Sidebarred

by Emma Chase

  “I love you, Chelsea.”

  Her sigh is long but not ungrateful.

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  There’s a weighted pause, and then she adds, “Even when you’re being an asshole.”

  Yep. I can totally live with that.

  ****

  The next morning, our midnight truce is most definitely off. Our mornings are busy—crazy—and that’s never truer than on a school day. I get the kids up. They’re dressed and almost fed by the time Chelsea walks into the dining room.

  Wearing a pretty, dark-green sheath dress and matching blazer. Dressed for work.

  From the chair at the table, my eyes rake over her.

  “Nice outfit.”

  She smiles tightly. Determinedly. “Thanks. It’s new. Maternity clothes have come a long way since Rachel was pregnant.”

  I cock a questioning brow. “Do you have a job interview lined up already?”

  And her nostrils flair. “No. I have a job. I’m dressed to go to it.”

  At some point during the night, I decided I wasn’t going to fight with her anymore. She’s fucking pregnant—only an honest-to-goodness coldhearted prick would upset his pregnant wife, and I’ve put a lot of effort through the years into not being that.

  So I nod. Take out my cell phone and dial Brent’s number. And as I speak to him, my gaze doesn’t waver from my wife’s stubborn face.

  “Hey. Listen—I’m supposed to be in court today at ten and I’m not gonna make it. Can you stand in for me? Request a continuance?”

  Chelsea flinches at the question.

  After Brent responds in my ear, I tell him, “Yeah, exactly. Thanks—I owe you.”

  I jab at the disconnect button and slide the phone into my pocket.

  And all eyes—mine and the kids’—are on Chelsea.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  I open my palms, gesturing like the answer is obvious. “We’re going to work at the museum. I’m pretty frigging talented but even I can’t be in two places at once.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re coming to work with me?”

  I smirk viciously. “There’s no place else I’d rather be.”

  “That’s your plan? You’re going to follow me around. Forever?”

  I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’ll do what I need to do, sweetheart, for however long I need to do it.”

  Her face pinches and she looks away from me. Then she yanks her own phone out of her blazer pocket and a few seconds later speaks into it—leaving a voice mail.

  “Gavin, it’s Chelsea. It seems that what you told me yesterday is accurate. I’m resigning. I . . . good-bye.” She pins me to the chair with a scowl. “There, you win. Happy, Jake?”

  “This isn’t about winning.”

  “You sure? Because that’s how it feels.”

  She turns away, heading into the kitchen, but not before I see the tears welling in those crystal-blue eyes.

  And—fuck—if that doesn’t make me feel like the smallest dick that’s ever existed.

  Just when I think I can’t feel any lower, Regan manages to help me out.

  “Are you and Mommy getting divorced?”

  Rory raises his hand. “I call Jake.”

  Riley swats his hand and tells him to shut up.

  I touch Regan’s little head. “No, we’re not getting divorced.”

  “That’s what Abigail Stillwater’s parents said. Right before they got divorced. Then on Visiting Day Mr. Stillwater called Mrs. Stillwater’s friend an underage boy toy and Mrs. Stillwater said Mr. Stillwater was a deadbeat bastard who didn’t own her. They had to be escorted from the building.”

  Jesus Christ.

  Ronan steps up next to his sister. “Are you sure you’re not gonna get divorced?” He wags his finger. “Tell the truth.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I rub my hand over my face. “Look, guys . . . sometimes adults disagree. Just like you two—you fight all the time, but you still love each other.”

  They glance at each other, confused—and slightly disgusted.

  “We do?”

  Fuck me.

  “Okay, bad example. I promise Mommy and I are not getting divorced.” I gesture to their backpacks and coats. “Now get ready—the bus will be here soon. Rosaleen, help Ronan with his shoes.”

  Rosaleen purses her lips, quieter than I’ve ever seen her. “Okay.”

  With a big breath I walk into the kitchen, to fix the shittiness that is this situation. She’s at the sink, washing dishes . . . and holding back tears.

  I’ve seen some heartbreaking stuff in my days—but there is nothing on earth more gut-wrenching than watching Chelsea Becker trying her hardest not to cry.

  And failing.

  I come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, and bury my face in her neck.

  “I hate this.”

  She stiffens, and sniffles, but stays silent.

  “I fucking hate this. I want you to be happy, but I need to know that you’re safe.” My arms squeeze tighter. “I won’t . . . I won’t be able to function if I don’t know that. Try and understand. Please.”

  She gives me more of her weight, leaning back, softening just a little. “I do understand. I would probably feel the same way if things were reversed. But . . . it hurts when you make decisions without me.” She hiccups, and it lands like a knife to my stomach. “When you don’t think of me.”

  I turn her around, raising my hands to swipe at her tears with my thumbs. “I do think of you. Always.”

  Chelsea regards me with wet, wounded eyes and puffy lips. “You should’ve talked to me about it first, Jake. So it was something we decided together. We’re a team . . . remember?”

  Her words bring me back to another time, years ago—another argument, and the harsh, stupid words I threw at her. When I was terrified of screwing this up. When I had no fucking clue what I was doing.

