by Mj Fields
I pull my feet up, hug my knees, lean back, and look at the sky as snow falls down softly. Closing my eyes, I imagine that spring is here as tears fall. I can picture it perfectly.
A girl who had wasted her youth dreaming of a life full of love and happiness, a love more beautiful than she ever saw in a movie or read about in a book, and a boy who never dared dream because his reality wouldn’t allow it. Both broken, both unloved until they found each other. And in each other, they found a love that was even more beautiful than her most vivid dreams.
It’s beautiful. They are beautiful and happy and in love.
I picture T and myself planting flowers and watching them bloom and them growing as the baby grows inside me. I picture us happy. So happy.
The pain in my chest causes me to press my hand against it. It hurts to think I could have had it all if only love wasn’t so complicated … if only there were no possibility of Luke being the father of this child.
When I become too cold to sit outside any longer, I walk in, close the door behind me, kick off my boots, take off my coat, and climb in his bed, allowing myself the luxury of smelling him on his pillow before falling fast asleep.
I wake up to a loud, rumbling sound, and it’s dark out. The rumbling is my belly.
I sit up and notice my feet hanging out from under the covers. I take my phone off the base on the nightstand and take a picture. Even though he hasn’t texted me, I send him the picture. I want him to know I have seen the posts. I want him to know I think about him, too. I want to know he’s not with someone else. Deep down, I know he’s not, but I can’t stand even the thought of it.
Two minutes later, I’m standing in front of his refrigerator when my phone rings.
“Hello.”
“Ava,” he says with a smile and not a sigh.
“T, how’s your trip?”
“I miss you.” He sounds as torn as I feel. I want to hear a smile in his voice.
“Me or my feet?”
He snickers, and I laugh in response.
“You’ve seen, then?” he asks.
“Your ode to my feet on social media? I hadn’t until my father pointed it out to me today.” I can’t help laughing.
“So he’s a fan?” he asks, and I can imagine him smiling.
“Something like that.”
“You’re home?”
“I’m…” I pause and look around. “Yeah.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” I say, opening drawers in his refrigerator.
“There should be plenty of fresh food in the icebox, and I filled the cupboard with those crackers you like.”
“There is, but there’s no chocolate, and right now, I want a Snickers bar so damn badly I may go out and get one…or twenty.”
“I’ll have them delivered,” he practically rushes to say.
“No, I’ll be fine until tomorrow.” I continue to search for something that looks good, asking, “How was your meet and great?”
“It went well,” he says sweetly, but I think I hear longing in his voice, and I hope it’s for me.
“So, you aren’t doing backstage meet and greets anymore?”
“Yes, of course. VIP ticket holders.”
I immediately feel jealous and decide I have no right to feel that way. Not really, anyway.
“Well, I hope you have fun.”
“I will.” He uses the same clipped tone I did.
“T…?”
“Yes?”
I don’t want to talk and to feel jealous. I want to sleep.
I shut the refrigerator. “Good night.”
“Did you eat?” he asks.
“I will.”
“I can stay on the phone,” he offers.
“That’s okay. I’m sure you’re busy.”
“No, not really.”
I sense his annoyance and wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s thinking that he would be busy if he didn’t have to deal with my mess. Or maybe he’s just waiting for me to let him off the hook.
“I’ll just talk to you later, okay?”
He doesn’t answer, so I hang up. Then I get a message.
I love you, Ava.
Chapter Seventeen
Love is not always easy and it’s not always kind, but it’s always worth it — Ivy Love
I would like to think I couldn’t sleep because I had taken a five-hour nap, but it wouldn’t be true. I have been sleeping nearly twelve hours a day since last weekend. Even before I found out I was…pregnant.
I grab my phone and look at Instagram. He posted the picture I sent him of my feet.
She sent me this. What am I going to do with her?
I want to post: Tell her you don’t want her; she’ll get the hint. Tell her, see you in nine months when she knows whose kid’s growing inside her. But what I want the most is for him to post that he loves me and still will regardless. However, I know that is probably the biggest fairytale lie I have ever told myself. As he said, he doesn’t know what to do with me. It’s there in black and white.
Three more weeks before a doctor even wants to see me to do bloodwork to confirm my pregnancy. I know I am. I took two more tests, both positive. Then I googled paternity tests during pregnancy, and the two that popped up were amniocenteses and Chorionic Villus Sampling. Both tests are invasive and can cause a miscarriage. I hold my hand protectively over my stomach. The path of putting my child at risk is not one I want to take.
Then I see one that is a simple blood test that can be done at eight weeks for two thousand dollars. I feel both joyful and nervous. Both emotions cause me sleeplessness.
I get up and walk over to my bag sitting on the dresser and pull out my journal before sitting by the window.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved a girl and a girl who loved the boy, and they made you. He is handsome and makes her feel beautiful.
I pause because this love story doesn’t have a pretty ending, no matter how much I want it to.
