by Street, K.
I watched her with a stupid grin plastered to my face as she scanned book after book. I tried to hide my amusement as she stood in the middle of the aisle, completely absorbed in reading Curious George Flies a Kite. When she was done, she hugged the book to her chest. Her heavy mood from earlier seemed to dissipate.
Wordlessly, I closed the distance between us.
She added it to the registry and replaced it on the shelf. Then, she turned her attention to me, eyes shining. “Gran used to read me that story when I was a little girl.” Her smile was sad and tone bittersweet.
I plucked the book from the shelf and put it in the cart.
She didn’t say anything as she tucked herself into my side and hugged me close, taking me by surprise. Public displays of affection had never been Molly’s thing. Typically, she didn’t initiate affection at all. She’d always reciprocated but rarely ever made the first move. I wasn’t a psychologist by any stretch; however, given the bits and pieces I knew of her childhood, I presumed her behavior stemmed from a fear of rejection. The assumption made a hell of a lot of sense.
I kissed the top of her head and held her until she pulled away.
* * *
Molly looked at me, green eyes vulnerable. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”
After Target, we’d gone out to dinner before coming back to her place. It was getting late but not too late to make the drive back home tonight. I had packed enough clothes for the weekend. Even if I hadn’t, Molly had a washer and dryer.
“Do you want me to stay?” I smoothed an errant strand of hair from her forehead.
She didn’t ask for anything or depend on anyone. I wanted her to be able to ask for what she wanted. To tell me what she needed.
“Yes.” She stifled a yawn.
We’d had a long day, and she looked dead on her feet.
“Netflix?” I asked.
Clearly, she was too tired for anything else.
“Sure. I’m just going to go change.”
Molly headed to her bedroom, and I kicked off my shoes and turned on the television. She returned a few minutes later, wearing gray pajamas with llamas on them.
Fucking adorable, though I prefer my shirt.
“Do you mind if we watch Gilmore Girls?”
“Not at all.”
She was pregnant and exhausted. She could have whatever the hell she wanted.
We’d made it through one episode and the first ten minutes of another when Molly started to doze off against my chest.
“Baby.” I rubbed her arm. “Firefly. Come on; let’s go to bed.”
She yawned and stretched. “Sorry. I’m just so tired.”
“It’s understandable. How many more weeks do you have to go?” I asked as we made our way to her room, turning off the lights and checking the door as we went.
“I’m thirty-two weeks. So”—she stifled another yawn—“eight more weeks.”
Then, she’ll be back where she belongs, I thought.
While Molly went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth, I pulled back the covers, changed into the pair of sleep pants I had brought with me, and dashed back down the stairs to the kitchen for water.
When I was back in the bedroom, Molly was already in bed with her body molded around the weird-shaped pillow I had ordered after I found out she was pregnant.
I gave her a bottle of water and snagged the Curious George book I’d bought earlier at Target off her dresser. Then, I climbed into bed.
“What are you doing?” Molly giggled.
“You’ll see.” I grabbed the pillow from the headboard and shifted my body on the mattress so my head was near Molly’s belly. I lay on my back and bent my knees, holding the book above my face, and began to read.
Halfway through the story, a sniffle drew my attention. I twisted to see Molly’s tear-streaked face.
I left the book open, laying it flat on the bed, and braced my head in my hand. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
Then, it hit me, and suddenly, I felt like such an asshole.
“Don’t cry,” I soothed while wiping away an errant tear. “Talk to me.”
She gave a slight shake of her head and held up a finger, indicating me to wait. Her eyes squeezed shut as though she were trying to relive some memory or maybe block one out.
I reached for her hand, stroking my thumb over her knuckles. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Several minutes passed before Molly spoke, “That was the first book I learned to read. Gran had gotten a hardback copy at a thrift store, and on the inside cover, she wrote, For Molly. Love, Gran. She read to me every night before bed. Near the end, she was too sick to read to me, so I read to her. When my mom came to get me after Gran passed away, I had five minutes to pack. Aside from my clothes, that book was the only thing I took with me.”
Before I even asked the question, I knew I didn’t want the answer. “What happened to the book?”
Her tears came harder, and the next words out of her mouth broke my fucking heart.
“My m-mom. The day she gave me away, she had already packed my stuff and she r-refused to l-let m-me t-take it.”
“Jesus.” I extricated the pillow from around Molly and wrapped my arms around her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.” I stroked her hair while she wept against my chest.
The only thing I could do was hold her. Nothing I could say or do would erase the pain of her past. By nature, I was a fixer. I designed buildings, consulted on infrastructure projects, and renovated houses. I literally made a living off mending what was broken.
The woman in my arms was in pieces, and I had no idea how in the hell to put her back together again.
Thirty-Six
Molly
I stared into the inky darkness, unable to fall back asleep. Easton’s rhythmic inhale and exhale mingled with the drizzling rain. The sound should have lulled me back to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, images would flash behind my lids. Snippets of my life. Each one connected to the next like an endless trail of scarves from a magician’s coat pocket.