  Sometimes . . . it feels like I still don’t.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, Chelsea.” I kiss her gently. Her mouth is warm and soft and yielding. “But you can’t keep things from me because you don’t like how I’m going to react. I need to know you’ll be honest with me.”

  She nods. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, I should’ve told you what was going on. I won’t keep anything like this from you again. I promise.”

  What Sofia said yesterday actually did strike a nerve. And although I don’t want Chelsea anywhere near that asshole, why the hell should she have to be the one to go?

  “Let’s go to your HR department today. Together. You don’t have to resign. You can file a complaint against Gavin, asked to be moved to another department until your maternity leave starts. Then we can work on getting the son of a bitch fired before you go back after the baby’s born.”

  She stares at my chest thoughtfully. “Okay. I do want to file a complaint, but I’m not going to ask to be moved. Maybe it would be best if I left now—I’ve been so tired and there’s so much to do. And then . . . I think I want to stay home with the baby for a while. Not go back to work right away. For the first year . . . maybe longer?”

  I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”

  When she smiles at me—remorseful and forgiving at the same time—the tightness that’s been slowly crushing my chest since yesterday finally loosens. Chelsea’s arms wrap around me, holding on tight, and after a few moments everything starts to feel normal again.

  Our normal is pretty awesome.

  Raymond’s voice from the doorway, addressing his brothers and sisters, makes us both turn our heads.

  “Yeah—they’re making out. Divorce averted.”

  And then . . . we laugh.

  Chapter 8

  May

  March and April go by on fast-forward, a blur of plea deals, doctor’s appointments, recitals, homework, baseball games . . . and Chelsea’s ever-increasing stomach.

  It’s wild.

  She was asleep the first time I felt the bab
y kick. It was a little before 5 a.m. and my eyes had just opened. I was thinking the ceiling needed to be repainted, when I felt it—a tiny jab against my ribs where the bump pressed against me. It was the first time the reality really hit that there was a baby in there. A whole, new, real, unique little person that Chelsea and I made together. Like I said—fucking wild.

  That’s when I finally understood what Chelsea felt at that first doctor’s appointment. The excitement. Total wonder. And even some impatience.

  We decided months ago not to know the baby’s sex—much to the kids’ deep disappointment. Rory represented his siblings and debated with us for weeks. He cited the delicate boy-girl balance in our household and how the males, in particular, would have to mentally prepare themselves if, as he put it, there wasn’t “a penis in there.”

  I told him there were few real surprises in life, so he was shit out of luck.

  Chelsea tried to console him by saying she’d do her best with the penis thing.

  But whatever’s in there, an auburn-haired little boy or a baby girl who’s as beautiful as her mother . . . either way, I can’t wait to meet the kid.

  ****

  One early Saturday night, Chelsea and I are watching a movie with three of the kids in the living room, when the front door slams and the sound of sobbing and stomping feet fly up the front stairs.

  “Riley?” Chelsea calls, but there’s no answer.

  So the two of us head to Riley’s room. The door that had been taken away from her is now back—and her aunt knocks on it. When all we hear is crying from the other side, we walk in.

  Riley’s on the floor, her back against her bed, her forehead on her knees. Her cheeks are wet and blotchy and big, heaving sobs rack her shoulders.

  Chelsea awkwardly settles on the floor. “Honey?”

  Riley looks up. “Peter broke up with me.” She pauses to cry into her hand, then goes on. “He said he didn’t want a girlfriend during the last summer before college.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” Chelsea envelops Riley in her arms. “I’m so sorry.”

  I’m not. I’m fucking elated. Best news I’ve heard all day.

  Of course I can’t tell Riley that. She wouldn’t understand. So I offer my support the only way a guy in this situation possibly can.

  “Do you want me to snap him in half for you? It’d be really easy.”

  Riley squeezes her eyes and shakes her head. “I loved him so much. Why doesn’t he love me back?”

  Chelsea brushes her niece’s hair out of her eyes. And she gets this determined, resolute look on her face. “Listen to me, Riley. Millions of women have been where you are right now. I know it’s hard and I know it hurts . . . but I promise you, you will come out of this stronger than you were before. There’s a reason; there’s something better waiting for you, just around the corner. And it won’t hurt like this forever. One day you’re going to wake up, take a breath, and realize . . . you’re over it. You’re over him.”

  About fifteen minutes later, Riley asks to be alone—so she can listen to depressing songs on repeat and watch YouTube montages about her favorite deceased dystopian-books-made-into-movies characters. As we walk down the hallway, I mention, “You seemed pretty experienced in the whole breakup pep-talk thing.”

  Her eyes crinkle up at me, curiously. “I’ve had my share.”

  “Is that what you thought about me? Back in the day. Were you waiting for the moment when you realized you were over me?”

  Boy was that a terrible time. I remember the weeks Chelsea and I spent as civil, polite, platonic friends—at my insistence—with a mixture of shame and nausea.

  She wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek on my chest. “No. I’d resigned myself to a life of faking it. Because I was sure there was no way . . . I’d ever be over you.”

