by Street, K.
I jumped out of the truck and walked around to help her out. Then, I waited while she dug through her purse for her keys and unlocked the door.
She held the door open, waiting on me to follow her inside, but I stayed rooted on her front stoop.
“You aren’t coming in?”
“I should go.”
Her face was crestfallen. “Will you at least text me when you get home?”
“Of course I will. I’m not walking away. You aren’t in this alone. I’m not giving up on you. I just need to sort through all the shit in my head.”
“Promise?”
I cupped her face and stared into her eyes.
“I promise.”
“All right.”
“Do you need anything before I take off?”
“I’m good.”
I pressed my lips to her temple before I turned to leave. Every step away from her felt heavier than the last.
Twenty-Nine
Molly
I arrived home from work on Wednesday evening to find a package on my front porch. I tried not to get too excited. It probably belonged to a neighbor and had been placed on my stoop by mistake. Online shopping was an extravagance I didn’t indulge in often, and it had been ages since I ordered anything. Nevertheless, any mail that didn’t arrive in an envelope marked Statement Enclosed these days made me damn near giddy.
I bent to retrieve the box, catching sight of the return address. It was from Easton.
“What in the world?” I asked no one.
Because you’re the crazy pregnant lady who talks to herself.
I unlocked the door, dropped my purse on the couch, and carried the package into the kitchen. Silverware rattled as I pulled out the drawer and reached for a steak knife. The serrated stainless steel blade cut through the packing tape with ease.
Inside the box was one of those recordable books; some fancy, organic, vegan bath bombs that were approved by a pregnancy blog; chocolate no-bake cookies; and a note.
Dear Molls,
I wish I could take credit for the book, but it was actually Saylor’s idea. However, you and the baby will be subjected to my voice, not hers. I did think of the bath bombs all on my own. I read that pregnant women are more sensitive to smells, so hopefully, whatever vegan shit they use doesn’t smell like dirty feet. Mom made her no-bake cookies and dropped some by the office. I remember how much you loved them, so I sent those along, too.
I took the liberty of calling Dr. Gold’s office. All you have to do is make the appointment. Payment arrangements have been made. If you don’t want to do it for you, then do it for me.
Yours,
Easton
Ps. Dr. Gold’s number is 706-555-4225.
I read the note once more zeroing in on five words.
“… then do it for me.”
Saylor’s voice sounded in my head.
“Take the risk. My brother is worth it. And be prepared to fight for him.”
It was late. The office was already closed. I took a deep breath. Tonight, I would take a bath and eat cookies and hold the book next to my belly while I listened to Easton read a story.
Tomorrow, I would fight.
Later that night, I lay in bed, surrounded by pillows. I took a picture of the book next to my belly and sent it to Easton. Then, I snagged a cookie from the container I’d brought up with me and captured a selfie of me biting into it. I sent him that one, too, as well as the screenshot of Dr. Gold’s number I had programmed into my Contacts earlier and followed it up with a text.
Me: I’ll go.
Easton: Really?
Me: I’ll call first thing in the morning.
Easton: Thank you.
Thirty
Easton
My cell vibrated in my palm a little after five on Friday. A partial text from Jase appeared on the screen. I’d forgotten we were supposed to get together tonight. I unlocked my phone and swiped to read his message.
Jase: I have a couple of home brews I want you to try.
You cool with a change of plans? I thought we could hang out here.
Why he’d wanted to go out to start with was beyond me.
Jase owned Turner Creek, a vineyard that had been in his family for generations. The winery had been developed more recently. When Jase’s grandfather had passed a few years ago, he had inherited everything including the farmhouse. He’d been busting his ass ever since to keep things running, and he also worked with me, flipping houses on the side and managing our crews. He’d finally finished restoring the farmhouse, and earlier this summer, he’d opened a tasting room and started doing tours. As if that didn’t keep him busy enough, he’d recently started messing around with brewing his own beer.
Jase wasn’t just my best friend; he was also in love with my little sister and helped fill the void in my nephew’s life. He was like a brother to me, and as long as he didn’t fuck things up with Saylor and Knox, I wouldn’t have to kill him.
I tapped out my response.
Me: Sounds good. Pizza?
Jase: Sure.
Me: Be there soon.
Forty minutes later, I stood on the front porch of Jase’s farmhouse, balancing two large pizzas from Gustavo’s in one hand while ringing the doorbell with the other.
“Hey, man,” Jase greeted when he opened the door.
“Hey.”
I stepped inside, my gaze darting around the space. “I still can’t get over how fucking good this place looks.”
The original design of the farmhouse had been choppy with several small rooms instead of fewer, larger ones. Jase had managed to open the floor plan without compromising the integrity or craftsmanship of the home.
“It’s pretty damn amazing.”
I headed for the kitchen, set the pizza on the center countertop, and turned to face him. “How about that beer?”
