my mom and me. She’s old, and this pregnancy will bring a lot of judgment and shame on her, from her closest allies who’ve been around for her when I wasn’t. So I should do the right thing. Embrace tradition rather than run from it.”
Icy trepidation washed over him. She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was saying . . .
“Manish has offered to marry me, and I should accept.”
She sounded like she’d rather have a root canal, and he knew in his gut she was lying.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you want to marry him.”
She couldn’t, and his gut instinct intensified. Did she feel guilty for abandoning her mom all these years and that was why she was doing this? But if so, why not raise the baby alone? Were the cultural implications of being a single mother in this day so dire? Was tradition so important to her that she’d give up what they shared in favor of marrying a man she didn’t love? Unless she did . . .
“Do you have feelings for him?”
When her lips thinned and she still couldn’t meet his eyes, a bark of harsh laughter burst from his lips. “You’re fucking kidding me. You can’t marry that guy. You don’t love him. You . . .”
He trailed off as realization hit. She didn’t love him either. She’d never said the words. She didn’t depend on him or need him. Hell, she wanted him gone for the next umpteenth months and it wouldn’t bother her.
He’d been about to say “you love me,” but nothing could be further from the truth. Considering he’d just realized he loved her when she’d announced her intentions to marry some other guy, his timing sucked.
He couldn’t tell her. Not now. It would sound desperate, a last-ditch effort from a guy who’d just had his ass dumped.
“You don’t understand tradition and cultural obligations,” she said, her tone tight with emotion as she placed a hand over her belly. “My mom was ostracized because of her mixed marriage, and in turn, I suffered, because we didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. Pia was my best friend, and I always felt like an outsider at every Indian function I attended. I want this baby to be loved and adored and accepted, and he or she will have all that being raised in a close-knit community.”
“With two married parents who don’t love each other?”
She flinched at his sarcasm. “I loved my first husband, and look how that turned out. Manny’s a lot nicer than him.”
Stunned at her callous about-face, he opened the car door. He had to get out of here before he said something he’d regret.
“You’ll always be a part of this baby’s life, Rory, so I’ll keep you updated while you’re away, and I hope you make it back in time for the birth—”
“How fucking magnanimous of you,” he muttered, slamming the door shut on the rest of her bullshit.
Maybe this was for the best. If she didn’t love him, they never would’ve worked out. This way, he’d get to work his ass off and earn enough to set up a trust fund for his kid and be as involved as he wanted.
Yeah, that would be his new plan.
So why did it hurt so fucking much?
Forty-Four
Since Samira had deliberately driven Rory away by telling him that monstrous lie about marrying Manny, it had been the worst month of her life. She missed him more than she could’ve imagined and spent an inordinate amount of time listening to soppy songs on a playlist designed for heartbreak and having the occasional crying jag she blamed on hormones.
Elsewhere, when she wasn’t blubbering at home, things were okay. Work was good, Pia and Dev were talking again despite still living apart, and the nausea that had plagued Samira during the early months of her pregnancy had vanished, leaving her ravenous most of the time. She’d been craving idlis and sambhar rather than pickles and ice cream, her yearning for the steamed rice cakes and spicy vegetable-laden soup almost making her reconsider her living arrangements and move back home.
But having Kushi whip up her favorite meals and having her in her face twenty-four seven were worlds apart, and she’d stayed put in Southbank. She’d instigated proceedings to sell her physical therapy practice in LA and had arranged for her apartment to be sublet. She’d even started browsing baby furniture online. Being busy should’ve helped ease her heartache. It didn’t, because every night when she lay in bed alone, with too much time to think, she remembered Rory’s stricken expression the night she’d lied to him.
She would never marry Manish, but Rory didn’t need to know that. Her heart had leaped when Rory had offered to leave his precious job to be with her throughout the pregnancy. She could think of nothing better than having him by her side to share in every new experience, every joyful wonder.
Until she realized what it would mean long-term.
He’d already told her how much the job meant to him. He could help those underprivileged kids and set himself up professionally for bigger roles. He’d been so damn keen to score the role, he’d flipped out when he’d discovered her coaching his rival. And she knew he needed the money from snippets of what he’d said.
So to walk away from that because of her and the baby? Ultimately, it would never work. He’d grow to resent her, and the baby, and she could never have that. She cared for him enough to never make him choose between her and his career.
She’d sent him two short texts over the last few weeks, updates about the glucose test she’d done and the later results. He’d responded with a short, sharp “thanks.” That’s what it would be like for the next few months until the birth, and she had to get used to it. Didn’t mean she had to like it.
