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

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Here,” he says and sets a cup of tea on the table before me. “I know you didn’t sleep well.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “Well, not the last couple of hours at least. You moved around a lot. Moaned a few times.”

  “My back aches a little, but mostly I just don’t feel … right. I can’t explain it.”

  “Do you want me to cancel lunch with our mums?”

  Groan. “I forgot about that. Maybe you should. I don’t think I’m up for it today.”

  He picks up his phone and sends a text. “We could lie in bed watching movies all day.”

  “Don’t you need to work?”

  “What’s one day? First movie is your pick. Do you want something to eat? I already ate; cooked some lovely scrambled eggs all by myself, thank you very much.”

  “Congratulations.” I consult my stomach. “Not hungry yet. And I choose—”

  “Not Pride and Prejudice again.”

  I stick out my tongue at him. “I wasn’t going to pick that. But I do want a Keira Knightley movie, so let’s watch Begin Again.”

  He gives me a thumbs-up. “That one I can abide. Take your tea to bed, and I’ll be in after I clean up here.”

  When I climb into bed, I feel another twinge in my back. Even though Jeremy’s kept me on an exercise regimen for the whole nine months, carrying all this weight out front has taken a toll. As I sip my tea, I start doubting our name choice for the baby. I wonder if Chelsea was my mom’s first choice. Did my dad agree immediately or did he have to be convinced? And did they regret it later? Naming your child is trickier than I imagined. And that’s only the beginning of the responsibilities we’ll have.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with the name?” I ask Jeremy when he walks in.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Are you just saying that because you don’t want to discuss it?”

  He stretches out on the bed. “I’m saying that because we’ve already discussed it to death. Start the movie.”

  Fifteen minutes into the movie, I become aware that the ache in my back has progressed to reaching around me on both sides, like a hug. I hold my breath as it happens again. I glance at Jeremy and meet his eyes. He’s watching me.

  He sits up. “Is this it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just Braxton Hicks again.”

  “We’re already two days past the due date.”

  Like I don’t know that. “I need to move.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember? If it’s just Braxton Hicks, it should stop when I move around.”

  We climb out of bed. I start walking around the bedroom with Jeremy pacing right behind me. He has his phone in his hand with his thumb poised above the screen. “Are you having a contraction now?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Tell me when the next one starts so I can time them.”

  “If there is one.”

  “There will be. I know it. I’d wager labor started hours ago in your sleep.”

  Several minutes later, I stop walking and turn to him. “Nothing. I’m not in labor.”

  He nods, doing a poor job of hiding his disappointment. I start to get back in bed, but he stops me. “But just in case … you’d better shower.”

  “Okay. Pause the movie.”

  When I take off my panties I see more than what I assumed was just the normal wetness I’ve felt for months. It’s the bloody show. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m in labor. Then another contraction starts as I’m stepping into the shower. I call out to Jeremy, but he doesn’t answer. It doesn’t matter. If I’m really in labor, there will be plenty more to track.

  Jeremy’s sitting on the bed watching the bathroom door when I step out. “I gave Barbara a heads up,” he says. “She said we’re not to leave for the hospital until the contractions are regular, growing stronger, and no more than five minutes apart.”

  I smile because he counted off those instructions on his fingers, and also because, a week ago, he wrote those instructions on index cards and placed them on both our nightstands—and in the office, the kitchen, and the living room.

  “I put your suitcase in the car. Just in case.”

  I dress in comfy leggings and a tunic but leave my hair to dry naturally because, if I’m really in labor, it’ll be getting all sweaty and messed up anyway. Jeremy’s watching my every move. “You’re making me nervous with your hovering. Let’s just watch the movie.”

  “But … all right. So, no more contractions?”

  “One in the shower.” I take a step and stop. “And one starting now.”

  He taps the stopwatch on his phone.

  By forty-five minutes into the movie, I no longer doubt I’m in labor. Jeremy’s alternately manic and chill.

  “I’m starving,” I tell him. “What did Barbara say about eating?”

