Today, though, instead of straying to my years of drinking, of all the mistakes I’d made, of memories of the accident and hospital, I think of Frankie. And our baby.
It’s a step in the right direction, the meeting at the coffee shop. She was right in having us both cop to our blame in this situation. We’d both hurt each other unnecessarily, and it was mostly my fault. I was the one who’d lied initially. I was the one who made her think she meant nothing, because I was too fucking scared to talk to her before I left Florida. I was the one who didn’t keep in touch, who thought about her for five months and did nothing about it.
Of course, she thought I wouldn’t care about a baby. I never gave her the idea that I would.
But, miraculously, Frankie extended an olive branch. She still wants to try to co-parent, at the very least. So, I will have my son in my life.
Now, I just need to prove to her that I deserve her in my life, too. There is clearly still the spark that always existed between us. Frankie and I have a chemistry that can’t be denied. I felt it when I touched her yesterday, and I know she felt it, too. Does she … does she love me? Does she know that I love her?
I should have just told her, but I didn’t want to overwhelm her. It was a big step that she even sat down with me, that she invited me to the appointment. I can’t scare her off with too much, too fast. Build her trust, show her I’m worthy, put everything I have into being a good father. Then, maybe after she sees that, she’ll trust me with her heart, too.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, a smile still on my face from thinking about how beautiful Francesca looks while growing our son inside her.
Frankie: You claim you care about this. That you want to be a part of this baby’s life. But it’s all talk, isn’t it? You were nowhere to be found at the doctor’s appointment today.
Wait … what?
“What’s the date?” I ask distractedly to no one since I’m alone, because apparently, my brain doesn’t function anymore.
My heart begins to pound, and I’m not even sure why. There has to have been a mistake.
I pull down the screen on my iPhone, and the date reads the twelfth. No. No. Please tell me I didn’t …
My hands fly as I click over to the calendar app, scrolling through the month to make sure I didn’t …
Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me and this stupid fucking brain of mine that can’t get anything right.
Because right there, on the twenty-first, I plugged in Frankie’s appointment. The numbers were wrong.
I didn’t show up today. I missed my first shot at meeting my son.
26
Frankie
I probably shouldn’t have sent that text.
It was accusatory and could be used against me. It’s physical proof of my dislike of the father of my baby. But I’m hormonal and so incredibly hurt by Sinclair missing the appointment that I can’t even seem to care.
I wanted him there today, as much as I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t need a partner in this. When the ultrasound tech stuck the wand to my belly and our son’s heartbeat rung out around the dark room, I wished that Sinclair was holding my hand. When his little face came into view, his eyes at just the right angle so he was literally looking at me on the screen, I wished that the man who had helped create him was looking up in wonder. I wished that same man was cupping my cheeks as she read off each measurement, a perfect little boy. I wished we walked out of the office with his arm around my shoulder, and he took me to get the milkshake I was craving.
The tears come now, now that the deep pain of loneliness is seriously sinking in. Back in Florida, I was fine. Or maybe I wasn’t, but I could lock the feelings away. Except now, in Packton, Sinclair is everywhere I look. His family, and all of their inside jokes and love for each other, is everywhere I look. The image of what could have been, of what I could have if we were in love with each other, is staring me in the face constantly.
How am I, an emotional pregnant woman, supposed to handle that? Well, I guess by sobbing on my couch with an open pint of Rocky Road melting in front of me. Because I didn’t even have the heart to stop for my milkshake on the way home.
I’m only two spoonfuls in, flipping through the channels and landing on old Sex and the City episodes, when three harsh knocks rattle my door.
“Frankie, it’s me.”
Sinclair’s voice comes through, and I freeze as if I’ve been caught red-handed. But … I haven’t been caught doing anything. And I also don’t have to let him in. Jackass.
I can’t help myself though, as I stealthily rise from the couch and make my way to the door to see if I can possibly peek out without being detected. Well, as stealthy as a six-month pregnant woman can be.
“Frankie, please open the door. I know you’re standing right there.”
Shit, he does know me better than I thought he does. Sinclair’s deep voice vibrates through my soul, even though he’s standing on the other side of the door.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to let him in, let him have a piece of my mind. I wouldn’t have sent the text if I wasn’t itching for an argument. But since he missed the appointment, purposely didn’t show up, I doubted he would react to the message I sent.
And I definitely didn’t expect him to show up at my house so shortly after.
“What?” I wrench open the door, my emotions getting the better of me.
The deeper I get into this pregnancy, the more my feelings run the gamut. I’m typically a pretty controlled person, and I rarely fight or hold grudges because I just can’t be bothered. But growing a human seems to have set off some confrontation gene that has lain dormant all this time.
“I got the dates mixed up.”
He grips the sides of the doorjamb, looking like he wants to come in and waiting for permission. It’s cold, the October air permeating the flannel pajama set I have on, but I won’t invite him in. I’m too stubborn. I’d rather freeze first.
But does he have to be so devastatingly handsome? His nose and cheeks sport little pink spots from the cold, like he drove over here without letting the car warm up. His dark hair is longer than it has been and tousles in the wind. I hate that I want to run my fingers through it.
