The fact that he goes first to Ella and not me sends me into another full-blown crying jag. I wanted his attention. And the fact that I wanted it over my own daughter is so guilt-inducing that I want to vomit. Only, I have nothing in my stomach to come up. Another sign of postpartum is a loss of appetite.
“Honey, shh,” Conor says and reaches for me. He holds me in one arm and Ella in the other as I cry.
“Don’t call Sophie. Please don’t call her,” I say, crumbling into him.
“I won’t.”
“I’m so sorry, Conor.”
“For what? No need to be sorry.” He kisses my forehead and instead of soothing me, it makes me want to disappear. He’s too good of a man. He’s too perfect for a broken person like me.
“Shh, now,” he says.
“I don’t want to be put on medication. I don’t want any drugs in my system.”
Now he pulls away from me, his eyebrows raised. “What are you talking about, Fee?”
“I can’t take depression medicine. I can’t have it in my body because then it’ll transfer through when I nurse.”
He stiffens the moment I say depression. That I’m bringing him my problems is one thing, but for it to be depression, for it to be the one affliction that he’s had to deal with for years with his best friend Gavin, and for it to have taken the life of his friend Christian, well, it must make my weakness even more unbearable. What more is he supposed to take? I wonder. When does he get to have a break from being the strong one?
I collapse onto the sofa and sob again, my cries suddenly encouraging both Ella and Romeo to match me. I don’t look at Conor because I can’t bear to, but I’m sure he’s ready to run. From me. From this insta-family I’ve forced on him.
And I wouldn’t blame him.
6
Conor
My wife is lying in a heap on the sofa and my two children are both crying. I don’t have the luxury of waiting to see if she will snap out of it and attend to the babies. I scoop up both Ella and Romeo and take them to their room.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I sing softly as I change first Romeo, then Ella. “You’re my baby and it’s gonna be all right.”
I’ll admit that I don’t change them very often, but when I do I’ve made a habit of singing to them as we go, and it always seems to delight them. Luckily, it’s worked this time as well. Once I’ve got them each wrapped snugly in a thin blanket, I carry them to the rocking chair in the corner and we get comfortable.
I’m not sure if either is hungry, but I plan on trying to rock them to sleep before worrying about how to feed them. Felicity switched from giving Romeo formula to breastfeeding once her milk came in after Ella was born. The baby nurse cautioned that this might be too much to ask of her body, but Felicity was keen on establishing that connection. It seemed to work but has left us without any backup formula in the house as far as I know. So, if the babies are hungry now, I’m not confident I can get Felicity to handle that.
“Sleep now, my precious girl,” I murmur to Ella. “Sleep now, my big man,” I whisper to Romeo.
I count myself lucky when they each settle, closing their eyes. Leaning my head back against the chair, I release a sigh.
Jesus.
What had I walked in on with Felicity? She’s falling apart.
When I left her earlier, she’d seemed fine. Well, not fine exactly. She was a little overwhelmed. That’s why I called Sophie. I thought it might be a help for her. Sophie always seems to have a handle on things. I just asked her to pop round to see if she could lend a hand. Now, I’ll have to find out from her what’s going on. Only, Felicity was adamant that I not call her.
Fuck’s sake.
What a mind fuck. I’m sitting here, still half in recording mode—wearing a leather jacket, smelling faintly of beer and weed, with my mind on the song we’re struggling to complete. But I’ve got to switch that off and get into caretaker mode. It’s jarring.
When I hear a sniffle, my eyes dart toward the open door. Felicity is standing there, her head hanging as she stares at the floor.
“Come here,” I tell her, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the delicate balance I’ve achieved with the babies.
She moves toward me reluctantly, as if each step takes monumental effort. When she reaches me, I have no way to touch her. Both my arms are wrapped around the babies. After a moment’s hesitation, she sits down at my feet and leans into me the way I’ve seen Roscoe, Danny Boy’s dog, lean into him. There’s so much more than exhaustion going on here.
“What can I do, Fee? Tell me how I can help.”
She stays mute.
“Let’s bring Lizzy back on, yeah?”
Lizzy was our baby nurse. She was wonderful support. I still don’t know why we let her go.
“I can do this. I promise,” Felicity says. But her voice is hoarse and unconvincing.
“What happened today?” When she doesn’t answer, I ask again.
“I don’t know.”
“Did Sophie come by? Was she any help?”
She nods against my knee. “She was phenomenal. She’s like super-mum, the way she watched over all the babies so I could nap.”
I furrow my brow because her declaration is at odds with the way her body is trembling and fresh tears stream down her face.
“I need to know what’s going on, honey.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The words come out forced, though it’s what she knows I want to hear. But I don’t want to be fed bullshit. I want the truth, even if it’s ugly.
“Let me put them down,” I say and ease up from the rocking chair.
I carefully put each baby into their own crib and lead Felicity out of the room. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and she feels frail to me. She has no perception of how she really looks. She’s lost the baby weight and more but keeps complaining about her figure.
