by Sarah Adams
Needing something to do other than let Drew see me sweat, I flip down the visor and open the flap, revealing the cosmetic mirror, looking for the stain. There’s another little love note to Drew scribbled in Sharpie. Beth & Drew forever. I frown. “How long have you had this Jeep?”
“Since I was sixteen.”
“I would think since you’re a big-time doctor now you’d be excited to get a sports car or something, trade up like the rest of them do.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. Too many good memories, I guess.”
Oh no. Drew is sentimental? That’s exactly the sort of thing I didn’t want to know about him. I would like to take that information and bury it at the bottom of the ocean where I can never find it again. Drew is a monster with a cold heart—not a man who chooses a ratty old Jeep full of memories over a hot new sports car.
Staring at him now in this tight space surrounded by his scent and adolescent memories leaves me feeling sort of breathless. The stain—RIGHT! Focus on finding the stain, Jessie. I still can’t quite see anything in the mirror, though, unless I lift my butt off the seat and angle my belly toward the mirror, which I will literally die before doing in front of Drew. I give up with a grunt and slap the visor mirror closed again.
“Want me to show you where it is?”
“No,” I snap. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.”
“It’s not a big deal. It’s just a tiny stain right—”
I slap his hand away from where it was inching toward my belly bump. “I said no! Stick to your own side and stop trying to feel me up.”
He scoffs, annoyed, and shakes his head. “Right. You wish.”
“Never! Not even in my dreams.” Why did I have to mention that last part? It’s almost like I’m admitting I dreamed about him last night. It was not a polite dream either. I saw more than just that tantalizing sliver of his skin, and I think that’s why I’m so riled up by him today. I’m not supposed to be dreaming about Drew! Or anyone. I’m on my own, and that’s just how I want it for now. No more men until I complete at least ten years of therapy to undo the damage left by the others.
“You sure about that? You’re telling me you’ve never even had one tiny dr—”
“Well, Dr. Andy,” I say, firmly cutting him off. “It’s been torture as always. Thanks for the ride I didn’t want.” Wow, I’m so mean I can barely even tolerate it myself. I reach for the door handle, but Drew grabs my wrist.
We both look down at where his hand circles it, and he lets go.
“Hang on.” He opens up the glove box, pulls out a Tide-To-Go pen, and tosses it in my lap. “The coffee stain is about three inches below your navel.”
“Don’t talk about my navel,” I say, and then I glare down at the pen like it’s a grenade. “I can’t believe you just had this on hand.”
“Never hurts to be prepared.”
“Of course.” For some reason, it does not surprise me in the least that Drew has a stain-remover pen in his Jeep. He’s probably got a change of clothes in that glove box too, and a protein bar in case of emergencies.
I hate that I have to accept his offering, but I will because I don’t want to face a whole salon of women today with a coffee stain down the front of my shirt. I tuck the pen into my purse then unlock the door and start scooting out. I look like an Oompa Loompa rising from a candy binge.
When I’m out, Drew rolls down the window and calls out to me. “By the way, you shouldn’t be drinking too much coffee. Caffeine isn’t good for the baby.” He’s smiling like the devil as he backs out of the space and starts driving off. He just had to get in one last hit before he left.
I fist my hands at my sides and yell, “I WANT MY UNDERWEAR BACK, YOU PERV!” A woman in the parking lot tosses me an angry glance then finishes escorting her elderly mother into their car. Oops.
When I get home that night after work, Drew is locked away inside his room (coward), but there’s a pile of my undies in front of my bedroom door with a note on the top that reads: Some dirty weirdo dropped these off earlier. He said not to invade his laundry loads with your underwear anymore.
It’s a slow Tuesday morning, and it’s only Lucy and me in the salon. Levi’s tummy troubles yesterday ended up just being a case of too much sugar at Grammy’s house, so Lucy is back at work today. I’m not due to have another client for twenty minutes, which gives me a chance to pull my planner out of my purse and hunker down behind the reception desk. I don’t know why I feel the need to hide when I do this, but I do. I have a planner I bought solely for this purpose, and every day, I pull it out and place a solid X through the calendar box with my aqua-colored gel pen, telling me I’ve made it one day closer to my due date. Leaning my elbow against the counter, I prop my hand under my chin and smile as I trace my finger along the freshly inked square.