Rage flickers swiftly through me. “Oh, come on, at least make up a good excuse. That’s just utter bullshit.”
Sinclair looks at the floor, and I watch as his jaw tics with anger and indecision. Finally, those eyes, the color of the sea I miss so much, look up to meet mine.
“Please, let me come in. I’ll explain. It’s not an excuse, I promise you, Francesca.”
God, he hits me with the use of my full name. He’s good, this guy. And because he knows how to play me like a fiddle, I move back, begrudgingly, but wave a hand for him to come in.
“You better get talking, because my ice cream is melting.” I say it like it’s the most important thing in the world.
I mean, to pregnant me, it is.
“I got the dates mixed up. Today is the twelfth. I put the twenty-first in my phone.” He chews on that full bottom lip, the one I used to taste.
“Why would you do that? I specifically texted you the twelfth. This was important, Sinclair. It wasn’t just some calendar event you could blow off. You missed seeing your son.” I try not to let my voice break.
He shakes his head. “I know that, fuck, I know that. I’m so fucking mad at myself, that I missed that. But I didn’t just screw up the calendar entry. I truly thought it was the twenty first. That’s what my brain saw.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m confused.
“I’m dyslexic. Have been ever since they found it in elementary school. With letters, I’m surprisingly fine. It’s numbers. I just … sometimes they get all jumbled. I’ve done the therapy and the tutoring, even started to work on it myself more as an adult. But there isn’t a cure. I just … I’m fucking stupid. My brain is fucking defective, and I fucked up the date …”
Sinclair
is still rambling to himself, but I don’t hear it. Because my heart is breaking, openly weeping. That little boy stands in front of me, the one I can imagine sitting in the back of the class to avoid being called on. The one who made jokes about his learning disability to avoid other people laughing at him first. The one who would stare at homework for hours without being able to complete it.
Spontaneously, I move forward, my arms going around him. I want to comfort him, to soothe the sadness that’s been there since he was a little boy. I don’t account for the belly, so it bumps into his toned stomach as I try to envelop him in a hug. When I realize what I’ve done, touched him in an intimate way while our relationship is still so up in the air, I try to step back.
But Sinclair latches on, burying his head in the crook of my neck and positioning his body around me so that he’s flush against my side. One of his arms cups my belly, the first time he’s touched his growing son.
Air catches in my throat; I can barely breathe from the surprise. From how hard the love I have for him smacks me in the chest.
“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I wanted to see him so badly.” The regret and desperation are so clear in his voice.
We stand there for a full minute, his strong arms holding me while it really feels like I’m the one holding him together.
Sinclair pulls back, the slight loss of contact leaving a hole in my heart. But his arms are still around me; his face is just inches from mine.
His eyes flick down to my lips. I bite my lower one unconsciously as my pulse gallops at my neck. I feel the heat of his palm as it cups my lower belly, and then the other hand raises to tuck into my hair. His fingers lodge in my curls, and my eyes flutter shut. It’s been so long since he’s touched me, really held me, and I feel weak.
I should back away, give my heart time, but I can’t help it. I can’t help wanting his mouth on mine, his body on me. I want him inside me so badly that I ache for him; I can feel how wet I already am.
“Francesca …” He’s just a hairbreadth from my lips.
God, how madly I want him to kiss me.
But … “No.”
I shake my head and step out of his embrace. I have to turn my back, collect myself for a moment. I hear Sinclair exhale a harsh breath. When I’m ready, even though I’m shaken, I turn and give him a forced smile.
“I’m glad you explained, that you trust me enough to tell me about what you’ve gone through. I’d like you to come to my next appointment.”
I don’t even mention the almost-kiss because we shouldn’t talk about it. I can’t go there with him again. If he ends it, especially like he did the first time, I’ll never get over it. And having to see him every other day when our son is here will be torture if we don’t work out.
Sinclair looks like he wants to say more but just accepts my terms, the unspoken ones I just laid out.
So I got an explanation, an answer to my upset and anger that plagued me just an hour ago. But now, I’m left with all new feelings of tension and uncertainty.
Will it always be like this with him?
27
Frankie
The week flies by in a haze of training sessions, two round one playoff wins, a lunch with Sinclair, and many nights spent browsing baby gear websites.
Who knew there were seventy thousand types of cribs to peruse? Certainly not me, and now I’m in the weeds. I need to start purchasing items for my baby boy, and I can’t decide on anything. Should my crib be convertible? Do I need a bottle warmer? Which type of breast pump is going to work best with my career? Does the swing or bouncer soothe better?
I need some type of baby gear genie to come in and just do all the picking for me.
As I pull open a heavy wooden door, noise and the smell of sizzling steaks hit me.
Hudson’s is the local bar and restaurant on Central Street in Packton, and I’ve popped in for a meal once or twice since moving here. I always sit at the bar, even though I’m pregnant, which is kind of funny. I’m used to eating alone, and it makes me nostalgic for Eddie’s.
