Open & Honest (Sometimes) (A High Tea & Flip-Flops Novel Book 3)

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Feel better?”

  “Much.” That’s not exactly the truth, but I’m giving positive thinking a try.

  “Can I get you something besides tea? Toast, maybe?”

  “I think I’ll just have a Popsicle.” Less to throw up.

  He tosses me one from the freezer. “Ah, so that’s the reason for your sudden ice lolly addiction.” He goes ahead and fills a mug for each of us because he can’t imagine anyone passing up a cup of tea, and then he leans back against the sink to drink his. “I called Mum. She’s over the moon and said she can’t wait to start shopping for baby things.”

  “And your father?”

  “Well,”—he pauses for a gulp of tea—“he was more reserved.”

  “He thinks we’re too young.”

  “Right. But he didn’t bring that up again. No point. I called Laura too. She’s excited.” A crease appears between his brows. “And I texted Ethan, though I suspect he was there with Laura.” He sets his cup on the counter. “I’ve read that the nausea is worse on an empty stomach, and ice lollies don’t count, so how about that toast?”

  Hmm. Looks like he’s not volunteering an explanation of what I’m looking into it means or what discussion with me he’s going to relay to Gordon. “If you remember, I was eating last night when I got sick.”

  “True. Still, I’ve noticed Gabi nibbling those little crackers she gives to Marco.” He takes a slice of bread from the bag and, looking to me, pauses it above the toaster.

  “Okay.” He’s the one who keeps reminding me of our agreement to be open and honest, so I’m going to enforce that too. “I heard part of your conversation with your dad.”

  He refills his cup. “Oh?”

  “What are you ‘looking into’?”

  As though he can’t remember, that little frown creases his brow again as he gazes at me over the rim of his cup.

  “You said to him, ‘I’m looking into it’, and I’m asking what that means.”

  “Right.” He checks the toaster for no reason except to stall. “He wanted to know when we’re coming for a visit.”

  “That sounds more like something your mom would ask?”

  “Well, yes. She asked too.”

  Normally, I can tell right away when he’s lying, and I don’t see those signals, but I sense evasion. Question is, do I feel up to challenging him this morning?

  “Butter?” he asks when the toast pops up.

  I shake my head. My stomach rebelled at even the thought of butter, which means, no, I don’t feel up to a challenge.

  “Jam?”

  “Apricot.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A week later, Gabi opens her front door looking like hell. She’s still in her pj’s, and I’d say a brush hasn’t touched her hair for a couple of days. But I pretend I don’t notice. “Hey, girl, how’s it going?”

  “How does it look like it’s going?” She lifts Marco off her hip and shoves him at me. “I’ll give you every dime I have if you’ll watch him for a while so I can lie down.”

  “Sure.” I take Marco and kiss his cheek. “Has he eaten lunch yet?”

  Her eyes bulge. She runs toward the kitchen. The next sound I hear is retching. Oh boy. It really is as bad as Matt said. He called me this morning to ask if I could help with Marco because Gabi can’t keep anything down and can barely stay awake to care for him. When I peek in the kitchen, she’s carrying the trash bag to the back door. She sets it outside and turns to me.

  “Sorry about that. Just don’t use the f-word, and I don’t mean the crude one.” She opens the refrigerator and takes out a can of Sprite. After a couple of sips, she looks a little less queasy. “And no, he hasn’t … you know.”

  “Look, why don’t I pack him up and take him to our house. You can rest all afternoon.”

  Her relief is palpable. “Bless you. Matt’s asked his mom to come stay with us, but she won’t get here until Sunday.”

  “Yeah, he told me. I’m sure you’re looking forward to that.”

  “I am.”

  “Ohmygod. You’re that sick?”

  She manages a weak smile.

  “Can I do anything for you before we leave?”

  She points to a full laundry basket. “Could you start that load?”

  “Got it.”

  “What about his car seat?”

  “Just take my car. The keys are …”—she glances around—“oh, I don’t know. Wherever the hell I left my purse.”

