by S. E. Hall
“The baby rolled over, like a huge wave across my stomach.” I demonstrate a wave with my hand. “It was amazing!”
“Very cool.” He bends his head and kisses my belly. “Do it for me tomorrow,” he tells the bump, then lies back down and turns on his away side.
And just like that, before Sawyer’s even completely settled, my baby gives me, the patient, anxious one, another show, which I smile upon and watch in silence.
THE LITTLE ORCA I’m carrying around never stops now, clearly visible acrobatics a daily occurrence which Sawyer finally got to see. I’ve got baby all figured out now, and sometimes, when I’m alone or bored, I purposely eat some sugar and lay flat on my back and watch as the little bundle puts on a full rock show in there. It makes me laugh, and makes me feel like they’re right there with me—entertaining Mama.
Dr. Greer got to see it at my appointment yesterday, too—she made a big deal about it, as animated as I’ll probably ever see her. She also said I needed to stay off my feet for a few days and see if the swelling there would go down.
I followed my doctor’s orders and traded my shift tonight, so here I sit, once again alone and mindlessly bored. I’d already checked and Laney’s busy, so I guess it’s Steel Magnolias and a fat-free yogurt fest. I hate being bored…I’d take more than my one class if I had the money, and work more if my feet didn’t look like water balloons, because stagnant is just plain lonely. I’ve always been independent, able to entertain myself, but even my beloved books and journal don’t hit the spot these days.
I feel invisible. I feel useless.
And I miss my best friend.
Perking up at the thought of him, I take the chance he won’t be too busy at work and text him.
Emmett: Hey babe, how’s your night?
After I stare at the screen of my phone for at least five minutes solid, I decide a watched pot really doesn’t ever boil, tossing the phone beside me and pressing play on the movie.
Barely past the opening credits, my phone dings and I hurriedly push pause.
Sawyer: All right, yours? Everything ok?
Emmett: Ya, fine. I just wanted to tt you. I miss you.
Sawyer: Me too Em. So you’re good, nothing’s wrong?
Emmett: I told ya, I’m fine worrywart. Lol
Sawyer: Cool, so can I ttyl? Need to get back to work.
Emmett: Sure, hagn babe. I may go down n chill w/ Laney in the hot tub for a while.
I shouldn’t tease him and get him all riled up while he’s working, but I’m a brat when I’m bored. That’s not it at all, really, I’m not a brat. I’m desperate for some Sawyer…some “no you don’t, because you’re my woman.”
Sawyer: K have fun.
Or not.
PREGNANT WOMAN with her feet up here, people! I’ve yelled come in four times, and yet, they do not. Obviously it’s someone I don’t know, so I grumble, lowering my legs with a grimace and heading for the front door.
On my tiptoes, I look out the peephole to find a young guy standing on my porch, beside him a dolly stacked with red tackle boxes.
“Can I help you?!” I yell through the door.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m Scott from Baby Steps. I’m looking for Emmett Young?”
“What is Baby Steps?”
“We’re the baby proofing specialists. I’ve got an order to safeguard the home of Emmett Young.” He holds up a piece of paper so I can see it through the peeper.
Knowing who sent him, and pretty sure the odds on random serial killers taking the time to plan a ruse that coincides with the fact you’re actually pregnant are pretty low, I open the door to him.
Holy hormone.
Scott from Baby Steps is not ugly—Scottie Too Hottie indeed.
His smile rivals the sun as he greets me, biceps trying to rip through the sleeves of his uniform shirt. “Hi there,” he says in an adorable country accent, “are you Emmett Young?”
My head bobs up and down while my eyes argue with my mind over breaking his beautiful eye contact.
“Okay, well I have a work order to baby proof,” he sweeps his brown eyed gaze down to my belly then back up, question in them, “your place today?”
Bless his heart. I blush at his inferred compliment, suddenly not feeling nearly as frumpy and dumpy as I have been lately. “I can guess who sent you.” I laugh, stepping aside and motioning him inside. “Come on in.”
