by Emma Chase
I let out a relieved breath. “Okay. Good, good.”
“I’ve seen early labor before, even a few weeks earlier than Lainey. With medication and bed rest, those pregnancies were carried to term—baby and mom both came out of it healthy.” He smacks my shoulder. “Are you going to be able to hold it together?”
There’s not even a speck of question in my mind, not a shred of uncertainty. There was a time when I thought being completely whipped over someone put you at their mercy. Made you weak.
Boy, for a guy who’s so smart I was a real moron.
Caring with every piece of your being makes you strong, makes you capable of doing things you never imagined you could.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m here. Anything she needs, it’s already done.”
~ ~ ~
They admit Lainey to the OB ward, put her in a private room and give her terbutaline to stop her contractions. Lainey calls her parents and sisters to let them know what’s going on. I call Grams and fill her in, and she calls Garrett and asks him to drive her over to Lainey’s so she can check on Jason, even though Lainey’s sisters are staying at the house with him.
As the clock creeps toward midnight, the hospital halls settle down and go still except for the occasional nurse walking past or coming in to check Lainey’s vitals. It’s after visiting hours, but no one gives me a hard time from my perch on the vinyl chair beside her hospital bed—which is good—because they’d have to knock me unconscious and drag my ass out, if they want me to leave her.
The lights are low and the room is dim except for the gray glow of the television on the wall that neither of us are watching.
“You don’t have to stay, Dean.”
Her voice is soft and sniffley, her eyes still leaking worried tears. And I would give anything to take them away.
“I’m good here.” I tap the arms of the chair. “Super comfy.”
I may never be able to stand up straight again after this.
But it’s worth it.
“This is a really bad one,” Lainey whispers and I hate the flatness of her tone. Defeated. It doesn’t sound anything like her, like she’s supposed to sound.
“A bad what?”
She shakes her head and dabs at her puffy eyes with the tissue clenched in her hand.
“I have this theory, it’s stupid. Life is full of surprises—good and bad. And this one . . .” Her words choke off in a sob, and it’s like I can feel my heart breaking in my chest—like the sound of her sadness is tearing it in two.
I slide into the bed beside her, wrapping her up in my arms and rocking her slowly as she shudders and hiccups against me.
“Dean, if the baby’s born too early, it may not—”
“The baby’s going to be fine, Lainey. You’re both going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
I put my heart and soul into those words, swearing them with my lips pressed to her damp cheek.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
I know, because it has to be. Because I can’t fucking fathom any other outcome. Because I want this baby with her, so much.
And even more than that—I want more babies with her after this. It’s a realization that kind of sneaks up on you. Not one you give long hours of contemplation to—but that you accept immediately and whole-heartedly anyway, simply because it’s true.
I never wanted a family—never dreamed of having kids—but I’ll dream it now. Because I want what Garrett and Callie have. I want what their parents had. A house full of rambunctious feet and laughing voices, long nights and early -dawn mornings. I want to teach Jason to drive, and talk to him about girls and work and life. And I want to be the guy holding Lainey in my arms when she cries on the day he leaves for college.
I want the whole package, and I want it with her.
Only ever with her.
“I don’t expect you to stay if the baby doesn’t—”
“Shhh . . . stop, don’t finish that sentence.” I run my hands through her hair and down her back, soft and gentle. “Why do you keep trying to get rid of me? It’s hell on the ego. Good thing mine is larger than most and can sustain the blow.”
She snorts out a tiny laugh.
“I’m not going anywhere, Lainey,” I whisper against her hair. “I’m in this, I’m here, I’m not leaving. There’s only you. I promise, I swear, it’s only you.”
I don’t tell her that I love her—even though I do.
It’s a soul-searing kind of love that brands itself on you, that changes you. I’ve never felt this before and I know I’ll never feel it again with anyone else. But it’s the wrong time to tell her. The first time I give her that, I want it to be beautiful for her—and without a single shred of lingering doubt that the words come straight from my heart, and that they’re true.
She doesn’t say anything back, just breathes softly. But then her arm tightens across my chest, and she wiggles in closer, tucking herself right against me, not leaving a wisp of air between us. And there’s solace in holding each other. Comfort in whispered words and gentle touches.
I’m giving her that and she’s letting me. And for now, that’s enough.
“I know we still have a lot to talk about, Lainey, and we will. After we get through this, we’ll finish that conversation. But right now, I just want to hold you. Okay?”
A moment passes, and then Lainey rests her hand on my stomach and nods against my chest. I press my lips to the top of her head, and keep her safe and warm in the circle of my arms.
“Try and sleep, baby. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lainey
They send me home from the hospital two days later on super-duper strict bed rest—that’s my term, not the doctor’s. It basically means I’m allowed to get up to pee and go to the OBGYN. But that’s it. No long walks around the lake for me, no walking—period. Not for ten weeks.
