Before She Was Mine

by Amelia Wilde

She lifts her hips up and angles herself over me, already wet and wanting. “Please? Can I?” Her smile is like a queen’s. The question is only a formality. No—a game. A sexy, teasing game that I’ll never get enough of as long as I live.

  “I’m all yours.” I tighten my grip on her hips. “Ride away.”

  27

  Summer

  Four Weeks Later

  The baby does a spin move and kicks out hard into the front of my belly. It catches me off guard right by Carla’s desk.

  There is no such thing as breezing in to work anymore. Not at six and a half months pregnant. Not in August in the city. I’m wearing flip flops shamelessly, and my entire wardrobe consists of skirts and sleeveless maternity tanks.

  “You’re starting to waddle, sweetheart,” she says, grinning up at me from her ergonomic chair.

  “I think this baby’s walking already.” She laughs, and the sound follows me down the hall to my office.

  God, I’m happy.

  I’m so happy, it’s like breathing in Florida air every second—that warm, content feeling you get when you step inside the gates at the Magic Kingdom. I’d say that Day is like my own personal Magic Kingdom, but even thinking it borders on ridiculously sappy.

  He does things nobody’s ever done for me before.

  Not that I’ve been pregnant, up until this point in my life.

  Still, none of the men I had short-lived flings with in college ever cared for me this way. I never cared for them either, but it’s so different with Day. Like the hotel he took me to after I got out of the hospital. We spent the night at the Knickerbocker overlooking Times Square and watched the tourists going in and out. There was room service. There was a bubble bath.

  There was Dayton.

  Carla appears in the doorway of my office. “Messages,” she says, and drops a little pile of notes on my desk. The baby flips over.

  “I know,” I say. “Let’s hope not all of them want callbacks.”

  It’s not that I don’t want to do my job. It’s that long-winded phone conversations are starting to take my breath away—literally. When I’m sitting down, the baby presses up against my lungs, and the more I talk, the harder it is to catch my breath. I can alleviate it by standing up, but try standing for the length of a phone call. It’s a duel between my feet and my back, and my feet usually give out first.

  I start in on the calls, pressing the phone between my neck and my shoulder, and tap my fingers against the surface of my desk.

  My left hand looks totally naked.

  I’m pregnant enough for people to notice.

  I’m not ashamed that this is Dayton’s baby.

  I listen to the first veteran’s answering machine pick up.

  We should get married.

  Beep.

  “We should—” Oh, God. Heat rushes to my cheeks, both at the egregious mistake I almost made and the thought of standing anywhere with Dayton in a white dress. “Hi, this is Summer Sullivan from Heroes on the Homefront. I’m calling because you had emailed us some preliminary information, and I wanted to follow up with you on the services we offer. Give me a call back when you can.” I rattle off my number and hang up.

  Then I dig my cell phone out of my purse.

  The idea that flashes through my mind just now? It calls for an emergency lunch with Whitney.

  “You look so gooooooooooooood!!”

  Whitney’s shriek stops traffic in the trendy little restaurant she insisted on meeting at for lunch. She doesn’t care at all. She throws her arms around me and squeezes. The hostess stifles a smile and looks away.

  “Dying. Air.” I choke the words out and Whit releases me from her death grip. Then she pushes me back so she can get another look at me.

  “You are the cutest pregnant person on the planet,” she squeals, and claps her hands. “Are you hungry? You must be hungry. I’m starving to death, so you must be dead.”

  “I’m actually dead,” I tell her, because it’s partially true. I’ve been hungry since I texted her at nine-fifteen, and that’s with the doughnuts Hazel brought in.

  Whit links her arm through mine and turns to the hostess. “Your finest table for my very best friend.”

  We’re seated with water and a basket of bread—thank God—when she levels the tell me now gaze at me. “Spill it.”

  I blush and rub my thumb around the empty space on my ring finger. “It’s stupid.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You texted me about an emergency lunch. There’s no time to waste. What’s on your mind?” Whit leans back and sighs. “God, this was easier when we lived together.”

  “It was.” I’m a little wistful for my apartment with Whit, mainly because of her bright, shining personality—no joke—but the thought of coming home to Dayton every day makes my heart sing. “I miss it.”

  Which is why I want to run this by her.

  She gives me a sidelong look. “You don’t miss it that much. Are you kidding me? Dayton is hot.” Whit fans herself with the wine list. “That body…”

  That body makes me blush all over again. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Because of his body?” Whitney clasps her hands in front of her and closes her eyes. “Tell me this is a picture emergency. An emergency wherein…you have pictures to show me.”

  “Oh my God. I do not have pictures to show you. This is—” I cover my face in my hands. “This is serious, Whit.”

  Her palms slap against the table. “How serious?”

  “Really serious.”

  “Okay.” I can’t see her, but I know she’s rearranging her expression into her serious face. “I’m listening.”

  I take a deep breath and uncover my face. “I want to marry him.”

  Whitney considers me, her eyes narrowing. “I’m going to stop you there.”

  “Whit—”

  “Waiter. Waiter!” She doesn’t snap her fingers, thank God, but the waiter hustles back over nonetheless. “Two virgin daiquiris. Fast as you can.”