Stepping into the Punjab sweetshop, she inhaled deeply, the heady aromas of ghee, milk, sugar, and cardamom never failing to soothe her. Smells of her childhood. Smells to comfort. She knew a lot of sugar wasn’t good for the baby, but she was feeling particularly morose today, nothing a few pieces of cashew barfi and carrot halwa couldn’t fix.
She placed her order, pointing at the brightly colored morsels in the display window. Gulab jamuns, plump, bronze balls soaked in sugar syrup, bright orange swirly jalebis, creamy rasmalai, cottage cheese dumplings soaking in cardamom-infused milk, and yellow peda, Indian milk fudge. Her stomach rumbled, and she imagined her mom’s expression when she walked in the door with her goodies. Kushi would feign disapproval, but she had a wicked sweet tooth and would enjoy devouring these tasty morsels as mu
ch as Samira.
A few hours in her mom’s company would distract her from the inevitable loneliness when she got home, and the constant question whirring through her head: Did I do the right thing in driving Rory away?
Leaving the shop, she had to sidestep a guy walking too quickly. He didn’t apologize, and she cast him a scathing glare, at the same time he stared at her.
Oh no. No freaking way.
“Hello, Samira.”
Avi had this way of looking at a woman, part leer, part proprietorial, that made her skin crawl. She hadn’t noticed it at the start of their courtship—she’d been too smitten with her real-life Bollywood hero at the time—but later, when the cracks began to appear in their marriage, she noticed the way he looked at other women. Now, like then, it made her want to douse herself in antiseptic.
“Avi.” She managed a brisk nod and tried to sidestep again, but he blocked her path.
“Why the hurry?”
She could play polite, make meaningless small talk, but he’d given up the right to any of her graciousness the moment he told her he’d got a teenager pregnant and was leaving her.
“I’ve got better things to do than stand around talking to you,” she said, staring him down in defiance.
Mistake. Big mistake. Avi loved a challenge, and taking her down for her feisty response would be something he wouldn’t walk away from.
“Better things? Like what?” He glared at her belly and quirked an eyebrow. “Incubating a bastard?”
“That’s rich, coming from you, considering your first child was born out of wedlock.” She snapped her fingers. “Because you were a cheating scumbag still married to me and had to wait a year for our divorce to come through before you could marry your mistress.”
Avi preferred subservient women, women who deferred to him, women like the starry-eyed sucker she’d once been, so she knew her smart-ass response would get to him. The eyes she’d once imagined staring into for the rest of her life glittered with malice, and his upper lip curled in a sneer. “Let’s not rehash the past. We’ve both come a long way.”
He leaned in closer, and she edged back, inadvertently holding her breath as the familiar aftershave washed over her, an overpowering musk blend she’d never liked. “You’re looking more beautiful than ever, babe.” His bold gaze raked over her, possessive, and she subdued a shudder. “Pregnancy becomes you.”
“I’m not your babe,” she muttered, taking a step back, hating that he’d invaded her personal space like he used to.
“You were once, and you loved it.”
Samira bit back a laugh. Was he coming on to her? She could say so much, most of it nasty and derisive, but as he stared at her with a gleam in his eye she didn’t like, most of her animosity drained away.
What was the point of trading insults? He meant nothing to her anymore. Interesting, that he hadn’t changed much beyond a few wrinkles around his eyes. Still the same slicked-back black hair, big brown eyes, and smooth skin. It would’ve been better if he’d sprouted nose hairs and had a wart or two on his nose. But once again, she was giving him more thought than he deserved.
“Goodbye, Avi.”
His eyebrows arched in surprise, and as she sidestepped him, this time he let her go.
“Samira?”
She sighed and gritted her teeth against the urge to flip him her middle finger. “What?”
“I behaved deplorably when we were married, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
She accepted his long-overdue apology with a gracious nod and kept walking.
Forty-Five
If Rory’s first eight weeks in the outback had dragged, it had nothing on the next sixteen. Four long months where he spent endless days in front of the camera, reading off cues, trying to appear enthusiastic about a bunch of wannabe models and B-grade celebrities following clues toward the ultimate prize.
Not that the Renegades concept was bad; it wasn’t. It was his attitude that stank. Faking it all day every day for the cameras was tough, so when he reached the confines of his tent at night, he dropped the pretense and crawled into bed with his cell for company.
He’d grown damn attached to the thing, considering it was the only way he stayed connected to his kid. Samira sent him regular updates, texts with test results or growth charts. He liked the one comparing his kid to various fruit and his or her corresponding size. From pea to lemon to avocado and beyond. It made him smile, when little did these days.
