by Malcom, Anne
He gritted his teeth. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin’, Emma,” he said, moving the canvas.
I froze. I was supposed to still be mad at him. Despite the fact he slept in my bed every night and I slept in his arms, I’d been very clear on where we stood when the sun came up. To his credit, he hadn’t tried to push me further. Though, he’d moved into my apartment when I’d told him that was never going to happen, so he was likely pretty darn smug about that.
I’d stopped being truly mad at him about a week ago and I was just clinging onto the distance because I was a coward. And because I had a baby to think about. Even if I told Wyatt I forgave him, we got back together—if that’s what we were before—it was always going to be temporary. We would fight, it would be ugly. And I would continue that cycle if it was just me and Wyatt. I’d continue it in a heartbeat. Because that pain was worth it for him.
But it was not pain that I would let my daughter witness or feel.
“You’re punishing me with manual labor because I didn’t let you go to the gallery,” he said, still holding the painting.
I chewed my lip. I had made a big deal about it, but I wasn’t actually pissed or getting cabin fever like Wyatt thought. I was actually...enjoying myself. Lexie, Mia, Noah, Gina, Sam, and Ava were constant visitors. With that barrel of crazy, I was never bored.
The rest of the domestic tour had been canceled, and I’d expected a barrage of hate online since me being rushed to the hospital had made the news. Instead, me and Wyatt got an outpouring of love and understanding. It was strange to get positivity from the masses when I’d been expecting the worst. Sometimes people weren’t shitty. It was a surprise.
Because of the canceled tour, Wyatt had nowhere to be. He flat out refused to do any interviews or press, go to any parties, or do anything that took him out of the apartment for more than a few hours.
And I liked that.
Of course I made noises about being able to take care of myself and that he was being unreasonable, but I never actively argued about his almost constant presence.
I liked having him in my space that I’d been so fierce to protect from another human. I’d been convinced that if I let someone into my home my illusion of safety would shatter. Instead, I realized I’d never felt safe until Wyatt moved in.
“Yes,” I lied, back to the conversation about the painting. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Plus, you’re looking a little chubby, the workout’s good for you.”
He worked out once a day in my apartment’s gym complex. Sometimes I snuck down to spy on him. He was not at all getting a little chubby.
He grinned and I felt it in between my legs. “You’re getting a little chubby too, sugar. Big burrito last night?” he teased.
I flipped him the bird.
He responded by putting the canvas down and hammered in a nail for it.
I watched him put the painting up in the first place he’d suggested half an hour ago. He stood back, regarding it.
It was a piece I’d been wanting for an age. And I’d been yet to track it down. Me, one of the best curators in the world.
Wyatt, of all people, had found it. He saw me frowning at the image of it a couple of nights before. Like if I stared at it long enough, I’d get an email from the various collectors I’d contacted about it.
“My buddy has that painting.”
I gaped up at him, not even snapping for reading over my shoulder. “Can you get him to sell it?”
He grinned. “You want it?”
I nodded.
“Then yeah, I can.”
And he did.
It was another one of the paintings hung at the gallery in Washington. One of the ones I’d stared at for hours, one I’d taken home with me in my mind, reassure me that I was not alone in my pain. Because the painting was painful to look at, it wasn’t calming or beautiful. That’s why I liked it.
“Does it make you uncomfortable?” I asked as we stared at the harsh and violent brush strokes.
He frowned in response, still staring at the canvas. I liked that. Loved that. Most people would glance at it, decide what response would make them sound the most cultured and spout it off without thought. Not very many people felt art anymore. Let it sink into them.
But then again, Wyatt was an artist, his canvas was a stage, his tool a bass.
“True art makes you uncomfortable,” I said, moving to stand. “It makes you question your life after and before looking at it. It makes you imagine what the artist was living when they painted it. But the answer is they were living the painting. And we’re all living art. And if life doesn’t make you uncomfortable, then it’s not living.” My voice was less than a whisper by the time I was finished.
He wasn’t staring at the painting anymore. He was staring at me with more intensity than I’d ever seen someone look at something. “Yeah,” he murmured.
