by Lisa Sorbe
He smiles, his mouth still so close to mine I can feel his grin against my lips. “I love you too, Jenny.”
I give him another peck on the lips before sliding down against him, my back to the couch. I wrap my arms and legs around him, and he pulls me in close. “So,” he says. “Are you still in need of my puny muscles? Or…” He draws the word out, waiting.
I squeeze his arm. “These,” I say, “are hardly puny.” Then I slide my hand up and under his t-shirt, feeling the heat from his skin against my palm. I just want to get as close to him as I can. “And, no. I won’t be needing your, um, assistance anymore. I handled it. And you were right,” I say. “Listening helped. I don’t – damn, I can’t believe I’m saying this – but I don’t hate him.” I graze my hand over his chest, feel the beat of his heart beneath my fingertips. “And I do feel lighter. So much lighter.”
And I do. I can even go so far as to say that I forgive him.
Or, at the very least, I’m halfway there. Which, considering where I started the night, is pretty fucking amazing.
Julian has a lot of work to do before I let him into my daughter’s life. I’m still not sure how to handle that. But I’m willing to try.
And I don’t have to worry about a prima ballerina step mom, because that relationship apparently soured months ago. Julian is single, and he says he plans to stay that way for a long time.
It’s odd, because when you live with bitterness and all those other deep, dark emotions for so long, they sort of mold to you, sink into your body. They’re a heaviness you hardly notice. But the weight just keeps increasing in intensity so gradually you barely know you’re carrying it. And then – poof! – when you release it, let it go, you finally realize how much it was holding you down. And all the time you thought that what you were feeling – the pains and pokes and spasms that chewed away at your heart, your soul, your sanity – was normal. When, in reality, what you were feeling wasn’t normal at all.
You never know how much anger you’re holding on to until you release it. Until you feel that visceral weight lift. All that shit, it’s something you carry in your bones, your muscles, the very cells of your body.
I start to tell Miles what happened tonight. The things Julian and I talked about, the arrangement we hope to come to terms with. How along with forgiveness comes second chances.
Because, yes. Some people do deserve them.
I start to tell him all of this. But I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. My lids eventually flutter, slide shut, and my voice becomes an echo in my own ears. It’s not long after that I feel a blanket slide over my back.
And the last thing I remember before drifting off is the feeling of being wrapped up in Miles’s arms and the beginning notes of Zeppelin’s Ramble On fading in the background.
“Hi, Mom! Bye, Mom!”
It’s Saturday morning and I’m pulling my dance bag out of the backseat of my Rover when Emilia blows by, skipping down the walk and heading for the dirt road in front of our rental, Lady leading the way.
“Hey, you! Wait a sec!”
Emilia stops and gives a soft tug on the leash. Lady trots back and falls into a sit by her feet. “What?”
I throw my bag over my shoulder and study her. Her pigtails are lopsided, and I can see the red strap of her swimming suit underneath the collar of one of Miles’s old concert tees. Def Leppard Hysteria is written across the front in lighting strike script, and the faded black material hangs down past her knees. On her feet, she’s wearing navy rain boots with cartoon lady bugs drawn on the rubber – a gift Julian brought her back from his show in Seattle last month and she insists on wearing every single day, despite the fact that it’s June and the temperature is inching toward ninety degrees with no rain in sight.
I cock my head. “You look like a vagabond.” Then I smile. Because even though she looks like a homeless kid, she’s my kid, and I love her more than anything in the world.
Even painting.
“You going swimming?”
She nods, bouncing around on the balls of her feet. This kid has so much energy, I swear.
“And you called to ask if it was okay first, right?”
She nods again. “Uncle Fox said I could. And,” she says, seeming to sense my next question. “He said I could bring Lady to play, too.”
“Fine, fine. Go ahead and go. I’ll walk up and get you at three, okay? Your dad will be in town around four and he’s picking you up for that movie, remember?”
“I know, I know! Can I go now? Puh-lease?”
I laugh and wave her off. Apparently I have a fish for a daughter. Which is a good thing, because I signed her up for the Guppies swimming team in the fall which will give her year-round access to a pool. So, yeah. I’m going to be a swim mom. And I couldn’t be more excited.
My brother’s place is barely a quarter mile away, but I still watch her walk a bit even though she stays off the road and has trekked the path well over a dozen times since we moved in three months ago. In the distance, I see a blonde head walking in Emilia’s direction, an over-excited coonhound puppy bouncing around on the end of a leash. Elise waves, and I return the gesture before turning and heading up our walk. My soon-to-be sister-in-law isn’t half bad, actually. She’s pretty sweet and a whole lot of fun – something I found out once I gave her a chance.
I find Miles sitting on the porch swing, Lucy curled up in his lap. She doesn’t hiss when she sees me, but when I drop my dance bag and slide in next to him, she gives me her trademark dirty look. “Oh, bite me,” I tell her.
Miles just runs his fingers down her back and laughs. “You know, it’s just now hitting me. I’m the only man in a houseful of women. You, Milly, Lady, Lucy. We seriously need to do something about that.”