In our bedroom, I turn on a bedside lamp and take off my jacket as she curls up into a ball on the bed. I have been accused by almost everyone I know—including Felicity—of wanting to be in control. They’re not wrong. This situation, whatever it is, is entirely out of my control, though, and the anxiety of that helplessness shows itself in the tightness in my chest.
Felicity has always been made of tough stuff. I never expected to see her fall into depression. But it’s got to be related to all the pregnancy hormones. It’s only temporary. I just need to figure out the way to get her to cope.
I sit on the end of the bed, near her feet. Her demeanor is pure shame. I know that she will see herself as a failure because of this, even though the thought has never crossed my mind.
“What do we do? How do we get you feeling better?” I ask gently.
Again, she’s silent, though her eyes are open. She’s staring at the artwork on the wall. It’s the piece that had reminded me of her when I got it. At the time, it was that thing that I couldn’t define about her. It was the thing that kept drawing me to her and away from my fiancée. Now, I look at the outline of a woman in a different way. I see the woman as something elusive. Like I’ll never be able to grasp more than the mere hint of her. That thought scares me. I’ve been surrounded by people suffering from darkness and depression for too long. I won’t let Felicity slip away from me.
“There’s nothing wrong with formula,” I tell her. “We’ll get you to the doctor in the morning, get some sort of antidepressant in you, and this will be behind us. That’s it. That’s the answer, since you’re not willing to speak up.”
It seems all I had to do was take control for her to snap out of her melancholy. She sits up and swipes at the tears wetting her cheeks. “I said no to that. I won’t be medicated.”
“Then tell me what we’re to do, Fee. Because I won’t go on this way. I know you don’t want this either. So, tell me—”
“Maybe I can speak with someone?”
“What? With who?”
“I don’t know.”
�
��Talk to me. Can’t you talk to me?”
Her bottom lip quivers but she still doesn’t look at me.
“Okay, not me. Then who?”
It takes a long moment, but then she says, “I was reading that talk therapy is a good alternative to medicine.”
“So, a therapist of some sort? A stranger?” I should have kept that last part to myself. She doesn’t need me to guilt her. Jesus, that’s no help at all.
She looks at me, pained. “I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling, Conor. I don’t know how to express what this is. I just know that I was barely holding it together before and then it all burst out of control earlier this evening. And I’m so sorry.”
In response, I crawl onto the bed so that I can hold her from behind. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her into me.
“Don’t apologize. You have no reason to apologize. There’s no harm in needing help. We’ll bring Lizzy back. We’ll get you to the doctor for a recommendation for someone to talk to. We’ll figure this out.”
“I don’t want anyone to know,” she whispers, sounding like a little girl.
“Not even your doctor?”
“His office will leak my troubles to the tabloids, just like they must have done about every bit of weight I gained along the way and how long the delivery took and—”
“Okay, we won’t go to them. I’ll find you a therapist who will be completely confidential.”
“How?”
“Don’t worry about that. Let me sort it.”
I can feel a burden being lifted from her as her shoulders relax. She’s asleep within minutes.
Carefully, I ease my mobile out of my pocket and type a text.
I’ve got a question.
I wait less than two minutes before I get a reply.
I’ve got an answer.
7
I knew Gavin would be the one to help me sort out a solution. I knew it because he’s the type of friend who will do anything he can to help—and because he knows all of Dublin. He’s got more people who count themselves as his friend than can fit into the O2 Arena. Sounds outlandish when you know that the capacity of that venue is 13,000, but I swear it’s true. Gavin has spent the last dozen years being an inclusive bastard—unlike me. I’ve never shaken my loner tendencies, which accounts for why it makes perfect sense to me that Gavin will be able to scour his enormous list of friends to find what I need for Felicity.
Turns out that he doesn’t have to reach very far. After some brief back and forth texting on the subject, he calls me. It doesn’t matter that it’s close to two in the morning and that he’s likely knackered from our draining studio session, he’s ready to help.
“I think we have someone in our midst who will do quite nicely,” Gavin tells me.
I had extricated myself from the bed with Felicity and now stand on the balcony overlooking Dalkey Bay. The air is bitterly cold, but I barely feel it. I’m too focused on finding a way to help my wife.
“Really?” Even for Gavin, this is quick work.
“As long as she doesn’t need a psychiatrist? Someone who can prescribe meds?”
“No, I told you. She’s adamantly against any kind of drugs. Just wants someone to talk to.” About things she can’t admit to me.
“Okay, then this person will work.”
“Someone local?”
“Very.”
“Spit it out, then.” I know Gavin isn’t trying to play coy, but that’s how it comes off in my haste to find some concrete action.
“Just take down this address and have her there at ten tomorrow morning.”
I do as he says. Because even though I hate to feel out of control like this, I’m desperate.
* * *
I’m up with the babies at half past eight the next morning when Lizzy arrives. I’d texted her at seven and was surprised to get a reply right away. She said she hadn’t committed to any other family yet and was happy to return.
She’s done herself up more than I remembered. Then again, when she was first here, the babies were so small, and I was so sleep deprived, that I don’t think I noticed much about her other than I was grateful for her extra set of hands.