Jase took two bottles out of the fridge, passing one to me.
I grabbed the bottle opener, popping the cap of my beer. Bringing the bottle to my lips, I took a long pull. “Damn. This is good.”
His eyes lit with pride and amusement. “I’m only slightly offended you sound surprised. There’s more in the fridge.” Jase opened the cardboard box, snatching a piece of pizza. “How are you holding up? Your life has been flipped ass over end in the last few weeks.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Picking up a slice of pizza, I folded it in half and took a bite, capturing the sauce with my tongue. “I love her, man. The problem is, I don’t trust her.”
“Do you think she’d keep the baby from you?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but the idea that she could if she wanted to doesn’t sit well with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was curious about paternity rights. I contacted one of Dad’s friends who’s a family law attorney.”
“You sure that’s the route you want to take? Once you draw that line in the sand, there’s no going back.”
“I won’t act on anything unless I have to. I just wanted to have the information.”
“Do you think she’d just leave?”
The look on my face told him that was exactly what I thought. “She’s done it before.”
“Doesn’t mean she’ll do it again.”
“A baby might slow her down, but I doubt it would stop her.” I chugged the rest of my beer and then walked to the fridge for another. The beer cap made a tinkling sound as I tossed it on the counter. I wanted to confide in Jase, but it was important to me that I didn’t betray Molly’s trust. I carefully chose my words. “Molly had a rough childhood.”
“I think I remember you mentioning something about her parents passing.”
Fuck. So much for not saying anything.
“Jase, what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. You can’t tell anyone, especially my sister.”
“Dude, you’re freaking me out here.”
“I’m serious, man.”
“You have my word
.”
“Molly’s parents aren’t dead.”
“Wait, what?”
“She was abandoned when she was little. I’m not going to get into the specifics. She grew up in the foster system.”
“Holy shit.”
“Claiming her parents were dead was easier than telling people the real story.”
“Damn. You had no idea?”
“Not until she told me the night of my birthday.”
“Jesus. That’s heavy.”
“I know.”
“Look, man, I know you’re not asking for my advice here, but nothing worth having ever comes easy. If you want her, then you grab hold with both hands and don’t let go.”
Quiet momentarily filled the room as I thought about his words.
Changing the subject, I asked, “How are things with you and my sister?”
“They’re good. It’s hard sometimes.”
“She loves you.”
“I know,” he sighed, “but she still loves him.”
Saylor would go to her own grave, loving Colin. There would come a day when she was no longer in love with him, but for now, she still wore her wedding band. At least it wasn’t on her finger; instead, she wore it from a chain around her neck.
It was progress.
Jase continued, “I’m okay with that. I understand it. Still doesn’t mean it’s easy. But as long as I have breath, I’ll wait for her. Because she’s so fucking worth it.”
If I had any doubts how much he loved my little sister, he’d just extinguished them.
“Damn right she is.”
Saylor was a pain in my ass, but I loved the hell out of my baby sister.
“Molly’s worth it, too.”
“She is.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad in a matter of weeks.”
“Me either.”
Jase extended his beer bottle. “To family.”
“To family.” I clanked my bottle to his.
Thirty-One
Molly
It had been a little over a week since the box from Easton arrived on my doorstep. We texted and talked on the phone daily. I’d kept my promise and called Dr. Marley Gold’s office last Thursday morning. Her first available appointment hadn’t been until next Friday, which was today, so here I was in Maplewood Falls, using a personal day from work, much to Mr. Conway’s dismay, and getting ready to walk into what might very well be my inaugural session. I felt nauseous for the first time in weeks. At least it didn’t have anything to do with growing a tiny human.
My heart rate accelerated as I reached for my door handle. I desperately tried not to allow my nerves to get the best of me. I’d spent years erecting walls and building barriers. Isolating myself. The thought of walking inside those doors and bulldozing through the only coping mechanism I knew how to use terrified me.
My baby girl stretched inside me. Pressing a body part to the palm of my hand, the one not currently frozen on the door handle. It was all the reminder I needed. I was here for us. For me, for Easton, and for the daughter we had yet to meet.
Within less than five minutes in the intimate waiting area, I was summoned inside the office.
“Hi, Molly.” She extended her hand. “How are you today?”
I placed my palm in hers, giving it a shake, hoping like hell the way my fingers trembled went unnoticed by the good doctor. “I’m well. Thank you.”
“Can I get you a bottle of water?”
“That would be great.”
She went to the small refrigerator in the corner to retrieve it. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Go ahead and have a seat, and we’ll get started.”
Dr. Gold sat across from me in a high-back armchair. Hands in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles, and a genuine smile on her face. Her eyes were warm and friendly. “When are you due?”
“November 19.”
“How wonderful. Not too much longer.”
“No, ma’am.”