  “Oh … uh … high carb, something light?”

  “Bring me ice cream.” I wince, and he checks his phone.

  “That was just over six minutes.”

  “Ice cream.”

  “Are you sure you—”

  “Jeremy.”

  “Right. Getting it now.”

  He’s running so fast when he comes back into the room that he has to skid to a stop. I burst out laughing.

  “Bloody hell. You can’t be at that stage already.”

  I reach for the bowl and spoon. “What stage?”

  “The one where you go all emotional … or mental.”

  “You made that up.” I take a big bite and moan. Jeremy starts to tap his phone, but I knock his hand away. “No. This just tastes so good.”

  His eyes narrow with suspicion—he thinks I’ve chosen to go mental. I sit back and continue watching the movie. He paces and watches me.

  “Will you please sit down.” He perches on the end of the bed, his eyes still on me. “You know that saying about a watched pot?” He looks away.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he says when the movie ends.

  “In the rain?”

  “Let’s walk in the house, then. And you could do your exercises, your stretches.”

  So, for the next hour or so, I move. Jeremy shadows me, his stopwatch ever ready. We call our mothers, and they call us. When I texted Gabi, she called me crying because she can’t be with me for the birth. I feel the same way, but I tell her not to be silly, just rest and enjoy her babies. After I tire of walking and stretching, I go into the nursery and recheck everything. Jeremy watches me from the doorway.

  “The wipes box is a centimeter too far to the left,” he says.

  “Ha. Ha.” He backs up to let me out of the room. “I’m going to heat some soup. You want a sandwich?”

  “I’ll fix our lunch.”

  “Knock yourself out.” I turn on the TV in the living room. “Hey, guess what? Pride and Prejudice is on.” I turn up the sound and then sit at the dining table where I can watch. I time my own contractions while I wait. “Five minutes fifty-two,” I say when he sets my soup bowl on the table.

  He frowns. “Progress has stopped.”

  I lied about the time. I refuse to go to the hospital before we have to. Three spoonfuls later, I gasp and motion for Jeremy to start counting. This contraction is the strongest yet. “Time?” I say when it finally lets up.

  “Four minutes thirty-two seconds,” he announces triumphantly and jumps to his feet. “That’s it. Time to go.”

  “I haven’t finished my soup.”

  He looks at me like I’ve totally lost it. “Fuck the soup. It’s time to have a baby.”

  I clutch the bowl when he tries to take it from me. I’m not ready to leave. I’m not ready to be a mother. “Go away. I’m eating this. And I’m watching the rest of this movie.”

  “You have seen this movie fifty times.”

  He reaches for the bowl again. I pick it up and swivel away. He turns off the TV and then squats beside me, speaking calmly. “Fear of the unknown is normal. But we have to face it today. So, eat one
more spoonful and then put down the bowl.”

  I do as he ordered. He takes my hands and helps me to my feet. “Do you want to change clothes?” I shake my head. “What shoes do you want to wear?”

  “My purple flip-flops.”

  “It’s nippy and wet outside.”

  “My purple flip-flops.”

  He sighs. “Of course.” He turns toward the hall.

  “I have to pee.”

  He takes my hand and leads me to our bedroom. “Make it quick.”

  When I come out of the bathroom, my flip-flops are set on the floor, ready to step into. He’s wearing his jacket and holding mine. He helps me into it.

  “Why aren’t you freaking out like you were when Gabi was in labor with Marco?” I ask him.

  “I’m prepared this time. And so are you. We trained for this, wife.”

  “I’m still scared.”

  He wraps me in his arms. “I’ll be with you every minute.”

  It’s a twenty-minute drive to the hospital by freeway. We’ve driven for only three or four minutes when Jeremy curses and swerves to take an exit. “I forgot to tell Barbara we’re on our way.” He pulls into the first parking lot we come to and dials. “Shit,” he mutters. A few seconds later he speaks louder, “Hello, Barbara, this is Jeremy Pearce. Chelsea and I are on our way to the hospital.” He glances at me. “Voicemail.”