He springs into action, laying his clipboard on top of the pile and scurrying around to prop up the dolly and wheel it inside. He turns to shut the door for me and wipes his feet thoroughly, smiling the whole time. “All right,” he picks up his clipboard once more, glancing over it, “looks like you’re set to have all the rooms done. Anywhere specific you’d like me to start?”
I should know the answer to this, being the expectant mother and all, but it was just so cute to let Sawyer read the book instead. Not so long ago, he’d even read in the bathroom, screaming out factoids to me as he took care of business. Perhaps not the cutest of moments I could have referenced, but to me, every time he read about baby stuff was precious.
“We could start with toilet locks. Usually only one or two of those, knock out one item quick.”
“Oh,” I shake off my reminiscent thoughts, “I’m sorry. Sure, only one toilet.” I point down the hall to the bathroom. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“No, ma’am, but when I’m done and mark off each task, I’ll need you to initial that I’ve shown you how to work it. Which I will,” he grapples, unable to situate the pen under the clip as he desperately wants to, “show you, I mean.” He’s so adorably nervous, his voice shaking unsurely through his constant smile.
“Scott, is this your first time doing this?” I ask, sure of the answer.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nods his head, “but I swear I know what I’m doing. All three of my sisters have kids and I got their places fixed up water tight.”
I giggle, but reign it in fast. I don’t want to make the poor guy think I’m laughing at him. “I’m sure you do. So go ahead and do your thing and I’ll just try to stay out of your way.”
He nods again briskly, then starts unsnapping the lids of his tackle boxes, getting to work. I leave him to it, finding my phone and heading to the kitchen. If he’s going to the bathroom, this puts me furthest away from him as I make my call.
“Hey, Em,” he answers, winded.
“What’re you doing? You sound out of breath.” I steal a peek around the corner, confirming Scott’s occupied in the bathroom.
“I’m jogging, late for class way the fuck across campus.
What’s up?”
I wonder why he’s late for class, but don’t ask. For reasons that can’t be precisely defined, I’ve let lots of small things here and there go unquestioned lately. It’s not that I need to know every move he makes—it would drive me insane if he expected a daily recollection of my whats, wheres and whos, which would take approximately ten seconds with my boring life lately—no, this is more about me and what it means that I consciously don’t ask the little things anymore.
“I thought I’d call and let you know the baby proofing guy you ordered is here. Anything special you wanted done, or—”
I wish you’d told me? Asked what I thought? Be here when it happened?
“Ah shit, I forgot! He’s there now?”
“Yep, he’s in there locking up the toilet as we speak. I was surprised when he showed up, since I’m not sure what we’re having done.” I keep my tone nice, ‘cause it is very conscientious and thoughtful of him, but insinuating all the same.
“Hey, Sawyer, where’ve you been hiding?” I hear the girl’s chirp in the background.
“Hey,” he answers her a tad awkwardly, yet wears a smirk on his face as he does so. I can hear it.
“Sawyer?” I draw him back tersely. “I’ll let you go, just telling ya.”
“I’m sorry, Em, I should be there. I…” His frustrated breath is loud in my ear. “I forgot. I’m no
t really sure what else to say.”
Lucky for him we don’t take the time to play our “I’m sorry” game anymore; he’d run out of facts.
“It’s fine, really. It was nice of you to think of it, thank you.” The goodbye is tickling my lips, but I pull it back, and try again. “Hey, babe?”
“Yeah?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Em,” he sighs, “everything’s fine, I promise. Can you try to bear with me?”
“Of course,” I whisper, clenching my eyes shut, squeezing back the building moisture. “Thanks, babe. I’ll see you tonight.”
He’s gone, hung up, when I open my eyes, composure reclaimed. I can hear Scott on the other side of the wall right beside me, digging in his boxes. Toilet done, he must be ready to move on to the next project, so I grab my current book off the counter and plop down on the couch…out of his way too.
My neck is stiff. I roll my head back and forth and rub my eyes, stretching my arms out in front of me. I’ve read the same chapter of the paperback I’m holding three times, absorbing no facts of the story, unable to picture the scenes in my head, when Dane breezes in through front door with no obligatory bell or knock.