Now, I can’t help but see that she’s a stunner. She’s got long brown hair that is straight and shiny and a nice figure that suggests she exercises. A runner, by the look of her toned thighs in her leggings. Her eyelashes are dark and frame pale blue eyes. Her lips are tinted red, but she’s taken pains to make it look natural. She’s taken pains. For me. I don’t suppose that’s surprising. I’ve had a lifetime of women eager to get my attention.
“I’ll take him,” she says and leans in to relieve me of Romeo.
She’s wearing a hint of perfume. It’s something expensive. Maybe a gift from her boyfriend? Does she have a boyfriend?
What the fuck am I doing?
Falling back on my old ways, maybe? Which means looking for the easy distraction of a woman other than the one I’m with.
“Thanks for coming, Lizzy.”
She looks up at me, and there’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Some playfulness. Or sensuality. Then she bites her bottom lip slowly, making it clear why she was so quick to return my text earlier. My eyes drop to her chest. She’s wearing a clingy tee shirt that scoops low at the neckline and I can see the outline of a lace bra over her c-cup breasts. I wonder what her nipples are like.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t hesitate to accept what she’s so obviously ready to give me. I can practically feel the heat of her body from our short distance. I wonder if she waxed before she came over, in the off chance that we could do the daddy-nanny thing. I could ask her, and I bet she would offer to show me. She’d settle the babies and have me meet her in the laundry room where I’d find her completely nude and waiting. Maybe she’d be up on the washer, spread and on display. Wet and eager. I bet she’s a moaner. I’d have to cover her mouth while I pushed deep inside her, watching as her breasts swayed.
“I’m always happy to come. For you,” she says.
I smile. God, she’d be fun. I can see that.
With a sigh, I shake my head a little. “I’ll let Felicity know you’re here.”
She doesn’t hide her disappointment, but soon focuses on the babies and I head down the hall. Before going upstairs, I duck into one of the guest toilets and ease the door shut. Leaning over the counter, I try to relax. I’m rock hard, my cock pulsing with a life of its own. Should I take care of it? Let the fantasy of Lizzy continue? Maybe she follows me here and silently drops to her knees in front of me? And I watch as she peels off her shirt and bra and reveals small rose-colored nipples. Then she slowly—so slowly—pulls opens my jeans and releases my aching, dripping cock. She teases the tip with her tongue, gathering my juices in her mouth like she can’t get enough. Pulling away, she directs my cock to her tits, rubbing her hardened nipples against the swollen tip and shaft.
“Fuck my mouth,” she says.
And in my mind, I do just that. She’s exceptional at this. Taking me in deep and sucking like her life depends on it. All too quickly, I’ve come into the sink and feel both spent and guilty.
Amn’t I husband of the fucking year?
I clean up quickly, all the while rationalizing that fantasies are harmless, and I was only relieving the stress I’ve been under for the last week. I just needed something to free me of my worries for a moment. It changes nothing about how I feel for Felicity. It changes nothing about the fact that I’d never cheat on her.
When I glance up and at the mirror I see my father’s face. Not that he’s actually in the room with me, of course, but I’ve begun to see so much of myself in him. Or him in me, I suppose. Especially since I learned of his diagnosis.
I haven’t told Felicity yet. Not with her being so off. She thinks I’m mourning Christian. And I am, but that’s not the totality of what’s been weighing on me. No, I’ve got a lot more than that going on. But for a few minutes just now, I got an escape. I don’t know i
f I should apologize to Lizzy or thank her when I see her next.
Looking at myself once more, I run my hand through my black hair and raise my eyebrows at the image there. I look calm, in control, and devastatingly handsome. If only the first two were actually true.
8
Felicity
I’m agitated and there’s no use hiding it. I suppose this is a “safe” space to let all my troubles out into the open anyway.
I scan the room, trying to find comfort in the décor, but the green walls are off-putting. When I rest my eyes upon the woman sitting opposite me, I’m unnerved. She’s lovely, but I can’t remember her name, despite her warm welcome of me just moments ago. I’m sure she introduced herself. But I was too preoccupied with other things. Things like the fact that Conor brought Lizzy back into our house this morning. Things like Lizzy, while being wonderful with the babies, has never made a secret of how she lusts after my husband. Things like, wouldn’t Conor rather be with an uncomplicated young thing like Lizzy, anyway?
“I would love to learn a little about you.”
Startled from my thoughts, I shift in the soft chair. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve completely forgotten your name.”
The woman smiles at me, her patience clearly a virtue. As it should be with her profession. She’s my brand-new therapist. I know that much. Conor pulled me from bed, supervised me while I brushed my teeth, forced me to have tea and toast, and then drove me here.
“I’m Ms. Patterson. But you can call me Amelia, if you like,” she says.
Now that rings a bell. Amelia. I like that name. I like her. I can tell that already. With some people you just know whether they’ve got a kind spirit, and that’s what she has. She’s got thick brown hair, a heart-shaped face, and beautiful legs. Her navy pencil skirt and striped blouse make her look put together and make me feel all the more undone. I don’t remember if I dragged a brush through my hair or not, and the clothes I’m wearing are the same ones I slept in.
Felicity Found (Rogue Series Book 6) Page 4