  “You told our moms, right?”

  His grimace answers my question. “I’m already fucking up my role in—” When another contraction hits and a small moan escapes me, he drops his phone into the cup carrier and starts the engine. “I’ll call them after we get to the hospital.”

  When the contraction ends, I pick up his phone. “I’ll text them now.” After I hit send, I close my eyes and try to relax.

  And then we’re pulling up to the birthing center entrance. While Jeremy makes sure our pre-registration is in order, the triage nurse determines that I am indeed in active labor, and soon we’re introduced to our labor nurse, Trina, who gets us set up in our room. Jeremy tells her we’re not sure Barbara knows we’re here, and Trina says she’ll check on it.

  When she leaves the room, Jeremy and I just look at each other for a moment. The mashup of excitement and fear I’m feeling is visible in his eyes too. “Wow. This is it.”

  He nods. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Instinctively needing to feel a physical connection, we hold each other, welcoming the privacy and quiet, which we both know will be the last we have for a while. I feel Jeremy’s phone vibrate. He pulls it out of his pocket, swipes the screen, and then looks at me with a sheepish grin.

  “What is it?”

  “A text from Matt. He’s giving me shit, telling me not to sit in the corner during this birth.” He types a reply. “I told him to fuck off.”

  That’s my guy.

  Trina peeks into the room. “No need to worry about Barbara. She was already in the hospital and just finished with another delivery. When it rains, we always get busy. She’ll be in to see you soon.”

  And then Mom and Amanda bustle into the room and the countdown to our baby’s birth officially begins. For the first hour, I walk around the room and up and down the hall with Jeremy or Mom and Amanda. During the second hour, I practice my squats, keep hydrated, and chat between contractions. The mothers will take care of Jeremy, so I’m not worried about him. He rubs my back when it hurts too much. He holds me during contractions and whispers sweet and encouraging words. He’s just perfect, as usual.

  Occasionally, Barbara updates us on the status of my cervix and reassures us everything is going well. In the third hour, the contractions grow stronger, and I move to the birthing ball and then to standing in Jeremy’s arms, swaying like we’re doing some awkward waltz. The contractions steadily increase in power and frequency until I don’t feel like talking anymore. After the next cervical check, Barbara suggests I lie on my side for a while.

  I lose track of time after that—but I’m pretty sure it’s been days since we checked in.

  Before her fifteen-minute break, Trina introduces us to the nurse who’ll take her place. I’m in the middle of my worst contraction yet, so I don’t catch her name. While Jeremy talks me through the pain, the replacement talks to our mothers. I can tell by her voice she’s one of those chipper women who tax my nerves—on a good day. And another whopper hitting me before I can get my breath makes this not a good day.

  One excruciating minute later, I open my eyes to find her smiling at Jeremy.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asks him in her peppy-happy-people voice.

  He throws me a sympathetic glance before responding. “I’m fine at the moment, thank you.”

  “Ooh,” Miss Chipper says to Jeremy, “I love your accent.”

  Shut up.

  “Where are you from?”

  “England.”

  Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  “I think a British accent is so sexy.”

  What the hell? My body’s trying to turn itself inside out and she’s flirting with my husband? “Get the fuck out of here!” I scream at her.

  “Wow!” Miss Chipper shoots me a disapproving scowl and, with hands on hips, adopts a perfect kindergarten teacher’s sing-song voice. “Somebody’s in transition.”

  I lunge for her throat.

  Jeremy tackles me.

  “Hey,” Barbara yells, “I’m trying to work here.”

  As another contraction piggy-backs on the one just easing up, I’m vaguely aware that Mom has moved to my other side so Miss Godawful Chipper can’t get near me again.

  Barbara looks up from my girly parts and orders me to my hands and knees before the next contraction. “Time to start laboring down, folks.”

  “Already?” Jeremy says.

  “Mom’s moving right along, Dad,” Barbara says. “Let’s stay as relaxed as possible, Chelsea.”

  Yeah, right.