An avalanche of memories rolled over me, crushing me beneath their weight. My heart hammered in my chest, and my palms began to sweat.
You’re safe.
Just breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Slow breaths.
You are loved.
I chanted the words over and over in my head while forcing my breathing to slow. It was one of the techniques I had been working on with Dr. Gold.
When I felt more in control, I slipped from beneath the covers and tiptoed to the bathroom, flipping on the light. My fingers closed around the knob, holding it tight while I twisted and shut the door with a quiet click.
My stomach noisily growled, so loud that the sound seemed to ricochet off the walls. Wide-eyed, I dropped my gaze to my belly and laughed despite my melancholic mood. After I took care of business, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror while I washed my hands.
I’d had my third therapy session this week. Drudging up the past, all those memories I’d locked away, had taken its toll. Remembering was a gift and a curse. Seeing that book in the store today had thrown me off-kilter. It brought memories I had blocked out to the surface. As difficult as remembering could be, I was thankful for every memory I had of Gran. She’d loved me with every ounce of her being, and someday, I would tell my daughter all about her.
The baby picked that moment to make her presence known by giving me a strong kick in the ribs.
“Whoa.” I pressed a hand to my belly and giggled. “Take it easy, little miss.”
My stomach growled for the second time, so I dried my hands and went to the kitchen to forage for food, my heart feeling lighter with every step.
I opened the fridge, zeroing in on the queso dip and the container of leftover taco meat from dinner a few days ago.
Hmm.
I wandered over to the pantry and damn near jumped for joy when I spotted the bag of un
opened tortilla chips and a jar of jalapeños on the shelf.
Nachos at three a.m.?
Yes, please.
Ten minutes later, I had a platter of nachos worthy of a social media post, but I wasn’t that girl. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and made myself some ice water, snagged a few paper towels, and then carried everything into the living room and took a seat on the end of the couch.
Once I was situated, I popped a chip into my mouth while mentally calculating what time it was in London.
Just after eight a.m.
I glanced at my phone on the coffee table. Deciding it was a respectable hour, even if it was Sunday, I reached for my cell, unlocked it, and sent a text to Paige.
Me: Are you up?
Much to my delight, the dots started jumping.
Paige: Yes. How are you? OMG, I miss your face.
Me: Let me guess. You’re on your third cup of coffee.
Paige: Maybe.
Paige: Wait. Why are you up? Everything okay?
Me: I’m hungry.
Paige: Well, eat something.
Me: I am. Texting and nachos don’t bode well. FaceTime?
Paige: Hell yes!
My phone started ringing in my palm, and I swiped to answer.
Paige’s smiling face appeared on the screen, and she started waving like a loon. “Hi!”
“Hey.” I turned the phone, aiming it at the huge plate of cheesy goodness on the coffee table. “See what you’re missing.” I snagged another bite and readjusted the screen.
“Ew.”
“What?” I whisper-shouted. “How are we even friends?”
Paige giggled. “Seriously, Molls, the only time nachos would ever sound good at eight in the morning to anyone is if they were hungover or pregnant. And I’m currently neither.”
“You mean, the Brits haven’t made a proper lush of you?” I faked a horrible accent. “And on this side of the pond, it’s a totally acceptable time for nachos.”
“Not yet.” She scrutinized my face. “What’s going on? Don’t tell me you’re up because you’re hungry. Something is up with you.”
“It’s really disturbing how well you can read me from over four thousand miles away.”
“Talk to me.”
“I’m fine. Just anxious.” It wasn’t a lie, and I didn’t really want to get into it.
“Anxious? Like, about the baby? She’s okay, right?”
“She’s fine.”
“How is therapy going?”
“This week’s session was rough.”
“I’m really proud of you. I know there’s so much you haven’t told me, and I respect that. I’m just glad you’re able to talk to someone.”
“Thanks, Paigey-Poo. That means a lot.”
“Okay. Enough with the sappy shit. Put the phone by your belly.”
“What? Why, you weirdo?”
“Just do it.”
I held my cell in my flattened palm, next to my belly, tilting the screen toward the ceiling, and leaned back with my face out of view. As much as my bestie loved me, I doubted she wanted to see straight up my nose.
“Hey, pumpkin …” Paige cooed into the phone.
I chomped away, only half-listening to the one-sided conversation she was having with my kid in utero.
When she made kissy noises, I assumed she was done and readjusted the phone.
Her mouth tipped into a wistful smile. “I’m so going to be her Lorelai.” She squinted and moved closer to the phone. “You have cheese on your chin.”
I reached for the napkin, wiped my face, and chugged some water.
“So, tell me about the birthing class.”
“It was informative and slightly terrifying.”
“Why are you talking so low?”
“Easton’s sleeping.”
“And where is he sleeping, pray tell?”
“In my bed.”
“You had sex!”
I pointed to my belly. “Obviously.”
“Was it amazing?”