  “I’ll find them.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to bed.” She gives Marco a kiss and starts toward the hall. “Oh yeah.” She turns. “He’s discovered there’s water in the toilet bowl, so make sure your bathroom doors are closed, or you’ll be dealing with splashy-splashy.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Good luck.”

  I strap Marco in his seat at the table and give him a lunch I think Gabi would approve. Then I step into the laundry room, leaving the door open so I can keep an eye on him, while I start the clothes washing. As I fold the clean clothes I found in the dryer, I watch him eat. He blows on each green bean and banana slice he picks up before putting it into his mouth. Gabi’s afraid that Marco might have OCD, but Matt says he’s just imitating what he sees them do when they’re eating something that’s too hot. I bite my lip. So many things to worry about when you’re a parent.

  When he finishes eating, I clean him up, pack a few toys, his blankie, his bottle and diapers, and an extra outfit. Finally, I find Gabi’s purse in the pantry and, in case she or Matt needs to move my car for some reason, I exchange my keys for hers. Just as I get Marco buckled in his car seat, I get a text. It’s from Matt.

  Thanks for taking Marco. It’s game night. I’ll pick him up afterward.

  Crap. I forgot the guys have a softball game tonight. Afterward means nine—assuming they don’t stop for beers. That’s well after Marco’s bedtime. And probably mine too. I text back.

  He can spend the night.

  You’re the best.

  Until nausea hit, I was handling Marco really well by myself. Jeremy had left early for the game because he was acting as equipment manager tonight. And I was playing perfect babysitter. Then, wham! Now, I don’t want to move. I don’t even want to open my eyes. Try that with an active toddler in the house.

  “Please, stay here,” I beg, trying to block him from getting off my bed—for the millionth time. He crawls over to Jeremy’s nightstand and picks up the remote. I take it from him. “Why didn’t I think of TV?”

  I search for a children’s program. The music and bright colors grab his attention immediately. I sigh and lie back. Not more than two minutes later, he’s climbing over my legs to get to the edge again. When I sit up to stop him, my stomach heaves. I grab him and dash to the bathroom. I barely have time to sit him down before I drop to my knees in front of the toilet. As I’m vomiting, I realize I didn’t shut the door. I’m flailing one leg behind me, trying to catch the door, when I hear Marco say, “Pashy, pashy.” Before I can stop him, his hand plunges into the toilet bowl. I gag again. I vomit again. I start crying. Footsteps sound behind me, and I don’t even care whose.

  “Bloody hell.” Jeremy grabs Marco. I’m vaguely aware of the shower coming on. When there’s a break in my heaving, I look up and see that he’s standing in the shower with Marco in his arms. Both are fully clothed, and Jeremy’s scrubbing Marco’s hand and arm like he’s preparing him to perform surgery.

  I sit back, wiping my mouth with toilet paper. I breathe in shallow sips, trying not to move my belly more than I have to. While I’m watching Jeremy strip Marco’s wet clothes off him, the nausea subsides. I lean back against the wall and flush the toilet.

  Jeremy turns off the water and peeks out of the shower. Marco’s giggling like this is the most fun he’s ever had. Jeremy looks grim. “Are you able to take him now?”

  I grab a towel and wrap Marco in it. Jeremy wrings out Marco’s clothes and piles them on the floor and then does t
he same with his. “I’ll help you in a minute.” He turns the shower back on.

  I carry Marco out of the bathroom and sit him on the vanity, holding him down with one hand while I rinse out my mouth with the other. “Pashy, pashy,” he says and reaches into the stream.

  Marco and I are on the bed sharing a bottle of water when Jeremy walks through the room carrying the wet clothes and wafting his manly body wash scent. He’s back in a few seconds. “I don’t know how to wash baby clothes.”

  “Close the bathroom door and watch him. I’ll take care of it.”

  “He’ll be all right while I get dressed, yes?”

  “Sure.” I set Marco on the floor. “I’ll close the door so he can’t get out.” I grab our clothes hamper and head to the laundry room. I sort out a load, start the washer, and head back to the bedroom. I can hear Marco crying before I fling open the door. He’s sitting on the floor blubbering, and Jeremy’s pressing towels to the mattress.