  It tastes so good that I double-check with the waiter to be absolutely sure there’s no alcohol in it.

  He assures me there’s not, his eyes flickering down to the curve of my belly.

  “Exactly,” Whitney says. “I don’t know why she’s worried. All the drinking she’s done before this—”

  “I have not done any drinking. Thank you for checking on the drink.”

  The waiter grins and leaves.

  We both sip our daiquiris.

  “So you want to marry him.”

  “Yes, but it’s—it’s more than that.” The daiquiri is a good substitute for real food for the moment. I want my hamburger to arrive at the table so much that I feel like pounding the handle of my steak knife into the wood and letting out a primal scream, but I don’t, because I am civilized. “We haven’t had…you know, a traditional relationship. So I thought maybe we could have a non-traditional proposal.”

  Whitney grabs another piece of bread from the basket. “Like…you want him to take you somewhere super mundane instead of to a fancy restaurant?”

  “No. I want to propose to him.”

  “Oh. Oh!” Whitney’s eyes go left, then right, wide and excited. “You have to. That would be absolutely perfect.”

  “You think so?”

  Her expression softens. “Sunny, I’ve never seen you this happy.”

  Because she is my best friend in the world, I can say to her the secret fear that’s been prickling at the back of my mind in the moments I wake up at night and listen to the sound of Day’s breathing, slow and deep. “What if it’s just hormones?” I take another piece of bread and bite into it, anything to keep the impending mood swing at bay. “They say your hormones can make you turn more into the dad. He’s not—he’s not a teenager anymore. He’s been through shit. What if that all—”

  “That’s nonsense.” Whitney is deadly serious. “You’ve been in love with that guy since you were a kid. You couldn’t stop yourself from talking about
him even before he showed up.”

  “He’s different now.”

  “Is he?” Whitney leans back to let the waiter put her plate down in front of her, and I do the same on my side of the table. “Isn’t this the guy who ran down a hill after you in the snow? Isn’t this the guy who danced with you when you got stood up, and never said a word about the fact that you were just a kid?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “He bought you morning sickness shit off the Internet.”

  What happened after one of those lollipops makes me shiver, an echo of the delight.

  “Whit, there are things he’s done—things he’s seen—that he won’t tell me about.”

  She cuts into her salad, the knife splitting the lettuce with a crisp crunch. “All men have secrets. But he’s more than a man. He’s yours.”

  I can’t argue with that.

  On the way back to the office, I stop at a streetlight. There’s only one other person I need to consult with about this ridiculous proposal idea.

  Baby stretches, pressing against both sides of my belly at once.

  “Should I propose to Daddy?” I look around to make sure nobody catches me talking to myself. “One kick, yes. Two kicks, no.”

  There’s a pause.

  I didn’t count on zero kicks.

  Then I feel it: a single, solid thud, directly to my spine.

  28

  Dayton

  Four Weeks Later

  Summer pulls open the door to the jewelry store with such overly exaggerated confidence that I wonder if she’s faking it, but once we’re inside, she inhales a deep breath and her shoulders relax.

  I put one of my hands on her shoulder and slide my hand down her arm. It’s meant to seem casually affectionate, but even now, my breath hitches from the wonderment of touching her.

  It sounds cheesy, but it’s the truth.

  “What are you looking for?” If jewelry is what she wants, jewelry is what she’ll get. I’ve never known her to be much into jewelry, but pregnancy has made her more spontaneous. Who knows? I didn’t fight her when she wanted to come to Williamsburg instead of staying in bed all weekend.

  The lighting in the jewelry store is fucking fantastic, and it makes her look regal, even in her drab gray yoga leggings and a pink-colored pregnancy top that makes her belly the center of attention. Not that she can help it. She’s gorgeous and blonde and has the kind of perfectly round swell that could be on the front of the motherhood magazines they have all over at her OB’s office.

  A blush matching the shade of her shirt spreads across her cheeks. “I want to see their selection.”

  “Look—your wish came true.” I wave my hand in the direction of the display cases, and she laughs, her shoulders rising and falling against my arm. “Where should we start?”

  “On one side, I guess.” Summer waddles over to the first display case on the left and peers inside for exactly one second before she moves on. She does the same with the next one, and then with the third.

  I follow along behind her. I don’t know what she’s looking for, but a lot of the pieces behind the glass are delicate and shiny. Each and every one of them would look good on her.

  Four cases. Five. No, no, no.

  I catch her by the elbow, which is more of a kind gesture than a necessity. She can’t go anywhere fast—not this pregnant. “I want in on this,” I tell her, and she bites her lip. “Can we…narrow it down by the kind of jewelry?” We both look into the sixth case together. “Are you looking for the perfect necklace? A bracelet? That one’s nice.” I point to one with blue stones that would bring out the color of her eyes. Her eyes linger over a delicate gold band with a sapphire that is edged by two tiny diamonds.

  “No. None of those.” Summer takes in a deep breath and steps over to a wide case along the back wall.

  We both look down into the case together, and I put my hand on the back of her neck. Her hair is swept up in a loose bun at the back of her head. It’s my favorite style, because when I place my palm in this position, it makes all the tension in her body melt away.

