“Forty women wrapped their arms around my waist to see if their estimated measurements of my size matched the amount of toilet paper they took off a roll. How bad do you think it was?”
She tries to hide her amusement, but I know she’s laughing on the inside at my humiliation. It isn’t enough that I’m as big as a house, let’s accentuate it by measuring with toilet paper. Awesome.
“Okay, fine. Most of the party sucked for you,” she acquiesces. “But at least it’s over, and now everyone will back off for a while.”
“Lord, I hope so.” I lean my head against the back of the couch and close my eyes. The shower may be over, but it’s just one more step closer to the big day, and I’m still not sure I’m ready.
Elliott, sensing my mood, nudges me. “Rosalind? What’s wrong? I know this wasn’t necessarily fun for you, but it seems like something else might be going on.”
I sigh deeply, feeling more comfortable discussing this with Elliott than anyone else. Maybe it’s because she’s a single mom, too, in a similar situation to mine. Not quite a family, not quite not, but making it work nonetheless. “I’m just overwhelmed. I feel like I can’t do anything right. I have a job that makes zero money. I don’t know how to put any of these presents together.” I gesture to the boxes that surround the room. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“None of us do,” she says with a shrug. “We just figure it out when the time comes.”
I scoff. “Okay. You’re like the perfect mom.”
“I have never been called that before by anyone. Especially my own mother.”
I have a hard time believing that. Everyone at work is always saying how amazing she is. “Please. I’m sure Abel has told you before.”
She leans forward slightly and furrows her brow. “Have you met your cousin? He’s too busy trying to irritate me because he’s ornery than whisper sweet nothings about my parenting style.”
That elicits a laugh out of me. “Okay, now that I believe. But he thinks it.”
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “And I admit, sometimes I give myself a pat on the back if I feel like I had a parenting win, but most of the time, I’m winging it. And even then, I get it wrong a lot. The other day, Mabel kept telling me her foot hurt while we were walking to school. But she tends to be a bit of a whiner in the morning, so I assumed she was just being her normal difficult self and brushed her off. By the time she got home that afternoon, she was limping.”
“What was wrong?”
“She had this huge blister on her big toe. Her feet had grown, and her shoes were too small. It rubbed her raw over the course of the day. I had no idea and felt so bad. I could have at least given her a Band-Aid and gone out on my lunch break to pick up some new shoes, or made Abel do it, but nope. I told her to quit whining and sent her on her way. Major parenting fail. My point is, we’re all just doing our best, and I know that’s what you’ll do too.”
I nod and try to absorb her words, but it does little to make me feel better. However, I make a mental note to check how big my baby’s feet are on a regular basis. I suppose that’s something.
“What? Why does that make you look even more sad?”
Tears well up in my eyes and I curse these damn hormones for making me emotional over stupid shit. “What if my best isn’t good enough? What if I get it all wrong?”
“Rosalind,” she says gently while squeezing my hand. “As long as you aren’t abusive or neglectful, right and wrong are relative.”
A lone tear slides down my cheek and I feel the word vomit coming. “But I don’t want to breastfeed because I refuse to give up my boobs, too. And I can’t get diapers on a doll right and they don’t even move. I don’t like cooking for myself, let alone for a baby. I miss working out on my pole. I can’t do this.”
Now that the words have started coming out, I can’t seem to stop. I blather on and on about every mistake I can possibly make and everything I’ve given up. Elliott just sits there and takes it like the champ she is.
Until she suddenly jumps up from the couch and walks across the room without saying a word. That was kind of rude when I’m having an emotional moment but whatever.
She returns quickly and hands me some cards. “Read these.”
Taking them from her, I realize they’re the notecards all the guests used to give me their best baby advice. I roll my eyes because these are the same women that “oohed” and “aahed” over a cake shaped like a vagina. Dear Abby, they are not.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I don’t think these are going to make me feel any better.”