“Wyatt,” I warned. “Don’t fucking look at me like that.”
“Like what?” His voice was sex.
I swallowed roughly. “You know what.”
He stepped forward, advancing on me. “Like I love you?”
The words hit me. He hadn’t pushed the boundaries since I moved in. He’d said some Wyatt-like things that made my stomach flutter and pussy tighten, but I’d managed to restrain myself. He rested his hand on my stomach when we were watching TV together and at night held me when I slept, but he’d never tried for more. He was waiting for me to make the first move, I knew that.
It seemed now, a week out from my due date, he was sick of waiting.
“You don’t want to love me,” I whispered.
His gaze darkened. “Lovin’ you wasn’t a choice,” he rasped, placing his hand on my neck. “It’s a lifetime commitment.” His other hand was flat on my belly. “Just like this.”
I didn’t try to get away from him. “I’m not easy to love,” I said. “I’m not going to be your biggest fan, let you get away with everything, let you treat me like you did that day. I’m not gonna worship at your fucking altar like the rest of the world does because of your smile, your hair, your body, your tattoos or your talent.”
“I know,” he whispered. “That’s why I want you to marry me, to spend your life with me. Because you’re not my fan, you’re my equal. And if anyone’s going to worship at someone’s altar, it’s gonna be me.” He kissed the side of my neck. “Because of your cynicism, because of your pain, your strength, your scars.” His hands rubbed at my stomach. “Your heart, your smile, your damaged and magnificent soul. I don’t give a fuck if the world worships me. If you don’t. I just give a fuck if you’re by my side, not at my knees.”
I was about to melt right then, in his arms, fuck the consequences, fuck everything. But my baby had other ideas. More specifically, being born.
Wetness poured down my leg, a lot more than just being turned on by Wyatt’s words.
Wyatt looked down at the puddle at our feet. “Holy fuck.”
I did too. “Yeah,” I sighed. “She has good timing.”
He grinned up at me. “More like she approves of her mom and dad getting their shit together just in time for her to be born.”
* * *
Wyatt didn’t freak out after my water broke. I didn’t expect him to. I could trust him to take care of me. And he did. He got me a change of clothes, hoisted the baby bag I’d had packed for a week on his shoulder and helped me to his car.
He lost his calm slightly when the car was followed by the paps who had been camped out at my apartment, aware of my due date, but he’d quickly reined it in once we got to the private hospital away from all the cameras.
I spent my time trying not to freak out about the human I was about to push out of my vagina and everything that had gone down between Wyatt and me before my water broke. His hand had stayed firmly in mine the entire ride, sometimes he’d lift it and place his lips on my palm, asking if contractions had started.
“If my contractions had started, I wou
ldn’t be sitting here holding your hand, I’d be cursing you five ways to Sunday for doing this to me,” I said pleasantly.
He grinned. “I’ll make sure they get you the drugs as soon as possible,” he promised.
I almost agreed to marry him right then and there, but I found my restraint and then we were distracted by the entire check-in process and the whole, me giving birth thing.
I guessed if I was going to give birth, then I was pretty lucky to have the father be someone like Wyatt, as the hospital was sleek, quiet and everyone was soft-spoken and calm. I felt like I was in a fucking spa.
I’d been put in a wheelchair, and protested loudly about the fact I could walk, totally ruining the zen atmosphere.
“You’re having a fucking baby, Emma,” Wyatt snapped. “Get in the fucking wheelchair.”
It seemed that we were both adept at ruining the zen atmosphere.
Though the nurses hadn’t blinked, nor had they protested when Wyatt demanded he’d be pushing the wheelchair.
“Can you be any more of a demanding asshole rock star?” I asked, craning my head to give him a look.
“If it’s asshole and demanding to want to push my woman in a wheelchair when she’s about to push my daughter into this world, then I’ll own that title, baby,” he shot back.
I was silent for a moment, turning back to look straight forward. “I’m not your woman,” I muttered.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” he said, smile in his voice.
When we got to the room they’d assigned to me, I gaped around it. “This is where I’m giving birth?”