  “Yeah. You pretty much ruined me, too, Chelsea.”

  ****

  That Tuesday, I’m in the office going over my messages when Brent—and his very round, very pregnant wife—walk in. Kennedy’s wearing pink velour sweatpants, one of Brent’s Batman T-shirts, and a pair of fuzzy beige boots that probably cost an obscene amount of money. She looks like a homeless person who raided a dumpster in the fashion district.

  “Hey, Kennedy.”

  “Hi, Jake.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  She rubs her protruding belly. “Like a tick ready to pop. Today’s my first day of maternity leave.”

  Her due date is next week.

  “Congratulations. What are you doing here?”

  She sighs, pushing back a strand of light-blond hair. “I had planned to put my swollen feet up, cuddle with the cats, and reread a Stephenie Meyer novel, but . . .”

  Her eyes slide to her husband.

  Brent raises his hand guiltily. “I had a dream last night that Kennedy went into labor and I missed the whole thing.”

  “So he dragged me along with him today.”

  “You can put your feet up on my office couch. We’ll hang out, it’ll be great.” Brent snaps his fingers and pats his leg, vibrating with more energy than usual.

  Kennedy notices, too. “Why don’t you go for a run?”

  Brent is shocked by the suggestion. “I can’t do that. What if your water breaks while I’m gone? I don’t want to miss anything.”

  Kennedy’s brown eyes roll to the ceiling. “It’s impossible for you to miss anything, Brent! If I stop short you’re going to go straight up my ass.”

  Brent smirks. “Wouldn’t be so bad—it’s my second favorite place to be.”

  Kennedy pulls at her hair and she looks to me. “Help.”

  I shrug. “You married him.”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Knock it off, you two. You’re going to hurt my feelings. I’m sensitive.”

  He says this while walking past me to Stanton’s closed office door. He opens it, stands inside for two seconds, and mutters, “O-kay.”

  Then he turns around and walks back out to the common area. When I try to pass him with a file Stanton was looking for yesterday, he holds up a hand.

  “You don’t want to go in there, trust me.”

  I was Stanton’s roommate for four years. I know him well—I’ve seen things.

  “What? Are they screwing in there?”

  “Yep. In the desk chair.” Then he grins. “Did you know Sofia got a tattoo?”

  ****

  An hour later, Stanton and Sofia emerge from the love cave—only slightly red-faced. Which Brent attempts to rectify.

  “You dirty dogs . . . what if poor Mrs. Higgens walked in on you?”

  Sofia takes a bottle of water out of the minifridge. “Sorry about that.”

  “Work up a thirst, did you?” I tease.

  Stanton slips his tie around his neck and ties it. “Samuel’s been coming into our bed at night. Every night. It’s made things . . . hard.”

  Sofia winks.

  Stanton gestures to Brent, Kennedy, and me. “See what y’all have to look forward to?”

  “Wait a minute,” Brent interjects. “Is that like a rule? Are we not supposed to have sex in our offices unless there’s a reason?”

  His eyes meet Kennedy’s. She shrugs. “Oops.”

  ****

  I get home late that night—after midnight. The house is dim and quiet; only Cousin It is up to greet me. He hangs out with me on the couch while I eat the plate of food Chelsea left on the stove.

  When I walk into our room, I find her stretched out on the bed—awake but tired. She’s got one hand on her stomach, peeking out from the snug-fitting tank top, and the other hand holding a thick book.

  “Hey.” She smiles at me.

  “Hey.” I loosen my tie and start to unbutton my shirt. “How’d it go tonight?”

  “Everybody’s good.”

  I crawl up the bed and kiss her stomach before laying my cheek against the warm, taut skin. “What are you reading?”

  She puts the b
ook down and runs her fingers through my hair, rubbing my scalp. “A book on baby names.”

  “Ahh. Find any good ones?”

  Her fingers keep moving and my eyes roll closed under her ministrations.

  “I was thinking . . . if we have a little boy . . . we should name him Atticus, after the Judge.”

  My eyes pop back open, meeting her soft, tender gaze.

  “That is a good name.”

  Chelsea hums her agreement.

  I lift my head and press my lips against her stomach again—right next to the belly button that’s popped like a well-cooked turkey. “But what do you think about, if it’s a boy . . . Robert?”

  After her brother. I know it would mean a lot to her—and if it wasn’t for him, Chelsea and I wouldn’t have met.

  Her eyes seem shinier—wet and adoring. “That’s a good name, too.”

  I nod. “And this little one’s already going to have a different last name than the rest of the brood—don’t want him to feel like an outcast around so many Rs.”

  “Good point.”

  “So it’s settled then? If it’s a boy, he’ll be Robert Atticus Becker.”

  I will never get used to the beauty that is Chelsea’s smile.

  “I love that,” she says softly.

  “Me too.”

  One more kiss later, I drag myself out of the bed and head into the shower.

  ****

  When I walk back into the bedroom, I’m greeted by the sight of my naked wife standing in front of the full-length mirror in the corner, turning left to right—checking herself out.

  And damn if my cock doesn’t appreciate the view.