I go to hand them back to her, but she pushes my hand away.
“Just trust me. Read.”
Huffing, I decide it’s probably easier to do as she asks. Maybe we’ll get a laugh out of them.
Looking at the first one, I read out loud. “Breast or bottle doesn’t matter in the end. They all end up eating dog food at some point anyway.”
My eyes whip up to Elliott’s. She raises her hand. “Guilty. I had the worst time keeping Ainsley out of the dog food when she was a toddler. I thought she was going to grow some fur. She actually used to growl at the dog to keep him away from the bowl while she was eating.”
“Ainsley? Your Ainsley?”
“Told you. Not perfect. Keep reading.”
I flip to the next card. “There is no such thing as spoiling a baby. If you want to hold her, hold her. I wore mine until she was two!” Dropping the cards in my lap I ask, “How do you wear a baby? I keep hearing this, but I have no idea what it means.”
“You got this fancy Mobi wrap right here.” She grabs one of the boxes off the floor to show me the picture of a baby wrapped up in a piece of green fabric. Low and behold, it looks like the mom model is wearing the kid model. “Or you can opt for a Tula when the baby is bigger, which is not quite like this but same concept. Or she might like exploring and not want to be held. You’ll know when the time comes. Babies have this ridiculously loud way of telling you what they want.”
I look back down at the cards to read another one. “Call me when you are ready to install some of the babyproofing items. Those things are brutal on your fingers, but since mine have already gone through the sting, save yourself.”
That one makes me laugh. Dinah is funny sometimes and I just know she wrote that. I put it aside to cash in later because I’m no dummy.
“Only use non-toxic chemicals around the baby. If you need some, I’m more than happy to show you the ropes.” I look up at Elliott and flash her the card. “She attached her business card.”
Elliott snatches it out of my hand and throws it over her shoulder. “There’s always one in the group. She means well, but when you’re already feeling overwhelmed, it can be a little obnoxious.”
I continue reading card after card from women I know and love offering words of advice—most of it about caring for myself and my mental well-being. It’s like they’ve been there, and they know what I’m going through, even if they aren’t the best at having boundaries.
And then I read the final one.
“Feeling overwhelmed is normal. So is feeling stressed. Never hesitate to ask for help. Forget taking a village to raise a baby. It takes a village to support our moms! We are your village.” More tears well up when I realize who it’s from. “Joey’s mom wrote that,” I say quietly.
Elliott nods. “I know. She may not be here in town, but she wanted to be part of this. She’s fallen in love with you because Joey has.”
I scoff again and wipe away a stray tear. “Joey isn’t in love with me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. He may not have said the words yet, but his actions certainly support the theory.”
I think about all the things he’s done over the last several months, all the promises he’s kept, all the accommodations he’s made, all the sacrifice he’s had, and a warm feeling floods my chest. He may not love me yet, but I will concede that he could be well on his way. And I
don’t mind it at all. I think I might be on my way to loving him, too.
“Speaking of,” I say, deterring the conversation because there have been way too many truths revealed in the last ten minutes and I’m starting to get itchy, “I need to check my phone. He’s at his competition and said he’d text with his results if he had a second.”
“Oh, that’s right. I hope he won.” Elliott grabs my bag off the floor and hands it to me so I can search through it and find my cell. I kept it safely hidden in my purse just in case someone saw it and decided I needed my own pictures to remind me of this special day. Newsflash: I don’t.
“He isn’t expecting to even place. He more wants to test himself out and see where he should set his goals at.” Finding my phone, I pull it out and swipe over the screen. Sure enough, I have four texts from him. “Oh good, let’s see how he did.”
I read them out loud so Elliott can get an update, too, because I know she’s as curious as I am.
“Keg lift is over. Got five presses on my 200, two presses on my 225, and almost two on my 250.” The words are followed by a picture Abel must have taken of Joey straining as he lifts a keg over his head. His face is red and contorted in a grimace, a few stray hairs have fallen out of his loose bun and are stuck to his face, every muscle flexed. He looks like Thor in that Avengers movie when he puts all his effort into swinging his hammer.