“That’s what they tell me,” Wyatt said, voice light.
“This is nicer than my apartment.” He wheeled me farther into the room that smelled of lavender. Fucking lavender. Not of sterile cleaning products failing to completely cover the smell of vomit and death that was the fragrance of most hospitals.
The nurses readied a large bed with a plush comforter.
There was a corner sofa overlooking a view of the city. A small but fancy kitchenette with an espresso machine, fucking espresso. A plasma TV.
“It was almost worth getting knocked up by you just to chill out in here while I have a baby,” I said as Wyatt helped me up and into the bed.
He grinned. “Glad to hear it.” He kissed my head.
I let him.
The moment stretched on between us, neither of us wanting to break eye contact. I was wrong when I said that little pocket of silence at the beach house couldn’t be replicated or taken with us. We had it right here, in the ridiculous delivery room at the fancy hospital when I was about to ruin my vagina and have my daughter.
Searing pain through my stomach cut through the moment.
“Fucking hell that hurts!” I screamed. “I take it back,” I hissed at a worried looking Wyatt. “It was not worth getting knocked up by you.”
He grinned, but it was tinged with a lot of concern as nurses gently took my vitals and muttered about contractions.
“I’m not sure how it works in the fancy hospitals, if I get a nice menu in which to pick my cocktail of drugs, but I’m going to need that, like yesterday,” I said to one of the nurses.
She smiled good-naturedly.
“I’m not joking.” I scowled at Wyatt. “Tell her I’m not joking. Go and be a demanding rock star and get me the fucking drugs.”
He grinned again. Kissed my head again. “Your wish is my command.”
* * *
Wyatt came back with a Dr. Adams in tow.
She was smiling.
I’d always thought I’d liked her, but the fact she was slim, not having contractions and smiling made me decided I fucking hated her.
“First off, I’m telling you the anesthetist will be here in a few minutes to give you your epidural,” she said, glancing to the machines I was hooked up to.
Okay, I was back to loving her again.
“I just wanted to come and check in, let you know we’ll be monitoring your vitals closely to eliminate any complications with the pregnancy.”
She moved to the end of the bed, moving the comforter away and splitting my legs to inspect my situation downstairs.
“Eyes up,” I commanded Wyatt, who looked like he was about to move down that way. “I know it’s been awhile for us” —I gave him a pointed look— “your fault. But you want to get in there ever again, you do not scar yourself with whatever is going on down there.”
He chuckled, coming to kiss my head. “What’s going on down there is beautiful, sugar.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s bullshit that movies tell you to trick women into getting pregnant. When in reality it’s more like a fucking horror movie.”
Dr. Adams gently moved my legs down and covered me. “I’m thinking that you’re not going to have to endure for too much longer, you’re already eight centimeters. Your daughter’s in a hurry.”
Wyatt smirked. “She takes after her mom. No patience.”
I gritted my teeth through a contraction. “Well, she takes after her father, being an asshole.”
“You can’t call your daughter an asshole right before you give birth to her,” he snapped.
“You get to say that when you’ve got someone squeezing your cervix with The Hulk’s grip. Until then, shut the fuck up,” I gritted out.
“I’ll just go and check on that epidural,” Dr. Adams said, smile in her voice.
“That’s probably best for Wyatt’s health,” I muttered.
* * *
“I never asked you about your parents,” I said, breathing heavily.
We were still waiting on the anesthetist who I decided I hated. If they didn’t come soon, I was giving this entire hospital a shitty Yelp review.
He glanced down at me. “Now’s not exactly the time to get into childhood trauma, you’re about to give birth.”
I gritted my teeth through the pain of a contraction. “No, now is exactly the time. I’m not bringing my daughter into the world until I know it. I knew your parents did something to you and I was so high and mighty about my own pain and trauma I didn’t want to know yours. Not because I didn’t think it could measure up to mine but because pain is a connection between people. If we shared that, I was scared about how close it would bring us.”
Wyatt froze. His hand pushing hair from my face. “Fucking only you would spend the whole part of the pregnancy yelling at me. And chose the part where you’re actually allowed to yell and scream at me to be sweet.”