He hated how hope blossomed every time his cell pinged with a message from Samira. What did he expect, that she’d say, Surprise, I’ve changed my mind, I want you, I love you, come back?
Thankfully, the updates were only about the baby, and she didn’t mention anything to do with her. Then again, he could imagine exactly what she was up to, in excruciating detail: she’d be planning a wedding, something low-key, being embraced by one big, happy Indian family, while his child grew in her belly. Wrong on so many levels. Not the part about her being surrounded by a support network that would care for her, but the marriage part to M.D. Manish. What made the guy better than him? A few degrees on a wall and a plethora of initials after his name?
Though that was petty. Samira wasn’t impressed by that kind of stuff. She’d made it more than clear how into him she’d been, even when he was nothing more than a stuntman.
No, his own insecurities blamed Manish and fate and whatever else he could come up with for ruining the best thing to ever happen to him. Though that was the kicker; he didn’t really know what he’d done wrong. One minute she’d introduced him to her mom and the aunties; the next she’d told him she’d be marrying Manish.
He hadn’t seen any spark between them at her mom’s house. He’d looked for it too, especially when Manish mentioned being there for her during the miscarriage scare. But there’d been nothing more than friendship between them, and Rory could almost like the guy given half a chance. Manish had a sense of humor, and in any other circumstance Rory could see the two of them sharing a beer and a laugh. Ironic, considering that may well happen if Samira married the guy and he’d be forced to see him every time he went to pick up his kid during access visits.
The thought made him grab his cell. He needed to get grounded, fast, and seeing a pic of his kid would do that better than anything. His favorite picture was the snapshot of the five-month scan, where he could actually see the baby’s fingers raised toward its mouth. It looked like a wave, and he loved tracing the outline of his child, wondering what he or she would look like. They didn’t know the sex; they wanted a surprise. But he could imagine a gorgeous little girl with hazel eyes like her mom or a cheeky boy with her smile.
“Hey, Radcliffe, you in there?”
“Yeah,” he called out, sitting up in bed and shoving his cell back in his pocket as Sherman Rix stuck his head through the tent opening. “There’s a call for you.”
Fear gripped him. The few people he knew would call him on his cell, which meant this call came from official channels.
“Do you know who it is?”
Sherman hesitated before saying, “Some hospital in Melbourne. I didn’t catch the name.”
Fear morphed into full-blown panic as Rory scrambled off the bed and ducked through the flap, breaking into a run toward the main truck that housed the cameras, IT equipment, and satellite phones.
If something had happened to Samira or the baby and he was stuck all the way out here, he’d never forgive himself. He shouldn’t have listened to her. He should’ve fought for her. What a dickhead.
As he bounded up the steps into the truck, he sent a silent prayer heavenward for the safety of a baby he never knew he wanted so badly until faced with the threat of losing him or her.
Snatching up the satellite phone, he willed himself to calm the hell down so he could formulate the words needed to ascertain exactly how serious this was.<
br />
“Rory Radcliffe speaking,” he said, clenching the phone so tight it made an odd crackling sound.
“Hi, Son.”
Relief filtered through him, and his muscles relaxed, but only momentarily, as he realized his dad was calling him from a hospital.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“Uh, yes. I had a minor stroke, but I’m okay.”
Shock rendered him speechless for a moment. “You sure? What happened? How long will you be in hospital for?”
He might not have been close to his father growing up, but he hated the thought of him lying helpless in a hospital bed.
“I had a little turn at work. Couldn’t make sense of the documents I was reading, and my PA said my mouth was drooping on one side, so she overreacted and called an ambulance. I got here this morning. They’ve run tests, said it’s very minor, no major damage. I’m on blood thinners for potential clots, but I should be home over the next few days.”
His dad wasn’t telling him everything. If the stroke was so minor, why would they keep him in hospital?
“I’m actually wrapping up filming tomorrow, Dad, then I’ll be on the first flight home. Is that okay?”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you, Son.”
Rory clutched the phone to his ear. He’d never heard the great Garth Radcliffe sound so uncertain. While it would take them a long time to repair the yawning gap in their relationship, his father wouldn’t have called unless he was feeling particularly vulnerable. Rory wouldn’t wish him ill, but this could be a turning point for them, a way to start making inroads toward some kind of bond.
“Take care, Dad, and call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” Garth said, sounding particularly gruff, before hanging up.
Rory stood in the truck for a long time, listening to the dial tone. He’d never felt so helpless, and he couldn’t wait to wrap up this damn show tomorrow and get home to the people he loved.