And now my hormones are raging again. I can only hope my libido will still be this high once the baby is out of me.
“Does that mean he won, or what?” Elliott asks.
I shrug because her guess is as good as mine. “I have no idea, but there’s a picture, so I guess it’s good?” I flip the phone around so she can see.
Her eyes light up and I know she’s as impressed by his effort as I am. “Wow. I had no idea he was so… powerful.”
I smirk at her choice of words because, yeah, I know my boyfriend is hot, and quickly shoot off a reply to him.
Me: That is amazing! I’m so proud of you! And you look hot in that picture.
His reply is almost instantaneous.
Him: Wait until tonight and I’ll show you what else I can lift with. **eggplant emoji, kissy face**
A laugh escapes me because I should have known that’s the response I would get. My phone vibrates again with another message.
Him: Hope you’re having fun at the shower. I want to hear all about it tonight and see all the pictures! **heart**
No way is he seeing pictures of my event. He may almost love me, but this mama needs her sexy times, and somehow, I just know seeing the cake will ruin the mood.
Chapter Twenty-Five
JOEY
I smooth my hands up her thighs and grab her hips so Rosalind can ride me like the cowgirl she is.
Really.
Her long hair is down around her shoulders, a straw cowboy hat on her head that she holds onto as she slowly rocks forward and backward. I have no idea where the hat came from, but I’m not one to turn down a little role play, which makes this even hotter.
Her soft body moves as she continues with her pace, chasing the orgasm that is sure to make her scream. My eyes stay locked on her swaying breasts, full with dark areolas and hard nipples. Her stomach round with my baby, and I can’t help but put my big hand on it, still in awe at the things her body can do.
Her rocking increases and she begins moaning my name. “Joey,” she groans, and my spine begins to tingle.
“Joey,” she says again with more urgency, and I know she’s right on the edge.
“Joey!” she yells, only it’s not with pleasure. Her movements are rough and almost painful. Things start getting weird and I’m not sure what’s happening.
“JOEY!”
I startle awake to feel Rosalind shaking me frantically. “Joey, get up!”
“Well, that was a total letdown.” Pulling the sheet back, I look down apologetically. “Sorry, Little Joey. Maybe next time.”
“Joey!”
I rub my eyes and prepare myself to climb out of bed and get whatever she needs. It’s been happening more and more lately. A glass of water, a cracker, I never know what urgent request will come in the middle of the night. It doesn’t bother me, but I’m short on sleep lately. It doesn’t help that my body is still trying to recuperate from my competition yesterday. Maybe that’s why she was so close to finishing before I woke up.
“Good morning, Rosalind. Do you need some ice cream?”
She opens her mouth to answer but pauses, like she’s considering it now that I brought it up. But then her face contorts, and I know exactly what’s happening. A sudden rush of fear runs through me.
“Can I eat ice cream while I’m in labor?” she cries.
I try to scramble out of bed, but my feet are all tangled in the sheets and I fall to the floor with a loud thump. Rosalind groans and I pop up immediately knowing my eyes are probably as wide as saucers. “You can’t be in labor. You aren’t due for almost three weeks.”
It’s impressive how she can grimace in pain and shoot me the evil eye at the exact same time. It’s a talent really. “Tell that to my contractions.”
Contractions? Oh shit. “Okay. Get in the car.” I start thinking about what I need.
Pants. I need pants.
“Call the fucking doctor first,” Rosalind snaps at me.
I grab my phone off the dresser and scroll through looking for the doctor’s number, but my brain can’t seem to fire on all cylinders right now. “Where is it? Where is it? Where is this fucking phone number?”
“Ohmigod, give me the damn phone.” I slap it into her hand, and she points at me with the other. “You, go get me ice cream while I make this call.”