I bite my tongue. There’s something I want to tell him – something I need to tell him – but, for some reason, I’m having a hard time working up the nerve. Instead, I bring up our dog-sitting gig next week and how, with Kevin, he’ll at least have one other dude in the house. We’re watching Fox and Elise’s three dogs while they’re in Iceland, and I’m already exhausted just thinking about it. I push my foot against the floor of the porch, making the chair swing and tilt my head toward the house. “I can’t believe we’ve gotta fit four dogs and a kid in there. For two weeks, Miles!” I feign terror. “When is our place going to be done again?” But I laugh, because we’ve only just started renovating our farmhouse and I’m completely aware of all the work that needs to be done.
It’s going to be a big undertaking, but it’ll be so worth it when it’s finished.
“Next year, sweetheart. Next year.”
I groan. “I know, I know.”
“Come on,” Miles says, sliding his arm around my shoulder and pulling me next to him. Lucy growls and hops down, slinking across the porch and down the steps. She sprawls out on the sidewalk, her black coat shiny in the morning sun. “You know you love it here. And,” he adds, sliding his finger along my waist, “I know for a fact you love having the loft to yourself.”
I nod, because he’s right. I moved all of my art stuff upstairs the day after we moved in here. Which is great, because there’s so much more room in Miles’s old place that I feel like I can paint twice as much, twice as fast. And, as of a month ago, we hired Shauna (the singer from The Rothchester House) to help part time in the front, giving me more time with my art.
And I do love it here. This place used to be my grandfather’s house – a place my family lived for the first few years of my life – and it’s incredibly homey. Fox did some remodeling a few years ago, adding some modern touches, and we’re fortunate to be able to stay here until our place is done.But with two bedrooms and a tiny den, it just isn’t big enough for a… a growing family.
“How was dance?” Miles asks. He takes a sip from his coffee mug (Elvis is alive and well in Tennessee) before handing it to me.
“Fine,” I say, taking a sip of my own before handing it back to him. I lean m
y head against his shoulder. During one of our morning coffee dates, George discovered I used to take ballet and urged me to attend one of the barre classes at the studio where she teaches yoga. One class and I was hooked. It’s just a few blocks down from the shop, so not only am I able to meet George several mornings a week, but I also get a good workout in after dropping Emilia off at school and before the garage opens. We finally convinced Betsy to give it a try, and today was her first class. I can’t help but smirk as I remember how stiff she was by the end of it. “Betsy’s going to be walking funny for a few days.”
Miles laughs. “I still can’t see her doing ballet. She’s such a klutz.”
“Yeah, well. You should see her in tap class.” I shudder. “Bitch is crazy good.” I took a few of the walk-in classes the studio offers and found it’s still not my thing. But Betsy loves it, and it’s like her two left feet finally find their bearings when they’re clad in the clunky shoes.
“I did tell her we finally set a date, though.” The swing has stilled, so I push against the floor again. I like the rocking motion, being wrapped up in Miles’s arms while we ease into a lazy weekend morning. Now that Miles has help at the shop (he finally broke down and hired another mechanic – a great guy that worked with Elise years ago and came highly recommended) he actually gets a day or two off a week.
“I take it she’s available?”
“Considering it’s a year and a half away, yeah. I told her the plans and she’s actually bummed it’s not sooner.” We’ve put off our wedding because this year – with the house reno and the art shows I’ve got scattered across the Midwest – is going to be busy enough, without adding a wedding into the mix. And with the news I found out last night… “Although we are scheduled for engagement pictures in a few weeks.”
Miles groans. “Don’t remind me.”
I smack his chest, and he grabs my hand. Rubbing circles into the pad of my palm, he says, “You know it’s a testament to my love that I’m willing to frolic around in a freaking field while Betsy follows us with a camera, right?”
I laugh and snuggle in closer. “Whatever. You’re handsome and I’m beautiful, and the pictures are going to be amazing.”
“She does think highly of herself,” he jokes. Then, “You’re not going to make me wear anything weird, are you? Like a hipster hat and skinny jeans that are so tight I can barely walk?”
An image pops into my head and I laugh so hard tears burn my eyes. “Yep, babe. That’s exactly what I’m going to make you wear. And we’re going to stand around holding hands, completely aloof and acting like we’re too cool to care about anything.”
He bitches and moans until I slide a hand under his shirt and across his chest before settling it on his stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. He sucks in a breath.
“I’m kidding,” I say, slipping the tips of my fingers lower, down under the material. “These pictures will be us, all us. The real us. With maybe just a teeny bit of shine.”
“God forbid we don’t have the shine,” Miles says, rolling his eyes. But his voice is rough, deep. “How long is Emilia gone for?”
I smile. “At least a couple hours.”
“Not near enough time, but it’ll do.” Miles cups my chin and bends his head, brushing his lips over mine. My heartrate quickens as I allow him to pull me up and lead me back to our bedroom, the silence in the house a reminder that it’s just us and we’re finally free to devour each other in any way that we want.