One day closer.
“Whatcha got there?” Lucy materializes out of nowhere to peer over my shoulder like a snoopy mom trying to catch me getting up to no good.
I screech and slap my planner closed. “Nothing!” Anger is the first emotion I rush to when I’m embarrassed, which would explain why my eyes are blazing and tone is clipped.
Lucy blinks and backs up, hands raised. “Wow, okay. So sorry. I didn’t realize I would be stepping into something, but clearly I am.” Trying to be angry at Lucy is like being angry at a bunny for having too fluffy of a tail. It’s impossible. I just want to feed her carrots and make her happy.
I sigh and my shoulders drop, removing my hand from its protective clutch around the planner. I extend it to Lucy because I’m really trying to get better at trusting someone other than only my grandaddy. “No, I’m sorry. I snapped because I’m embarrassed.”
“About what?” She carefully takes the planner from my fingers and thumbs through it. “What am I looking at here? It’s just a planner. I thought you were peeking at something dirty.”
I laugh. “It’s my due date countdown, weirdo.”
Lucy’s brows scrunch together. “Why would you be embarrassed about that? I have your due date set up as a countdown on my phone. It’s going to shoot off virtual confetti on the big day.”
“You do?” I ask with an incredulous smile. Why would she do that? Why would she care that much?
Lucy smiles, and the last of my embarrassment slips away. She’s seriously the most disarming person I’ve ever met. They should find a way to clone her for military de-escalation purposes.
“Of course! You’re my best friend. My sister from another mister. My ma’am.” (Which I know is the highest of compliments since it’s her and her mom’s nickname for each other.) She pats my belly, knowing she’s one of the few in the world who can without getting her arm whacked off. “I can’t wait until this little dumpling gets here. So why in the world are you embarrassed of this?” She holds up the offending sparkly planner.
It’s stupid, I know. It’s my child. I SHOULD be excited that he or she will be entering the world soon. But because of the way this all came about—because I can remember the way my ex’s face looked when I broke the news to him—I also feel immense guilt. I feel like I have no right to be excited about the baby because he blamed me so harshly for “tricking him” into becoming a dad. And then I think of the emotional train wreck that is the life I will be bringing my child into, and I can’t help but feel this baby deserves so much better than what I have to offer.
I feel like I’m doing something wrong by anticipating my baby’s birth.
Of course, I don’t tell Lucy any of this, because even just the thought of it makes me break out in vulnerability hives. Instead, I point to the planner. “All the glitter. It’s an embarrassing planner is all. Not very grown-up.”
She laughs and shakes her head, easily buying the lie. “Hardly something to be embarrassed of. I like the glitter!” She playfully bops me on the head with it before tossing it back on the desk in front of me. “Own your guilty pleasures. And now that I know
yours is glitter, prepare for everything I buy you from now on to be glitterized.”
Oh good. I know she’s serious too. Is this how everyone’s weird collections begin? One tiny lie, and before you know it, your whole house is decked out in baby elephant decor. Looks like I get to be glitter girl.
The door chimes, and Jessie and I both look up to see the delivery man enter with his dolly and my monthly order of hair product inventory stacked high on it. I gladly show him to the storage room, seizing the chance to escape Lucy and our unwanted conversation.
The rest of the day moves pretty slowly yet peacefully. A happy little snail day. Jessie and I have a handful of clients and a few walk-ins but nothing too strenuous. I’m happy and comfortable in the salon, and it’s only when the clock starts to near that five o’clock mark that anxiety kicks in again. Because today, I won’t be heading home to my house; I’ll be going back to Drew’s house—aka the torture house. And yes, I realize that would make a fantastic haunted house name.