She opened the folder on her lap. “I reviewed your intake forms, and I’d like to ask you a few questions to make sure nothing has changed.”
“All right.”
“Are you sleeping well?”
“You mean, when I’m not getting up every five minutes to pee or having ridiculous dreams?”
We both laughed. There was something about her I couldn’t explain. A sort of energy that put me at ease.
“Yes, except for that.”
“I sleep fairly well.”
“Before you got pregnant, did you suffer from insomnia?”
“No.”
“Since you’re pregnant and under the care of an OB-GYN, we’ll skip the questions regarding your diet.” She sifted through a few pages before locating the one she’d been searching for. “Tell me about the baby’s father. Is he in the picture?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your relationship.”
I twisted the cap off my water and brought it to my lips, hoping the cool liquid held some sort of magical power to calm my nerves. “It’s complicated.”
Dr. Gold crossed one knee over the other. “How so?”
“We were involved in a relationship, and I loved him—” I corrected myself, “I love him very much, but I left because I was scared.”
“What were you afraid of?”
“Let’s just say, my abandonment issues run deeper than the Congo River.” My self-deprecating laughter garnered a nod of understanding from the woman across from me.
I gave her the CliffsNotes version of my breakup with Easton. “This past February, we ran into each other at a hotel. In the elevator of all places. Alcohol was involved. One thing led to another, and here we are.”
“I’d like to back up a bit. You mentioned abandonment issues. I’d like to take that a little deeper. Tell me a little about your childhood.”
Nothing like going straight for the jugular.
I fidgeted with my water bottle. Twisting the lid off and on. Over and over again.
I spent the next forty-five minutes telling a complete stranger about my youth. Every now and then, she would stop me to ask a question or for clarification, but mostly, Dr. Gold allowed me to spill my bloody, broken bits across her carpet.
I wasn’t sure how or why I found it so easy to talk to her.
Maybe because I knew what was said within the confines of these walls would stay here. My secrets wouldn’t be wielded against me like a weapon in the hands of foster parents. Or discussed in hushed whispers and sideways glances by caseworkers.
Each time her eyes met mine, instead of pity, I saw compassion.
The gentle hum of music floated into the air, announcing our session was over.
“Excuse me.” She stood, crossing to her desk and silencing the alarm. “There.” She leaned against her desktop. “How do you feel, Molly?”
“I’m not sure how to describe it. Lighter maybe? Is that weird?”
“Not at all.” She softly laughed. “I think I can help you. I know you live in Atlanta, but we have a workaround, if you’re interested. We can do weekly calls using a secure telecommunications app via the internet. Those appointments are usually after-hours. Typically on Tuesdays or Thursdays. Does that sound like something you might be interested in?”
“Yes.”
“Now, let’s talk about homework.”
“Homework?”
“I’m a strong believer in the benefits of journaling as part of your therapy. Before our session next week, I’d like you to write a letter to yourself as a child. As in what would grown-up Molly say to eight-year-old Molly.”
“Okay,” I agreed, hoping my face didn’t reflect the uncertainty I felt.
No such luck.
“Molly, I’ll always be honest with you. The road ahead is long and arduous. Excavating emotional wounds, especially those related to one’s childhood is difficult, but if you’re willing to put in the work, those wounds will begin to heal.” Her tone wa
s gentle yet authoritative and oddly comforting.
“I want that. More than anything.”
“Good. I’m happy to hear that.” She moved toward the door. “I also ask all of my patients to think about their goals for therapy. We need something to work toward. Think specifics if you can. I want the goals to be targeted to you in terms of what led you here and what you hope to gain from this experience.”
“All right.”
“Great. Stop by reception, and Carla will set you up. We’ll have our first session next week.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good weekend.”
“You, too.”
After I stopped by reception for the information I needed, I drove the short distance to Easton’s office. I parallel parked along the curb and walked inside.
Helen looked up from her desk. She was just as I remembered. Perfectly coiffed champagne-blonde hair, loud wardrobe, and laugh lines that told the story of a woman who found joy in her life.
“Molly. Lord’s sake. Just look at how precious you are,” Helen cooed. She rose from her chair and walked toward me. Her fuchsia-painted smile was a mile wide as she threw her arms around me, hugging me to her plump frame and kissing my cheek.
I returned her hug.
Helen held me at arm’s length. “You are radiant. Easton said you were in the family way.”
Laughter bubbled up inside me, spilling into the air between us. “I don’t think anyone says that anymore.”
“Well, it sounds more couth than baby mama.” She glared at me. “I should be perturbed with you. You weren’t exactly forthcoming when you called me all those months ago, looking for Easton, but then again, you couldn’t exactly tell me before you told him, I suppose.”
I was saved from Helen’s mock scolding when the office line rang.
Before she picked up the receiver, she said, “Easton is in his office. Go on in. He’s expecting you.”