“Hey, Emmett, how are you?” he says cheerfully.
I look around and behind him, finding no Laney, then back up to him, puzzled at minimum. “Hey, Dane. What’s, uh, can I help you?” What else do I say? What the hell are you doing here?
“No, no, don’t get up or anything. I was down at Laney’s and saw the van parked here. Thought I’d come by and make sure everything was all right.” He’s not fooling anyone. He’s talking to me but staring holes through Scott in the kitchen. “Who’s your guest?”
I roll my eyes, setting down my book and pushing myself up off the couch. “Scott,” I call out as I do so, “can you come here a minute, please?”
In a blink, literally, he’s standing in front of me, smiling politely. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Uh, this is my…” Boss? Friend? I have no idea the appropriate thing to say here, but thankfully the two men save me from having to decide.
“Hi, I’m Scott Barton with Baby Steps,” Scottie Too Hottie says, sticking out his hand. “Making your baby’s home a safe haven.”
Dane eyes him curiously; he probably wasn’t expecting the full ad. “Dane Kendrick,” he offers his hand, “her man’s best friend.”
Knowing what little I do of Dane, it seems perfectly within his idea of normal to take it upon himself to stop by, walk in unannounced or invited, and investigate suspicious vehicles. But, it seems more likely that Sawyer sent him to check out the man alone in the house with me. I’d allow it to miff me a bit, except…Sawyer sent him.
Scott glances back and forth between us a few times before shrugging and saying, “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m gonna go ahead and get back to work?” he questions me with his tone and his eyes.
“Yes,” I nod, “thank you.”
Dane clears his throat, shifting beside me, so I look up at him. “Can you walk me out, Emmett?”
“Oh, sure.” I clear my face of confusion and head to the door.
One step on the porch and Dane has already closed the front door and placed a hand on my arm, startling me. “You don’t have to walk me to my car, Emmett. Do you feel safe with him here while Sawyer’s gone? I can stay.”
“Wow, that’s very nice Dane, thank you. But it’s fine, really. I feel perfectly safe. And if I didn’t,” I just realize I’ve shifted my stance to somewhat defensive and crossed my arms, “I’d call Sawyer and expect him to come home. He’s the one who ordered this, after all.”
He runs a hand back through his hair, eyes flicking left, right, down, then back to mine. “Emmett, I may be out of line, if so, I apologize, but,” hand through hair again, clearly his coping gesture, “well, is there anything I can do? Or talk to Sawyer about?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” His eyes aren’t cold, but they’re serious, as is his tone. “Sawyer’s my brother, I love him very much, and I know him very well. I can’t stand by and watch him sabotage himself, so I’d like to try and help if I can. Nothing would please me more than for him to be happy, and I know you’re his happy.”
For some reason, I always find Dane to be very intimidating, and even though his words are kind and his intentions are noble, right now I feel especially feeble to his aura of power and control, so it takes great effort to hold my voice steady and keep my chin up as I say as confidently as I can, “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but Sawyer and I are great. We don’t need anyone to run interference. We’re a team, together, and we’ll find our own way back to good.”
He considers me and my answer, rubbing his chin and finally letting a coy grin take over his face. “That’s how it should be. Good answer,” he says decidedly. “All right then. If anything feels off, you call him right away. All right?”
“All right.” I nod and walk back in the house and he heads to his car.
Now I need to convince myself, as I just did him, that I’m confident in my team.
FOR THE FIRST MORNING in what seems like forever, I’m up before Sawyer. Not only will I get to see his face instead of the occasional note this morning, but I’m excited to attempt my first Thanksgiving dinner. I’m hoping for edible and praying for no food poisoning, so anywhere in the middle will be considered a success.