I smiled with my entire face.
Paige pressed a hand to her heart. “Molls.”
“Enough about me. Have you gotten shagged yet?”
“Hell yes.” She gave me a wicked grin and proceeded to tell me about her sexcapades, including one about some guy named Peter who had a very tiny peen but excellent oral skills.
The faces she made had me cracking up.
I didn’t realize how loud I had been until Easton strutted into the living room.
Paige stopped mid-sentence as Easton stretched behind me, a portion of his bare, muscular torso visible above my head.
I glanced up. “Hey.”
“Hey.” A slow, sexy smirk spread over his face.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Like you could help it,” Paige chimed in. “I’m hilarious.”
“It’s fine.” Easton kissed the top of my head. Then, he bent low and said, “Good morning, Paige.” When he directed his attention back to me, that smirk was in place. He hooked a finger under my chin and softly brushed his lips over mine. “‘Morning, Firefly.”
The corners of my mouth tipped in a sweet smile. “Morning.”
“Ugh,” Paige groaned. “Not in front of the children. And stop eye-fucking each other already before I get pregnant.”
Simultaneous laughter filled the air.
“All right, kiddies. I must bid you good day. World domination waits for no one.” She pointed her index finger at the camera. “Easton, take care of our girls.”
“I will.”
“And you”—she swung that same finger to me—“text me bump pics.”
“Fine.”
She jerked her chin. “Ride or die …”
“Accomplice or alibi,” I responded.
“You know it. Love you, Molls.”
“Love you, too.” Paige blew a kiss at the screen before disconnecting the call.
Easton walked around the coffee table and took a seat beside me. “Why are you up?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and I was hungry.”
He took in what was left of the nachos.
“Don’t judge. There are few things in life that can’t be made better by an abundance of cheese.”
“No judgment here. Are you tired? We could go back to bed unless you want to talk about why you couldn’t sleep.”
This man.
As much as I knew he wanted to push, he gave me an out.
It would be so much easier to let him take me back to bed.
Easier to shove the memories back into their respective boxes.
Easier to pretend.
“I’ve blocked a lot of my childhood out. Stuffed it into the recesses of my mind. I hadn’t thought about that book in years until today.”
He reached for my hand, interlocking our fingers. Slowly, he stroked his thumb across my knuckles. “I’m sorry, baby. I had no idea.”
“You don’t have to apologize. It’s not your fault. I’ve kept everything inside for so long. Getting your head shrunk isn’t nearly as fun as it sounds.”
“I’m proud of you for doing it. It’s helping, right?”
“Yes.” I glanced from our joined hands to his face. “My life wasn’t all bad. Those four years I lived with Gran were the best.”
“Tell me about her.”
His simple request was light seeping into a dark room, and the more I talked, the brighter it got. It gave me hope. Maybe if I gave Easton my darkness, he would give me his light.
I inhaled, filling my lungs with air, and then slowly expelled it. “Her name was Emily. She smelled like scented powder, the kind that came with the giant puff. And butter cookies …”
Thirty-Seven
Easton
I wasn’t sure how long we sat together on the couch, Molly telling me stories of the years she had spent with her grandmother. As each word passed her lips, she seemed lighter somehow.
By the time I led her back to bed, the sun was peeking over
the horizon. She fell asleep the second her head hit the pillow. I spooned her from behind and drifted off to the soft sounds of her breathing.
I didn’t know how much time had elapsed when I woke.
Molly slept peacefully beside me.
My eyes rested on her swollen abdomen. Thoughts of the future swam in my head. I imagined our life. What it would be like when we were under the same roof with our daughter. I’d never really noticed how big and quiet my house was until Saylor and Knox moved out months ago. I missed my nephew’s raucous laughter and silly antics. I missed the early morning conversations with my sister over baked goods. Having them there had made it a home. Without other people to fill the space, it was just a house. Walls to stop the wind and a roof to keep me dry.
Unable to lie here any longer, I quietly inched out of bed and padded to the bathroom to take care of my morning routine. Then, I channeled my energy into cleaning up the mess left behind from Molly’s nacho craving, folded the towels in her dryer, and made myself a cup of coffee and something to eat before settling in to do some work.
I grabbed my laptop and my phone from the living room and brought them back into the kitchen. Once I was seated at the breakfast bar, coffee within reach, I fired up my computer and opened my email, clicking on the first one.
As I read, my hands went to the top of my head, yanking my hair in frustration.
The client, an asshole of epic proportions, had sent yet another fucking email, wanting to make changes to a design he’d already signed off on. Minor corrections were one thing, but what he wanted was major. The base design would need to be corrected and revised plans resubmitted, delaying construction by at least four weeks since it was a commercial building. He either didn’t understand the concept of red tape or he didn’t give a shit.
God, I wanted to bang my head into the wall. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. He was paying for it after all, but it just pissed me off because it felt like time wasted. He wanted what he wanted, and bitching about it wouldn’t change a damn thing.