  He glares at me. “Why did you leave him with an open water bottle?”

  “I didn’t leave him with the bottle.” I pick up Marco. “And it wasn’t open.”

  “Then—surprise!—he knows how to open one by himself.”

  “Shh, little man. It’s okay.” I kiss Marco’s head. “What did you do, Jeremy? Did you hit him?”

  He shoots me his over-the-top incredulous look. “Of course I didn’t hit him.” His face softens when he glances at Marco. “I might have scared him when I yelled for him to stop. But he was pouring water all over the bed.”

  I glance down at the bottle lying on the floor. It’s completely empty. Crap. Marco has stopped crying, so I hand him over to Jeremy. I pull back the bedding, hoping the water didn’t penetrate all the way to the mattress. No such luck. “Well, at least it’s only water.”

  “How can we dry it?”

  “Soak up as much as we can, then let it air dry. We’ll have to sleep in the guest room tonight.”

  He ticks his head toward Marco. “Where will he sleep?”

  “With us.” Then it hits me. “Did you think he was going to sleep in the guest room by himself?”

  He gives me a sheepish look and shrugs.

  “You can’t just put a one-year-old in a big bed by himself and expect him to stay there all night.”

  He straightens himself to his full six-foot-three. “I have no experience with toddler sleepovers.”

  Oops, I insulted his intelligence. “Well, I just remember stuff from babysitting when I was in high school.”

  “Baba,” Marco says, rubbing his eyes.

  I glance at the clock. “It’s past his bedtime,” I say. “And how did you get home so early?”

  “Forfeit. The other team had a heated dispute with the ref.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you arrived when you did.”

  He shudders. “There was a downside to that timing.”

  I laugh. “Sorry. I know the sight must have been a nightmare to you.”

  “One I hope never to experience again.” Marco lays his head on Jeremy’s shoulder. “We need to get him to bed. These clothes are wet. Where are his pajamas?”

  “Crap. I forgot to pack them.” Making a mental note that I’ll have to learn to be better prepared with our baby, I rummage through Gabi’s baby tote for the extra outfit I packed. It’s not pajamas, but it’s dry. “Here. You change him while I fix his bottle.”

  At first, Jeremy and I watch TV while Marco drinks his bottle, but though he fusses and keeps rubbing his eyes, he won’t lie down and go to sleep.

  “I think it’s the TV,” I mumble, half asleep.

  “Then I’ll go watch in the living room,” Jeremy says. He gets up, but stops at the foot of the bed, looking at me and Marco. “We need to move the bed.”

  “What?”

  “With me not there to block him, he could fall off.”

  “Okay.” I stand up and, half-heartedly, help Jeremy push the bed against the wall.

  As I lie back down, Marco holds out his arms. “Unca Me.”

  Jeremy leans over me and kisses him. “Go to sleep.”

  Instantly, Marco lies down and closes his eyes.

  “Wow. I hope you have that magic touch with our baby.”

  Jeremy turns off the TV and kisses me. “Good night, sleepyhead.”

  Sometime later, I wake when two little feet connect with my very tender breasts. Marco doesn’t wake when I turn him the right way around in the bed. I try to go right back to sleep, but my bladder insists I get up. When I come back to bed, Jeremy is moving Marco again.

  “His arse was on my head,” Jeremy grumbles.

  I wake two more times to pee, and both times Marco is lying crosswise with Jeremy pressed against the wall, and me clinging to my edge of the mattress. When I wake at dawn with one little foot pressed against my mouth and the other against my throat, I see that Jeremy’s left the bed. His pillow’s missing too, which means he must be blissfully asleep on the sofa. Leaving Marco in his desired horizontal position, I slide him completely to the empty side.

  Surely, the disruption of sleep with a newborn can’t be any worse.