Things have been lackluster, to say the least, between Sawyer and I lately, and there’s a distance between us that I feel growing wider every day. I’m not a moron, I see the signs, but one person’s slow down is another person’s go faster before it turns red. A racecar driver at heart, I continue to try. I’d put up a fight and he continued to fight for me, I’m more than woman enough to do the same. There’s still a “we” inside him, I catch glimpses of it every so often; a brush of his hand on mine, a wink here and there…deep down, we’re more than just the roommates we’ve become. Maybe this holiday meal, just he and I, will bring us back to good. Bellies full, snuggled up on the couch with a movie, maybe finally a good heart-to-heart conversation…
“You’re up early.” His groggy morning greeting startles me.
“I am. Good morning.” I go up on my toes for his kiss, but all I get is a chaste brush of his lips then he steps around me to open the fridge. “I had to get the turkey in early if we want to eat by lunch time. I’m about to start peeling potatoes. You wanna help?”
“Oh, um,” he falters, eyes flicking around the room, “I didn’t know you had a big deal planned. I was gonna go in to work.”
“On Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, Em, on Thanksgiving. I need all the money I can get. I have responsibilities.”
“I have responsibilities too, Sawyer. I’m up to my eyeballs in responsibility,” I measure that with a sideways hand at my eye line, “but taking today for family seemed pretty important too. Can’t we just have today?”
“Sure,” he concedes with a small smile that reeks of effort. “What time you want me to be back?”
“Whenever.” I toss the dishtowel on the counter, my mood turned.
“No, not whenever.” He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me to him. “What time, Em?”
I bury my face in his shirt, hiding my teary eyes and disappointment. “I don’t want it to be a burden, Sawyer. I want you to want to be here.”
“I want a lot of things, Emmett.” His face goes to my hair and for a fleeting, hopeful second I think he’s going to give me one of his infamous head kisses that I’ve gone far too long without, but he merely speaks. “I’ll see ya at two. Good?”
All I can do is nod, afraid to try and speak any more. If I dare, I’ll either cry, burdening him more, or scream out my frustrations, driving him further away. So I nod, lift my head, and release him.
“Okay, I’ll be here at two.”
Here, not home. No kiss goodbye.
When he’s gone, I slide down to the floor, right wher
e I stand, and wrap my arms around my knees. We aren’t “playing house” any more and reality’s proving to be too much. I’ve lost Sawyer to his own mind—I’ve become his responsibility. Who could blame him for checking out? The road to heartache, it would seem, is also paved with good intentions.
“Happy Thanksgiving.” I rub my stomach and let go of the hold I had on my tears, watching with a strange detachment as they splash onto my shirt.
I SUCK IN A HARSH GASP, quickly wiping my face and scrambling to my feet. Hoping my mask is in place, I turn, elated that he’s come back in.
But no, he hasn’t…I hear his voice, but he isn’t speaking to me, it’s floating through the open window. And damn you all to hell, Georgia, for hosting Thanksgivings warm enough for open windows, ‘cause what I hear Sawyer say next reaches into my chest and takes the last hopeful piece of us I had left and snuffs it into the ground.
“Hi. I didn’t think you’d answer on Thanksgiving. Can I come over now and talk?”
MY FAMILY STONE
“THIS FEELS AMAZING. You’re all geniuses.”
“All?!” Whitley cries. “Do not even think of giving Laney credit for pedicures! She wouldn’t even know that word if it weren’t for Bennett and I. Right, Ben?”
“Right.” Poor Bennett is breaking a sweat taking the pumice stone to Laney’s crusty, ball playing heels. “God, Laney, I hope you wear socks to bed! If not, Dane’s not gonna have any skin left on his poor legs!”
“I can hear you bitches when you talk out loud,” Laney retorts, her head back on the couch and cucumber slices over her eyes.
I giggle even though I’m only half-listening to their banter. Whitley is a rubbing, scrubbing goddess, performing crazy miracles on my swollen feet right now. I’m so relaxed I might fall asleep.
This is precisely what I needed, an evening with awesome ladies and my aching cankles being tended to. Nowhere in the book Sawyer’s reading did it say that the minute you hit 27 weeks your water retention triples overnight and you turn into an Oompa Loompa. If it did, he didn’t read me that part.