Remembering everything we learned in our class, I crinkle my nose in concern. “Babe, I don’t think you should be eating right now.”
If her head could spin around, it probably would at this exact moment. “I wouldn’t want it if you hadn’t said anything, so go,” she says through clenched teeth.
Knowing I need a moment to pull myself together, I forgo this argument and race to our small galley kitchen. I open the freezer and pull out her favorite kind. Weird that I can remember what ice cream she wants but can’t remember the name of the doctor while we’re in crisis. I’m useless already.
As I take a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, I try to slow my heart rate while I think about everything I read in the book. We have bags packed for us. We have a bag for the baby. I have the list of people we need to call. I think we’re ready. I just need to stay calm for Rosalind. She’s doing okay now, but the more intense this gets, the more she needs me to be her rock.
I can do this. My girlfriend and my child are depending on me.
My child.
Holy. Shit. This just became real.
I move my arm to put the ice cream away and catch a whiff of myself. Okay, maybe I need to shower first. No reason to gross my baby out during our introduction.
I head back to the bedroom and Rosalind is walking around the room, hand on her back, moaning softly. I rush to her and hand her the ice cream.
She glares at the bowl like it makes her want to gag. “What is that for?”
“You said you wanted it.”
“I’m in labor. I can’t eat that.”
I can’t seem to keep up with her mood swings already, but I have bigger things to worry about. “What did the doctor say?”
“He said Dr. Walters isn’t working today, but someone will meet us at the hospital ASAP. Especially since my water broke.”
“Your what?”
She gestures over to the bed and I look. Sure enough, there is a large wet spot like she lost her bladder or dumped a gallon of water all over. Right about now, I’m thanking my lucky stars I thought to discreetly change out our old mattress pad for a waterproof one a couple weeks ago. It’s going to make cleanup a whole lot easier.
“Okay. We just need to grab the bags, but I think we’re ready to go.
Let me just jump in the shower first.”
“You’re going to shower?” she screeches.
“Babe. I kind of stink.”
“This is not the time to be worried about vanity.” She moves closer and pokes her finger in my chest. “I am in pain and this baby is coming and…” She pauses, sniffs, and crinkles her nose. “Ohmigod, you’re revolting. How did that happen? All you did was sleep. Go wash that off.”
“I was sweating in my sex dream. I’ll make it fast!” I yell as I race to the adjoining bathroom.
Ten minutes later, we’re on the road to the hospital. Right about now, I’m feeling pretty good about not selling my truck. For a couple years, Abel has pressured me to unload it, saying it wasn’t worth the money I spent on insurance every month. Of course, he had no issues borrowing it to move Elliott into his house. And now, I have no issues taking my girlfriend to the hospital in a private vehicle I’m in control of rather than the L, which may not even have a full line of trains running at this time of night.
Rosalind begins breathing deeply and I place my hand on her thigh, probably more to center myself than anything. “It’s okay, babe. I’m right here. We got this.”
Her breath hitches, and as I anticipated, her emotions are finally catching up with the moment, anger dissolving into tears.
“I can’t do this,” she whispers and cries softly. “I don’t want to do this.”
I grab her hand and squeeze, keeping my eyes on the road and praying we don’t hit any red lights. “You don’t have to do this. We have to do this. And we can. I know we can, okay? Because we’re doing it together.”
Her sobs grow stronger. “I’m so scared, Joey. There’s so much that can go wrong.”
“But there’s so much that can go right, too. That’s what we’re going to concentrate on. A quick labor, an easy delivery, and a perfect baby that we’re going to raise to the best of our ability. Okay?”
I feel rather than see her nod, so I keep talking.
“It’s going to have your eyes and my glorious hair.” That makes her giggle, which is what I was going for. “And most importantly, it’s going to be healthy and happy and love us just because we’re the parents. Okay?”
Weights of Wrath (Cipher Office Book 4) Page 21