I’m sitting in my empty salon chair, leaned back, legs crossed watching Lucy finish up the perm she’s been placing in her client’s hair, but I’m not seeing any of it. Instead, I’m picturing that sliver of Drew’s skin again. Always. Like when you stare at the sun too long and it burns an image in your eyes. All I see is tan. No, golden. No—bronze.
“Has Drew always been so persnickety?” I ask Lucy.
She glances over at me, amused by my sudden blurt-out. “Yes. But in his defense, it works for him.”
“How do you figure?”
She shrugs lightly and continues rolling rods in her client’s hair. “Drew is one of a kind. He’s focused, he knows what he wants at all times, and that’s why he’s always been the reliable one…the guy you turn to when everything falls apart, and somehow, he can hold it all together. It’s his decisiveness, his attention to detail, his drive…all of those aspects are what have gotten him to where he is today in his life and career. It works for him.”
“Well, it just annoys me.” Lucy and her client both sputter a laugh. “I’m serious. It’s that decisiveness that makes him think he rules the world. He needs to be knocked down a few pegs.”
Lucy mmhmms, unconvinced. “It’s only a matter of time before you drink the Kool-Aid with the rest of us. Drew might be overbearing at times—trying to fix things when he should be quiet and making sure everything is sitting at a 90 degree angle on any given surface—but…he’s also got the most golden heart in the world. He’s lovable.”
Suddenly, Lucy’s client pops her head around to look at us with bright eyes. “You’ve sold me. Any chance he’s into old ladies?”
I push myself up out of the chair, rolling my eyes dramatically as I pass by Lucy’s station, headed for the front desk. “Believe me, you don’t want him, Mrs. Ellis. He’s the most obnoxious man in the world. Smug. Bossy. Opinionated. Likes to gloat. And…” His dimpled smile flashes in my mind, quickly followed by that sliver of skin. Why is it bothering me so much that I can’t quite accurately describe the color?
My grandaddy would probably say it’s like the top side of a biscuit, brushed with butter and fresh out of the oven, but never mind. I need to stop thinking about Drew because it’s getting me too heated—and not the good kind of heated. The angry, want to cut off the hot water while he’s in the shower, blast the AC, and then run off with his towel and clothes kind. And just for the record, I’m not thinking of him in the shower in a good way either. Like I wouldn’t open the curtain or anything before I stole the towel. I would just snatch it and run off. But then again…what if he has one of those fancy showers that is all open and doesn’t have a door? Then I’d definitely see him naked.
Shoot, what was my point again?
“Wow, are you okay? You just sort of trailed off in the middle of talking and zoned out. Now your face is super flushed.” Lucy is the most concerned person in the world right now as she tells Mrs. Ellis she’ll be right back then crosses over to my station so she can feel my cheeks and head. “Do you have a fever? I think you do.”
I swat her hands away. “No, I do not have a fever! I feel fine. Quit being such a mom.” I was just thinking about your brother in the shower.
Lucy does not look convinced, and now Mrs. Ellis is concerned too. “I don’t know, sweetie. I think Lucy might be right. Your face looks like my first-place-winning tomatoes from the fair last year.” I feel like she’s more interested in plugging her winning vegetation than my health.
And of course now that they’re bringing attention to my face, it’s heating up even more. I’m a furnace. Combustible. “I’m fine, ladies. Really.”
Lucy is peering at me like I might suddenly keel over. “You’re headed home now, right?”
“Yeah, as soon as I finish cleaning up my station.”
Lucy rips my purse from the hanger next to me and drapes it over my shoulder before pushing me toward the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it and lock everything up when I’m done with Mrs. Ellis. Your face looks alarmingly flushed. I’m going to text Drew and have him check your blood pressure when you get home.” She looks over her shoulder and naturally has to fill in her new BFF. “My brother is an OB-GYN and also Jessie’s roommate.”
I mash the brakes. “NO! Oh my gosh, Lucy, I’m fine. Don’t you dare text Drew!” I can barely manage to stay five feet away from him without coming unglued. Imagine if he were right next to me…checking my heart rate with his fingers on my neck or wrist…nope. Just nope.