The sheets twist around us in tangles as we fall into a frenzy, releasing the sort of passion that we otherwise can’t in a house with thin walls and close bedrooms. He’s rough and gentle, stealing my breath with his mouth, his hands, his thrusts. I’ve never, in all of my life, felt so consumed, so needed. So adored.
And when it’s over, and the sun has shifted in the sky and the shadows of the room have grown deeper, I reluctantly pull myself from his arms and reach for my clothes. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells me we’ve been in bed half the day, and I’ve got a little under half an hour before I have to pick up Emilia. Planning to step in the shower quick, I forgo my yoga wear and decide to throw on one of Miles’s t-shirts. I’ve just pulled my head through and am feeling it slide down my waist and over my hips when I hear him speak.
“I’m going to love you forever, Jenny Malone.”
I turn around and see him sitting up in bed, sheets up to his waist and arms clasped behind his head. He’s staring at me with something close to worship, and the feeling I’ve had since finding out what I found out last night, expands. My entire chest swells, the pressure squeezing up into my throat and making my eyes water.
Now. Now’s the time.
I make my way over to the bed, sit down beside him, and graze my fingernails over his chest. “There’s something I need to tell you. I should have told you last night but…” I close my eyes, let my head fall back. “I was nervous, and I don’t know why I’m nervous. Well, I kind of do, but it shouldn’t even be an issue. Still…”
Miles captures my hand in his, and when I finally meet his gaze, I can tell that he’s worried. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
The tears finally fall as I nod. I nod and cry and can barely get the words out. Partly because I’m so happy, partly because I’m scared. And partly because I have no idea how he’ll react.
I take a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m – I’m… Pregnant.”
The silence is so loud, filled to the brim with my fears, my worries.
Thick with my hope.
The last time I delivered news like this, it didn’t go over well. And while I know Miles isn’t Julian and this situation isn’t like the one before, I can’t help the rush of nerves fluttering through my stomach.
Miles doesn’t say anything.
I squint, opening one eye. “Miles?”
His eyes – those striking eyes that I hope we’ve somehow managed to pass down to our unborn child – are wide. A smile splits his face and his eyes, which are glassy and shining, blink once, twice. “Are you serious?”
I bite my lip and nod. “I haven’t been to the doctor yet, but I’m guessing I’m around eight weeks now. Give or take?”
And the next thing I know I’m wrapped in a hug that’s so tight I can barely breath.
Or maybe I can barely breath because I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. Or crying so hard I’m laughing.
When I pull back, Miles is shaking his head. He puts a hand on my stomach, holds it there. “I just… Shit. How?”
I arch a brow. “Really, Miles. After everything we just did, and you’re wondering how?”
He looks up at me. “Smartass,” he says. “What I meant was, how the hell did I get so fucking lucky?” His hand slides up my body and cups the back of my neck. He rubs his thumb against my jawline and shakes his head again. “How?” he says, looking at me like he’s never seen me before.
I lean into his touch. “Because you were there to catch me when I fell.”
All these years, I had it backwards.
Life isn’t worth anything if you’re not wanted.
Yeah, well. Being wanted is nice and all. It’s a pretty damned heady thing to be desired, to have people need you, worship the ground you walk on. I’m not going to lie and claim that it isn’t.
No one wants to be forgotten. Thrown out into this great big world entirely on their own. Unwanted and alone.
But there’s a deeper reason we’re all here. A deeper meaning that, if you just open yourself up to it, will burst everything wide open. Something that has the power to make even the coldest of dead hearts start pumping again.
And it’s this:
Life isn’t worth anything if you don’t know how to love.
I’m not going to write about myself in third person. That’s just weird.
I grew up in Iowa, where the plains stretch as far as the eye can see and rolling fields of corn lay blanketed beneath eggshell blue skies dotted with clouds as fl
uffy and thick as pillows. My family was the traditional Midwest breed – we ate sweetcorn by the buckets during summer and spent way too much time shoveling our driveway in the winter. I learned how to swim before I could walk, spent my grade school years building forts and playing kickball with the boys on my street, and annoyed my mother to no end by spending more time reading than I did caring about my hair, clothes, boys, etc. I’ve wanted to be an author since I was four years old and now, after thirty odd years, am finally honoring that little girl’s dream. I currently live in the Pacific Northwest – a beautiful and rugged corner of the world – but spend most of my days dreaming of a move back to Iowa. My first job really was in an auto parts store, and I thank all of my co-workers for instilling in me a love of raunchy humor and a sarcastic wit that knows no measure. I have one husband and one dog who is beyond spoiled. (The dog, not the spouse.) I believe aliens built the pyramids or, at the very least, showed someone how to do it. I mean, really people… Look at the evidence.
It’s my firm belief that people can be anything they want to be. And it’s my hope that, as the years pass, we see more of our fellow humans stepping out of their comfort zones and living the life of their dreams.