Before love was realized, she fucked up. She fucked up bad, and she is sure he regrets having loved her. He probably thinks she’s fucking ugly, too, because all he does is take pictures of her damn feet! She is sorry to him, and most of all, she is sorry to you. Hell, she is just plain sorry.
I throw the book across the room then walk back to the bed and climb in like the sorry piece of crap I am.
I wake in the morning pissed. Just plain pissed.
I shower then look in the mirror, wishing I was at my place because I would pull out a pair of scissors and cut off all this stupid hair so my outside looks just as ugly as my inside feels.
Then I look at Instagram and see pictures of T with a dozen stupid girls.
Bitches.
Fuck him and his smile. Fuck them and their no doubt wet panties. Whores.
I wish my dad was there early to see that shit. He would kick his ass. Then I would be pissed at him because I don’t want anyone to kick T’s ass. I want them to love him. Well, except those bitches.
I would love to blame my mood swings on my pregnancy, but I’m not going to lie to myself or use it as an excuse. I’m a mess because love is messy.
I toss my phone on the floor.
I need answers, and I need them soon.
I wake up to the sun rising. It’s dawn, and all I can think of is that box and the happy sunshine balloons and butterflies, which makes me sad again.
God, what did I ever do to make this become my life? I know I have made mistakes, but I have tried. I have tried with everything I am and everything I have to make everything and everyone around me happy. I have kept secrets. I have been loyal. I have fought for those I love.
I look for my phone, finding it on the floor where I tossed it. I get up and grab it. It’s dead, so I put it on the charger and lie back down. I kick the bed in frustration and roll over onto my stomach, trying to talk myself into relaxing, but I can’t. I can’t until I get some answers.
I spend the entire day stressi
ng about what T is doing, whom he is doing, if he wants me, and totally forget to stress the imminent danger—my father and T being in the same place together.
It’s ten o’clock at night when I get out of the cab from Dulles Airport to Verizon Center at 601 F Street in Washington DC. I am in a black miniskirt, deep red thigh-high boots, and a red leather jacket over my Burning Souls short-sleeved hoodie.
I didn’t tell either T or my father I was coming. Hell, I didn’t tell anyone. I even told Casey that she was wasting her time sitting outside and waiting for me to need her when I was going to read and sleep the entire day and night just so I could surprise him.
It’s a necessary trip. Dad with his bagful of blatant disdain and T with his … well, either “take her please”, or “she’s mine and it’s time she grows up” attitude. Either would send Dad into orbit. Then I can just imagine T letting him know his little girl wasn’t “properly protected” by her father and is now knocked up and we aren’t sure if it’s T, the guy you hate, or your godson Luke’s kid she’s carrying.
I wasn’t worried about getting into the show. I have a “Golden Ticket” from Harper Hines. It’s like a lifetime membership card to get into any Burning Souls or Brody Hines Band concert.
I flash it and a big smile at the ticket counter and am handed a VIP all-access pass specifically for Verizon Center’s show.
I stand at one of the entries into the stadium’s floor seating areas and watch them. Maddox sings with both Brody and the band he started, but so does the bass player, Zack Taylor. They are hot, but the drummer makes me wet everywhere, including my eyes.
I seriously need to get a grip.
“Miss, you need to take your seat,” one of the security men scolds me.
I flash my pass then wipe away my tears.
He just nods and walks by.
I stand in the back the entire time, watching the band, the crowd, the entire scene. It’s even more impressive from back here.
I normally would have marched my ass up front or backstage and watched in the wings, but I am so glad I didn’t miss this view.
They close with a drum solo. The crowd goes nuts as T throws his shirt off, and I notice he has more ink than he left with. From this distance, I can’t make out what he has covering his left side.
When he’s done, he throws his sticks into the crowd, and then they walk off stage. When the crowd continues their “encore” screams, the band runs back onstage, and they start my favorite song ever—“Stained.”
This time, when they finish, the lights in the stadium come up, and people start to exit. After the floor is clear enough to move, I see the line forming. As I get closer, I notice the entire line of VIPs is of one gender: female. It rubs me the wrong way.
I pull the hoodie up and let my hair fall into my face, disguising myself because, right now, I want to see what T Hardy, hottest drummer ever, is going to do with all of these women who spent the last two hours getting worked up in a sexual frenzy now that he’s “in love.”
When I show security the badge, I make sure not to flash the one that is recognizable, although I could easily bump ahead. Instead, I show them the same one all these other women have. However, the longer it takes to get through the line, the worse I feel about the decision.
I see Maddox outside of the dressing room, signing autographs, but I don’t see T or Zack. I also see my dad and Tessa farther off to the side with Harper. I hope they don’t recognize me.
When I get up toward the front, Maddox gets distracted by his wife. It’s clear he no longer wants to entertain the fans with pictures and small talk.
The way he seeks her out makes my heart dance. Their love wasn’t easy, but it was worth fighting for. That’s their truth.
I am the last in line, and I let the guard know I am here for the drummer. When I see him go talk to Maddox, I turn so Maddox doesn’t see my face, but after he signs the posters of the three women, he makes his way to Harper.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him whisper something in Harper’s ear then point. After looking at me for a couple minutes, she smiles.