  My mother asks what’s happening, and Barbara explains that I’m fully dilated, but not ready to push. Then, suddenly, I panic. “I can’t do this!”

  “You can,” Jeremy whispers in my ear. “We’re almost there. I’m right here. Concentrate on my voice.” And then, believe it or not, my husband starts whispering sexy things, and I relax. Time blurs. Hours or minutes later, Mom and Amanda are supporting my back, I’m squatting at the end of the bed, leaning on the birthing bar and pushing. Jeremy’s sitting beside Barbara, positioned to catch our baby.

  Before I know it, Jeremy, with tears streaming, is laying our squalling, squirming son in my arms. “Well done, wife.”

  As it turned out, Amy, the nurse assistant, was helpful. She filmed the birth on Jeremy’s phone for us—tastefully, from the side. (She was actually very sweet, laughing off my repeated apologies for trying to murder her.) Jeremy sent the video to the rest of the family so they could share the moment our beautiful, perfect Zachary Cole Pearce entered this world. I wanted the name Zachary to always remind us he’s free to be his own person, and Jeremy wanted him to carry my maiden name like he carries his mother’s.

  Now, we’re home and spending a ridiculous amount of time admiring him. We’re lying on the bed with him between us, just watching him sleep. “Isn’t he amazing?” I say.

  “Indeed, he is.” Jeremy lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it. “And so are you. I’m in awe of what you went through giving birth.”

  “You made it easy. I think you hypnotized me with your dirty talk at the end.”

  “I read about that technique and thought it worth a try.”

  I laugh. “Too bad our mothers could hear you.” He winces. “Sorry. I promise I won’t bring it up again. And they didn’t hear all of it.”

  We lie quietly for a while, smiling at the little faces our son makes in his sleep.

  Jeremy kisses my hand again. “I love you,” he whispers.

  “I love you too. We’ll always be this happy, won’t we?”

  “We will.”

  CHAPT
ER 14

  For me and Jeremy, the first week home with Zak becomes one big blur of breastfeeding, milk pumping, diaper changing, rocking, and trying to find time to feed ourselves, shower, and sleep—and that’s with the help of two grandmothers! How Gabi and Matt have been managing with the twins, Marco, and one grandmother is beyond me.

  Uncle and Gordon arrive at the end of that week. It shook me the first time Mom called Uncle “grandpa”, but as Jeremy pointed out, what else should he be to Zak? I mean, he’s a great uncle through Jeremy, but a step-grandfather through me. Grandpa is just simpler. So, it’s been decided that Mom and Uncle will be Grandma and Grandpa, and Amanda and Gordon will be Grandmother and Grandfather.

  The new and improved Gordon still amazes me. And Jeremy at ease and smiling around him is another miracle. The site of the two of them huddled together over Zak is awesome, even though it chokes me up because it’s a reminder that I’ll never get to share Zak with my dad.

  Reluctantly, the grandparents go back to England two weeks after Zak’s birth. Within thirty minutes of them walking out our door, Jeremy and I realize how much we’d depended on their help.

  All the experts tell you that babies are a lot of work. They warn you to sleep when the baby sleeps. To not be upset if you don’t get time to shower every day. Or not to freak out if you find yourself stuffing cold pizza in your mouth as you stand in the dark kitchen at two in the morning, sobbing because you fear you’ll never get your life under control again. Okay, they never say that last one. But it happens. Believe me.

  I try to do as much as I can by myself so Jeremy can keep working on his novel. It’s not like he doesn’t offer to help, but with the baby, it’s easier and quicker to do things myself. For all the research he did on pregnancy, he seems to be extremely lax on that when it comes to child care. I think he relies too much on my mother’s advice to use your instinct and common sense, so I’ve just started reading Dr. Eva Bentley’s book Childcare for the Modern Mother. For once, I’m not going to screw up. I’m going to do everything right.

  I wish I could be napping now while Zak is, but this bathroom won’t clean itself. I’m just about finished when Jeremy walks in with his phone in hand. “Look at this,” he says and starts a YouTube video playing.