  “This is men’s jewelry.”

  Summer turns and looks me in the eye. “I know.”

  “Rings….”

  “I know.”

  “They’re mainly wedding bands.”

  She’s solemn as fuck. “I know.”

  Our eyes catch then, her face lit up from the glow of the jewelry case.

  “What’s happening right now?”

  Summer looks toward the ceiling, blushing a deep red. “Just—look at the rings with me. Okay?” There’s a heavy pause. “Do you see any that you like?”

  We turn back to look in the case. There are rows of bands. Some of them are so ornate that they look like some shit that crazy King Henry would have worn. I can’t see myself wearing any of those.

  Summer stands quietly, swaying side to side in the way that she always does now, and it creeps up on me again.

  It starts as a pain in my non-existent left foot, like a pebble wedged under my big toe, and it starts creeping up to my stump. I shift my weight on the prosthetic. It doesn’t help. It twists its way up into my lower back and taps at the base of my neck. You’re going to be her biggest mistake. The waves of tension fold and unfold, taking up more room in my gut. You’re less than a man, but you’re still a threat.

  I rub one hand over my face, swiping away at the dark thoughts. Summer doesn’t know that I’m kept lying awake most nights into the early hours, watching the street for any sign of Alexei. She doesn’t know that I’ve searched and searched for other apartments—even similar jobs for her—in other cities, just so we can get away. I can’t tell her that Wes was right about me. That I turned out this way despite the Army—despite everything.

  I especially can’t tell her that now.

  “Day?” She threads her fingers through mine. For a moment, it feels like I’m on solid ground. “If you don't like any of them, it’s okay.”

  Her eyes are filled with a wistful blend of hope and fear that I intuitively recognize at my very core. She so badly wants to do what’s right. She is hoping this is it, but she must fear that she’s pushed me in the wrong direction.

  Focus.

  I look back down into the case and squeeze her hand.

  Then I see it.

  It’s down at the end of the third row, the very last spot. Thin. Gold. No embellishments.

  “That one.”

  The jeweler treads up to the case and lifts the band I pointed to out of the case so we can see it. Summer’s entire face lights up when I slip it onto my finger.

  It’s a perfect fit.

  She doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll take it.”

  At the register, once the wedding band has been tucked inside in a small black velvet box and placed carefully in one of the store’s trademark silver paper bags, we have a brief difference of opinion over who’s going to pay. Summer uses her pregnant belly to box me out at the counter and shoves her credit card into the man’s hand, even as I try to get mine to him first.

  “Pregnant lady wins,” she announces victoriously, and it makes me laugh. The pain at the base of my neck eases.

  She accepts the bag from the salesperson and waddles alongside me as we head out onto the sidewalk, a sultry and damp wall of air hitting us as we open the door. Summer’s eyes are luminous in the afternoon sunlight. Before I can step to the curb, she curls her hand through the crook of my elbow. “I want this,” she says.

  She doesn’t elaborate.

  “Are you proposing?”

  Her face turns a deep scarlet. “Not yet.”

  “Good. I want a turn, too.”

  Summer tilts her face up toward mine. Her lips are soft and yielding against mine when they meet, and someone down the block whistles. She doesn’t pull away at the sound. Instead, she leans in.

  When she pulls back from the kiss, we’re both superheated. Her hand goes to her lips, but her gaze settles on something far away. “Can I ask
you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “I hate asking this.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  “Could you—” Summer holds the little paper back from the jewelry shop to her chest. “Could you try and make up with Wes?”

  “Make up with Wes? I made him ribs. If that’s not enough, then—”

  “I’m serious. I know he was an asshole. But I don’t want things to be tense when the baby gets here. I feel like there’s something he’s not telling me, and I don’t want—I just don’t want—”

  I smooth a hand over her hair. “Sunny.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll make up and be friends with him, if that’s what you want. I’m not going to come between you and your brother.” I put two fingers under her chin and lift her face to mine. “I’ll even make him ribs again, if that’s what it takes.”

  I kiss her a second time. Summer murmurs into my mouth, and every muscle in my body wants to leap for the curb. Get this woman into a cab. Get her into my bed.

  She laughs as I twist away from her. “I never thought we’d—”

  There’s a crash and then a screech, metal on metal, and I jump back on instinct, shielding her with my arms. What the fuck. What the fuck?

  It’s a car, screaming up toward us onto the sidewalk. He clipped one of the protective iron fences bordering some flowers at the edge of the street.

  I hustle Summer backward, adrenaline masking the pain in my leg, but the vehicle’s engine revs. The car reverses, then lurches forward again. The iron fence bends, breaks, and the vehicle’s driver is accelerating, that fucker is accelerating toward us. The back wheels catch the curb, but the front end of the car brushes against my pant leg. Holy fuck. If I had a real leg, he’d have clipped it. Crushed it. I don’t know.

  “Hey!” A man is running toward us from the next corner, and a shop owner hustles out after him. The street is chaos, horns honking, taxi drivers screaming at the car, and at the center of it, Summer gasps. The car lurches forward another inch, but he doesn’t quite clear the curb.