I draw my hand across my throat, telling her to kill the excitement, and she gives me a very casual thumbs up.
When I walk into the dressing room, Zack makes an exit.
T’s back is to me when he says, “Gonna have to make this quick, love. To show my appreciation for your understanding, I am going to sign this poster and give you a towel from tonight’s concert, signed.”
I reach back and dim the lights.
He laughs. “Not going to happen.”
His words breed expectation that I want to allow, but I need more. I need to know they are not just words.
I walk up and reach around him, rubbing my hands up his abs.
“Gonna give you just a second to not make an arse of yourself and walk out of here with some dignity before I call security,” he warns.
“Your solo made me all kinds of hot and bothered,” I whisper, trying to disguise my voice a tad.
“Well, I appreciate it,” he says, trying to pull my hands free of his body. When he can’t, he snaps, “That’s enough,” and I quickly lower my hand and grab him through his pants.
“I chose drums, and so help me God, if you want me to walk away, I understand, but—”
“Ava,” he groans.
“But,” I say, knowing I’m going to lose my nerve if he turns around. “You need to let me finish.”
He covers my hand with his and pushes it harder against him. I feel him begin to harden, and rather quickly, under my touch.
“I want you and me. I want sunshine and butterfly balloons. And, T, I pray this is our baby, but I need you to accept that it may not be and that I made a mistake, but that mistake was not you, and regardless of who the father is, it’s not this baby’s fault. If you can’t accept that, you need to tell me so I can try to figure out a way to not feel like you’re home. So I can stop believing that you and I and this baby can be a family, regardless. So that I can stop being sad and lonely, even when the person who has made me happier than any other ever has is right next to me. Tell me and—”
“Don’t fucking stop,” he says as he takes my hand and places it on his side. He flinches, and I look down.
“What is that?” I ask, looking at what is obviously a freshly inked fairy in front of a sun.
“It’s Aine, the Irish sun goddess,” he answers then shrugs, pointing to my name tattooed underneath the dark-haired fairy-looking princess now on his skin forever. “Or Ava, my goddess and my sun.”
I hear a zipper come undone, and I look up at him. When we are eye to eye, he says it again, “Don’t you ever stop.”
“I love you,” I say as I sink down to my knees.
“Oh, Christ, Ava, you don’t have to do this.” He palms my cheek as his thumb rubs over my lips.
The way he looks at me makes me want to do this, makes me need to do this.
“I might not be good at this.”
“First?” he asks, his eyes lighting up.
“Yes.”
“Fuck, Ava,” he says as he pulls my hair back into a ponytail.
He is thick and hard, and it’s standing straight up. There’s a thick vein going straight up the center of his underside, and I want to trace it with my tongue.
I look up at him, seeing his jaw is locked shut and his nostrils are flaring a bit.
I grip him hard at the base and open my mouth as I watch him watching me lick him from root to tip.
A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and his head falls back, his eyes squeezed shut as he whispers, “Killing me, Ava. This won’t last long. Fuck. I have dreamed about this for so long.”
I’m on my knees in front of the man who has made me happier than any other ever has, and I want to make all his dreams come true. Although I know I can’t really give him the life he may have dreamed about with me—the one that may have a forever reminder of this pain we both feel—I can and will give him this.
I open wider, descending down him. His fist tightens in my hair as he whispers my name, making me feel like I’m the one being adored when, really, I am worshipping him.
I take every inch of him, and it’s not without a very large amount of effort. And as I slide my mouth up and down him, the praises and sounds reverberating from him turn me into liquid heat.
“Gotta stop, Ava. I’m gonna come.”
I don’t stop. I fist him harder, move faster, and suck like I am in a desert and there is only this one drop left in the one well for a thousand miles.
I need this; he needs this; we … need this.
“Fuck,” he says as his thick, heavy, rock hard cock jets off in my mouth, and I swallow every bit he gives me before licking him clean while watching his eyes flutter shut.
He reaches down and lifts me up under my arms, takes my hands, and then walks backward to the couch where he sits down and pulls me onto his lap.
“Never,” he says, burying his head in my neck, “had that so good.”
I lean back and take his face in my hands. “I love you, T. I love us. Please don’t leave me again.”
“Ava,” he says as if he feels hurt. “I never want to, not ever. But if this is his baby—”
I stand up quickly. “Then you’ll leave me?” My voice breaks, and I step back as he flies up and grabs me.
“You’ll leave me,” he says with hurt and sadness protruding from every inch of him.
“No.” I grab his face in both of my hands. “No, never.”
“Promise me that, if this child is his, you won’t leave me, Ava, and I can promise you that I will not leave you until God himself takes me away from you.”
“I promise.” It is a promise filled with truths, a promise I know I will never take back. And in his eyes, I see acceptance of that promise.
I smile, he smiles, and we hug so tightly I am sure, if someone were to see us at this moment, we would be one person physically as well as spiritually and emotionally.