Tonight, though, I’m just popping in to pick up my Parmesan fried chicken and fettuccini to take home. It was a long day at the office, and even though it’s the middle of winter, I’m in the swelling stage of my pregnancy. My shoes feel ten sizes too small for my feet, and I desperately need a long, hot bath and some pillow elevation on the couch with trashy reality TV.
The place is packed even though it’s a Tuesday night, and I’m reminded just how small of a town Packton is as I observe the crowd. People get up from their tables to go talk to friends. The bar is packed with a few groups that look like some coworkers out for drinks after a day at the office. Little kids skirt through the tables, chasing each other before their parents grab their elbows to make them sit for dinner.
It’s cozy, and a place where you feel like everyone really does know everyone else’s name. Well, except for mine. I’ve lived here for over a month, and I barely have one person to call a friend.
“Frankie!”
I stand corrected. Because the minute I walk to the bar to give my name for my takeout order, I hear it yelled across the restaurant.
When I turn, I see Colleen Callahan waving at me from a four-top table and Hannah Callahan seated right next to her. I try to keep my smile even as I wave back, but don’t venture over. It’s probably rude of me to stand here and wait for my food when she just called out from the other side of the room. And she’s my boss.
After three seconds of indecision, I finally turn and walk over. I can just give them a polite hi and then be on my way.
“Hey, Colleen, Hannah.” I nod to each of them, respectively.
“Hey! Did you come in for a bite?” Hannah smiles that kind, caring expression.
How does she make everything she says seem so nice? I don’t want to like her since she married into the family I’m trying to avoid, but I just can’t help it.
“Just picking up my order to take home. I’m exhausted.” My hand instinctively goes to my belly.
She nods, laughing. “I remember that feeling too well. I know it’s hard to hold off, but try having your caffeine in the middle of the day instead of in the morning. My midday coffee saved me when I was pregnant with Breanna, my second daughter. Noelle would run me ragged and I’d be drained by two p.m.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I smile at her. “You ladies eating just the two of you?”
“Just us tonight. The men are on kid duty so we can indulge.” Colleen holds up her wineglass.
“I didn’t realize you had kids.” I don’t remember reading or seeing that she and Hayes Swindell, a former baseball star destined for the Hall of Fame, had a baby.
“Just one, a foster son that we’re trying to adopt. Isaiah, he’s eight.” The way she says it makes her whole face light up.
“Wow, that’s amazing. Really great of you.” I blink, feeling like I’m seeing a different Colleen.
I’m used to the compassionate but tough general manager. I didn’t know she was pursuing motherhood like this, and it makes me admire her even more.
“He’s great, makes it easy. Have a seat while you wait.” She offers the empty chair across from her.
My eyes flick back to the bar, and the bartender hasn’t even gone back to the kitchen to ask them for my order yet she’s so swamped. I figure it can’t hurt, chatting for a minute or two. Especially since, admittedly, I am kind of lonely.
So I pull out the chair and sit.
“How is everything else going? I think Colleen mentioned you’re living off Central Street. This area is really the best, especially when you have the baby. You’ll be by the park and be able to take him out in the stroller around the shops.”
Hannah blinks at me intently, and again, I think about how truly nice she is.
“Yeah, you know I didn’t think about that, but it’s true. Honestly? The thing I’m most confused about in this moment is baby gear,” I lament.
Hannah chuckles. “Say
no more, that’s why you’ve got me!”
Colleen hooks a thumb in Hannah’s direction. “She’s not lying. Isaiah may be eight, so I didn’t have the whole crib dilemma, but Hannah has recommended countless little kid products that have saved my life. Seriously, she’ll be your registry guru.”
“Would you really?” I sound way too desperate as I blink at Hannah. “There are way too many options, I have no idea where to start!”
“Of course, let’s sit down this week when you have some time and I’ll go through it. Lord knows, I went through so many useless products with the girls, and some ones that will be essential to raising that little boy. I can’t wait to see what he looks like! Do you have any names picked out?”
It dawns on me then; these two women are going to be involved in this baby’s life in some capacity because of who they’re related or married to. Not only that, but they’re excited to know him, to watch him grow. I’ve never been a part of a family; I don’t know what it’s like to have this whole extended network of people who care so deeply and inherently about you. That will be nice for my son, and possibly even for me. I’m cautious and so hesitant to trust these people because of how Sinclair lied. What would it be like if I actually allowed them into my life, into this pregnancy?
“I have a few, but I’m keeping them under wraps. I guess I need to ask Sinclair if he has any ideas. And then, the last name …”
I trail off because I haven’t even thought about this yet. Will the baby be a Kade or a Callahan?
Colleen looks like she wants to say something, and opens her mouth to, then shuts it. I’m sure as anything that she’ll campaign for a Callahan last name.
“My girls kept their father’s last name for now,” Hannah tells me, somewhat somberly. “After we got married, I took Walker’s name, because there was no way I was keeping my first husband’s name. Walker plans on adopting the girls, but we’re giving them the choice on if they want to change their names. After all, they are technically Giraldi’s. That’s their blood. But Walker is their father, for all intents and purposes. I think you just have to go with what makes you feel comfortable.”
Check Swing (Callahan Family Book 3) Page 12