  I should be working on my book, but we’ll be going to our first prenatal exam in a few days, so I have to update my list of questions to ask the midwife. Actually, I have to update all my lists. I have one of things I should or should not be eating, drinking, or doing, and another of all the equipment we need for the baby, plus a fourth list of the changes we need to make for babyproofing the house. I check, recheck, and add to the lists daily. And, on top of that, I worry there are other lists I should be making. Being pregnant is a full-time occupation.

  “Here’s your ice lolly,” Jeremy says as he comes back into the office. “You’re almost out. I added them to the grocery list.”

  “Thanks. My life is controlled by lists.”

  “Lists?”

  I just shrug because I’ve got the Popsicle clamped in my mouth as I type electrical socket plugs.

  “Oh,” he says. “Speaking of lists, Mum asked if we’ve started thinking about names.”

  I growl and start a new document.

  “My only request is that should we have a boy, he won’t be another Jeremy. I’ve never really liked my name.”

  I slurp the juice from the ice and turn to him. “Why? What would you rather be named?”

  He looks out the windows, and I assume he’s thinking until I see that’s he’s slightly flushed. “Jeremy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Just not Jeremy.”

  I wait until he sits down at his computer. “Well, you brought it up, so now you have to tell me.”

  He glances at me sideways. “You live by a lot of nonsense rules.”

  “So. What? You wanted to be named Romeo? Lothario? Don Juan?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I’m not letting this go. “Ooh, is this a confession that you wanted to be a girl? You wanted to be named Elizabeth or Mary or —” I suck in a breath. “Ohmygod. It’s Penny, isn’t it? That’s why you picked Penny James for your pen name.”

  He swivels his chair toward me and crosses his arms. “Are you finished?”

  “You started it.”

  “I can assure you that I do not and have never wanted to be a girl.”

  “So what did you want to be named?”

  “Zachary.” He turns back to his computer.

  “Why does that embarrass you?”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “Open and honest.”

  He grimaces. “It’s … stupid. Shouldn’t we both be working?”

  Now, I’m sorry I teased him. This is serious. Reluctantly, I toss my Popsicle in the trash can beside my desk. I cross the room, pull his chair away from the desk, and sit on his lap. “It’s not stupid. How old were you when you first decided you wanted to be Zachary?”

  “I don’t know.” He lowers his gaze. “Seven or eight.”

  “And who would this Zachary have been?”


  Jeremy gives me a look. “He would have been me. That’s why it’s stupid.”

  “But who did you want Zachary to be?”

  When he tries to kiss me, I stop him. “No way, dude, you’re not using sex to avoid answering the question.”

  He flashes an impish grin and then evades my gaze by looking out the windows. I wait.

  “I think …” He takes my hand in his and focuses on them. “Zachary would have been self-assured, fearless. He would have been his own person.” He smiles at me. “The male equivalent of you.” He kisses my hand. “I said it was stupid. And now I’d like to get some work done.” He grasps my waist and lifts me off his lap, but I don’t move away.

  “Jeremy,”—I clasp his cheeks and turn his face up toward mine—“you’re a better man than Zachary would have been. And you’re going to be an awesome father.”

  I’m naked and standing sideways in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom. “I think I’m showing a little bit.”

  “Not that I can see,” Jeremy says. “But your breasts are bigger.”

  “No, I think they just feel swollen because they’re sore.”

  He comes up behind me and cups them gently. “Believe me. They’re bigger.” He slides his hands down and pulls me back against him.

  “Not now, Jeremy.” I lift his hands off and step away. “We have our first prenatal exam this morning. I don’t want to be all icky inside.”

  He grins and pulls a condom from his pocket.

  “Well, in that case, husband, rock my world.”

  “My pleasure, wife.”

  He does rock me, of course, and I’m totally mellowed out until I go to pee one last time before we leave. Oh, God. There’s blood on the crotch of my panties. Not bright red, but definitely pink. Tears welling up, I strip off my panties and stumble out of the bathroom. Jeremy’s watching TV, waiting for me.

  “Jeremy.” He looks up, already alarmed by the tone in my voice. “I’m spotting.”

  In seconds, he’s hugging me. “It’s probably no cause for worry. Spotting is not unusual in the early weeks.”