Her eyes go round. “Geez, look at those cheeks. I could fry bacon on them. Mrs. Ellis, do they look like they’re getting worse to you?”
“Oh, honey, yes. Go home and let that doctor check you out.” Not the most ideal choice of words, Mrs. Ellis.
“Okay, that’s it, I’m leaving because you two hens are fussing over me way too much. And Lucy”—I look over my shoulder as I head out the door—“do not text Drew or you will be dead to me.”
Traffic was exceptionally brutal today, which is only adding to my agitation. As I step out of my car and storm my way into the house, I do start to worry about my blood pressure a little. I don’t know why I’m so worked up. It was one tiny little glimpse of Drew’s side abdomen a few days ago, and suddenly, I can’t get it—or him—out of my head. He’s so obnoxious. And prickly. And unthoughtful. Yeah, that’s good, Jessie. Focus on all of that.
Bottom line, I enter that house looking for a fight. I’m feeling strongly attracted to Drew and I need to squash that desire. At least it’s just physical. All I need is one good argument with the man to remember each of the reasons I want to handcuff him and send him off on a boat to the Bermuda Triangle.
I storm inside the house, throw my purse on the couch all willy-nilly, not even worrying that half the contents have fallen out (extra points because that will annoy the snot out of Drew), and then I stop dead in my tracks. Everything looks clean. Grey, white, and black. Where’s all the color? Where is all my stuff?
I’m going to kill him.
“Andy? Are you here?” I peek my head around corners like I’m afraid he’s going to jump out with a boogieman mask on. Actually, I file that idea away for a rainy day. “What did you do with all my stuff, you big jerk?” I yell out. When he doesn’t respond, I’m convinced he’s not here. My fight will have to wait—but I swear, if he packed up all my things and gave them away, I’m going to ruin him.
I stomp my way up the stairs, taking out all my aggression on the carpet and really letting my feet drive my frustration home. When I make it to the top of the steps, I’m out of breath and exhausted. I just need a little pre-dinner nap and then I’ll be ready to—
What the heck? Why won’t my bedroom door open? It’s unlocked and I’m able to turn the handle, but it’s like there’s something on the other side pushing against the door.
I lean my shoulder into it, and finally, it gives way…
…to my bedroom, stuffed to the brim with all my boxes.
My jaw drops an
d my blood boils to the surface of my skin and out through my pores as I take in the room, packed completely full of boxes I can only assume contain all the stuff I unpacked over the weekend. They are stacked one on top of the other and lined all around my room, covering my bed and any useable surface. I don’t even bother going inside because Drew has made sure to stack them in such a way that I can’t even walk around if I want to. Definitely can’t get to my bed. Definitely going to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze.
What was he thinking! I know I sort of started this little prank war, but seriously, Drew?! I’m pregnant! I’m like really, really pregnant! I need a place to be able to lie down and rest. Growing a human here, no big deal.
The sound of a door slamming downstairs makes my head tick toward the stairs like an angry killer robot—target set and ready for brutal combat. With newfound energy, I stomp my way down the steps just like I did on the way up, except now, I’m rewarded knowing Drew gets to hear it. I sound like a herd of elephants.
“ANDREW MARSHALL!” I yell down the stairs as I descend to battle.
“Jessica, get down here!” he bellows back.
Just as I make it to the bottom of the stairs, he steps into view (wearing lavender scrubs that I have to try very hard not to laugh at). His face is cut into stern lines and his pupils are two punctuation marks at the end of a sentence that reads, Not even if you were the last woman alive. The way he looks only fuels my volcanic anger. I’m certain I look nothing like his suave, stoic tyranny. My cheeks feel like I could lay them onto a shirt and iron out all the wrinkles. My eyes are bugging out. I’m a rabid dog you really don’t want to get stuck in an alley with.
“Come sit down.”
“NO. You moved all my—” He takes my arm and pulls me along with him to the living room. “OW! Let go—you’re hurting me!”
“I’ve held newborn babies tighter than I’m holding you.” It’s true. His touch is gentle, but I refuse to dwell on it.