I grinned. “We never were ones to follow the rules.”
He leaned down to kiss me hard and fast on the lips. “No, babe. We’re not.” He moved back, reaching over for the cold, lemon-scented flannel from a cabinet beside the bed.
Yes, the lemon scented flannel.
“Seems a bit fucked up to be tellin’ my story when you’re in this much pain,” he said. “When you went through so much pain in your childhood, real pain. Mine pales in comparison.”
I blinked at him. “Pain is pain, Wyatt. There’s no measure. Not comparison. If someone hurt you, it matters. I’ve been an asshole for not wanting to know earlier.”
He kissed my head. “You’re my favorite asshole.”
I smirked through the haze of pain. “It’s poetry like that that had me falling in love with you.”
He froze, and I was well aware that it was the first time I’d said it since my father’s funeral, since our fight.
“I’m tired of pretending I’m not in love with you,” I whispered in response to his expression.
He sighed, resting his forehead against mine. “Thank fuck.”
He moved to kiss me long and hard in a way that was totally not appropriate for the delivery room.
I loved it.
He leaned back, eyes roving over my likely blotchy and sweaty face. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
I grinned. “You’re a liar.”
He grinned back. “You really want to know about my parents now?”
I
nodded. “Really. I need to know your pain. I want it all.”
He sucked in a breath. “They didn’t hit me, either of them. Mostly ‘cause they’re cowards. Also ‘cause they were smart enough to know bruises raised questions.” He sucked in a breath. “Everyone thinks my dad was the main asshole, but it was both of them. My mom wasn’t the maternal, loving person she played in fucking PTA meetings. If anything, she was worse than my dad.”
He took a moment to reach down to the ice chips that were delivered constantly, letting me sip on some. Crunching, I motioned for him to continue.
He sighed. “When I was a kid, I remember she’d pinch me. For no reason. ‘Til I cried. Then she’d tell me real men didn’t cry. And that I wasn’t a real man.” He shook his head. “She had her fair share of issues, fucked-up childhood that she decided not to learn from, but to pass on. My dad, he wasn’t as bad. He didn’t do shit when he saw Mom doing her fucked-up shit, even when he walked in on her holding me under in the bath long enough for me to pass out.”
I flinched at the words. At the agony in them. Contractions were nothing compared to this shit. To this knowledge. I’d known abuse in my past. But that didn’t mean more of it didn’t surprise me. Fucking horrify me.
Wyatt stroked my head at my motion. “Babe, we don’t have to do this now.”
“We do,” I argued. “I need this.”
“Fuck if I can say no to you,” he muttered. “I grew up, my dad took more of an interest, trained me to play ball like he did. He was good in school. Not good enough to go pro, I suspect he was bitter as fuck about that.” He shrugged. “Wanted to live through me. Don’t know, don’t really give a fuck. I was good at it, but I hated it. Hated the jocks and the whole farce of it all. It didn’t mean anything, not to me, anyway. Music meant something to me. Music was everything to me. Even if it was for “pussies” and “fags” according to my dad.”
I decided I was going to call in my marker with my Russian friends. For Wyatt’s parents.
And he wasn’t fucking done.
“Day I started the band, they stopped talking to me,” he said, voice even, but eyes full of scars. “Literally stopped acknowledging my existence. It was fucked up. Even though I hated them, it fucked me up.” His gaze seared into mine. “That shit made me promise myself I’d never have kids, ‘cause I didn’t want to carry on my polluted bloodline. ‘Cause I was selfish, maybe. That’s why I was an asshole, a piece of shit when I found out. Fuck, that’s why I got so fucked up that night we made her.” He laid his palm on my stomach. “Got a call from my dad. First one in six years. First time he’d spoken to me. Asking for money. Of course. I was surprised it didn’t come sooner. Thought I was over it. Done with them. Turned out they weren’t done with me. Hence the blackout. But right now, I’ll write my father a fucking thank you card for everything he did to me. Mom too. Because it all led me here. To you. No way am I regretting a second of that pain in my past for what I’ve got in my present. My future.”