And I’m okay with that—I would stand on my head for the next ten weeks if it means our baby will be okay. That first night in the hospital, while Dean was asleep, I wrapped my arms around my stomach and talked softly to the baby. I told him or her how much I loved them, how much their daddy and I wanted them, and I asked them to try and stay inside for just a little bit longer.
My parents brought Jason to visit me the next day, and I heard the relief in his voice when he was able to see that the contractions had stopped and I was okay. My sisters visited that afternoon too and it was bustling and busy and distracting.
But now that I’m home, it’s all really hitting me. What the next ten weeks are actually going to be like. And so I lay on my back, propped up on pillows on the mattress in the unfinished master suite, with my phone in my hand, and no makeup on my face—crying—as I record a live video.
“Good news and bad news, Lifers. We’re home. The contractions have stopped and the watermelon and I are okay. But I’m on bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, the baby is good—and I know that’s all that matters. And I feel so damn guilty for even worrying about anything else, but there’s so much to do. I don’t know how I’m going to take care of Jaybird, and the house is barely half-finished. I can’t decorate from bed and I can’t—”
Dean walks in the room, the muscles in his short-sleeved T-shirt straining under the weight of a giant duffel bag thrown over his back. He drops it on the floor with a plop.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” I sniff. “I’m doing a live video.”
I turn the camera Dean’s way. He waves.
“Hey, Lifers.” Then he looks at me. “You need anything? Tea, something to eat?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay.”
Then he turns and walks back out the door.
I look into the camera. “When I have more details, I’ll let you know. Worst case scenario is—”
Dean comes back in
to the room, this time with a stuffed black garbage bag—like a poor man’s Santa Claus. He drops it beside the duffel without a word, and walks out again.
Seconds later, he’s back—carrying two drums from a set that he puts in the corner.
I sit up straighter in bed. “Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
His tone is Captain Obvious—like I should already know. “I’m moving in.”
“You’re moving in?”
“Shit, yeah. The house is only half-finished and you can’t decorate from bed. Then there’s Jay—someone has to make sure he eats something besides Pop-Tarts and doesn’t study too much. You’re going to need rides to OB appointments, and you might need something in the middle of the night. So . . . I’m moving in.”
He leans over me on the bed and plants a firm, hot kiss on my lips that will tolerate no arguments. Then he’s striding out the door again—a drive-by kissing.
I stare into the camera, and I shrug.
“He’s moving in.”
And the Lifers flood my screen with hearts.
~ ~ ~
Dean
After I finish moving my stuff in, and Lainey is settled upstairs, I head into the kitchen to see how Jay’s doing. When he came to visit Lainey in the hospital, he wouldn’t even look at me. But he wasn’t openly hostile and all nearby chairs stayed out of the windows. Today around the house, he’s been civil but cold—trying his damnedest not to interact with me and pretend I don’t exist.
He sits now on one of the kitchen stools, with a glass of juice on the counter and a book in his hand.
I open the conversation with food—teenagers are big on food.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I was going to make my spaghetti sauce for dinner.”
His eyes don’t move from the pages of The Crucible.
“I’ll make myself a sandwich.”
I try the easy charm that’s never let me down before.
“Come on, dude—you have to try my spaghetti sauce. It’ll change your life.”
Jason stands and pushes his stool in under the counter.
“No thanks. I’m good.”
When he goes to leave the room, I call his name, putting a little more force behind it.
“Jason—wait up.”
He stops and turns around, and even though his eyes are on my face, it’s like I’m a ghost—like he’s looking through me.
“Listen, Jay, I wanted to—”
“You need to be here,” he cuts me off. “For Mom. She needs you here—I understand that. And the baby is half yours.” He motions from his chest to mine. “But you and me? We’re not friends.”
Ouch.
I saw a Viking show on the history channel once. A guy got sliced open across the middle, his guts spilling out. That’s how Jason’s words feel to me.
Eviscerating.
And I can’t even argue my case. Because he’s a teenager and he’s pissed off, and he’s been burned before, and even worse—he’s watched his mom get burned. So even if I make him sit down and listen, he’s not going to hear me.
The only thing that’s going to convince Jay that I’m the man he used to think I was . . . is time. The proof is in the pudding—shit like that. Nothing else is going to move this stubborn needle. So, I let it go for now.
Because time will tell—and I’m going to make sure my time tells it loud and clear.
~ ~ ~
Lainey
Two days later, when Dean goes back to work and Jason goes back to school, my parents come down early in the morning to be with me and help out where they can with the house projects. My dad is uncomfortable being recorded, but he knows it’s part of my job, so he doesn’t complain while he sands an old dresser that will go in the master bedroom, with the eye of my computer camera watching his every move. My mom hangs curtains in the dining room while I’m laid out on the couch, painting a tall ceramic vase that will be the table’s centerpiece.
There’s a knock at the front door, and I hear my mom’s footsteps move to the window to see who it is.
“Lainey—there’s a bus outside.”
I clean my paintbrush in the cup of water and set it on the tray across my lap.
“A bus? What kind of bus?”
“From the looks of the crowd getting off it—it’s some type of senior citizen class trip.”
The knock comes at the door again, and my mother answers it.
A chorus of bustling voices reverberates from the foyer, and then Grams comes into the living room, with her squad behind her.
“Hi, Grams.”
She shuffles over and pets my head. “Hello, honey. How are you and the little bumpkin?”
“We’re okay. What . . .” The energetic group of seniors behind her ooh and aww as they take in what I’ve done with the house. “What are you all doing here?”
“I’ve called up the Gray Army.”
“The Gray Army?”
I wonder what movie they showed at the senior center this week.
“We’re here to help you finish decorating the house, for your show—Dean told me all about it. The bus will bring us here twice a week. Florence Reynolds over there was a seamstress for Broadway musicals. And old Dirk Despacio used to be a plumber.”
A hunched bald man scoots up beside Grams. “I was a handyman in my day. You just tell me what needs fixin’, and I’ll get her done.”
A smiling wrinkly-faced little woman moves forward next. “When I was a girl, I built planes in the factory during World War II.”
Another man, this one with thick gray hair rubs his hands together. “I was a roofer—where’s your ladder?”
Grams grins. “We’re old, but we’re not dead yet.”
She gestures to an adorable gentleman in a tool belt and flannel shirt. “This is my boyfriend, the Widower Anderson.”
The widower pulls the trigger on the drill in his hand. “I brought my power tools—drill, baby, drill.”
~ ~ ~
Grams and the Gray Army aren’t the only surprise visitors I get. After the senior bus leaves around 1pm—to take them to the early bird dinner special at Dinky’s Diner—Debbie Christianson, Dean’s old friend, stops by with her little girl.
Debbie is sweet and friendly and about my age. She does a great job of recording a video of her and my mom hanging a chandelier and helping my dad finish the dresser project. On her way out, she tells me she’ll come by again on Monday for a few hours.
A little while after that, Angela Daniels, Garrett’s sister-in-law who I met at the Christmas Bazaar comes over—with a huge tray of lasagna and spaghetti sauce and chicken cacciatore that she puts in the freezer for us to eat next week.
My mom makes coffee and the three of us sit in the living room.
“Thank you for the food, Angela,” I tell her. “It’s so sweet of you.”
She waves her hand. “It’s nothin’. You’re Dean’s girl, you’re family now. And that’s how it is around Lakeside—we take care of our own.” She gazes at the swell of my stomach. “Can I touch it?”
“Oh, sure.”
She moves closer and gives the bump a rub—sighing with a mixture of longing and relief. “Frigging kids, am I right? Miracles that turn your hair gray. The worry starts now, and it never ends.”
~ ~ ~
I’m settled in bed, editing a video that I’ll post tomorrow when Dean and Jason get home, at about nine-thirty, from a Mathletes competition. Jason comes in to talk for a few minutes before giving me a hug and heading to bed. I know things between him and Dean are strained, but he’s going with the flow and he’s been on his best behavior—and he’s doing it for me. So I won’t worry. And for the thousandth time, I wonder what I did to be blessed with such a great kid.
I hear Dean lock up downstairs and he turns down the hallway lights before coming in the room.
Sex and orgasms and any below the waist action are off-limits while
I’m on bed rest. We still haven’t fully discussed the Kelly incident, and I know we have to—but I’ve made a conscious decision not to think about it right now.
Dean loosens the green tie around his neck as he walks in. The only thing more stunning than Dean Walker in a suit that shows off those broad shoulders, tapered waist, and perfect ass . . . is watching him take said suit off.
And I do—watch him. I set my laptop aside and stare unabashedly as he opens the line of buttons down his torso and peels the shirt off his arms, revealing tan, taut skin and ripped muscles, and lickable abs. Then the pants go—unzipped and stripped off with sure, confident moves, leaving Dean in snug black boxer briefs that don’t leave anything to the imagination.
He hops onto the bed with a lion’s grace, making me bounce beside him. Then he rests his head on one hand and runs the other up my arm, toying with a curl of my hair and teasing with his tone.
“How was your day, dear?”
Dean lays his big hand on my stomach, rubbing.
“Both of your days.”
“Surprisingly eventful. We had lots of visitors.”
The amused twinkle in his eye calls to me.
“No kidding?”
“But you already knew that.”
“I did know that.” He nods. “Did you make any progress?”
“Yeah—we finished bedroom number three, and the dining room is starting to come together—and I recorded enough footage for two videos that I’m editing now.”
“Good.” The corner of Dean’s mouth hooks into the smile that I love. “The football team will be by tomorrow after school, so if you want any pieces moved from the den, that’s the time to do it.”
“The football team?”
He leans over and kisses my forehead, humming.
“Mm-hmm, and the Mathletes on the weekend. I have unlimited access to free child labor, so, I don’t want you to worry. You can direct from this bed, or a chair, or a couch, and we’ll get everything done.”
