The Best We've Been

by Beth K. Vogt

Beckett crossed the room in two quick strides, dropping the bag on the floor. In one fluid motion, he bent down and swept me up in his arms. “You okay if I carry you?”

  “Beckett—”

  “Purely in the interest of seeing this new deck. And giving you a chance to get outside.” He shifted me so that I landed against his chest. “You have to admit you’re more than ready for a change of scenery.”

  I crossed my arms, avoiding the need to loop them around his neck. “True.”

  I hadn’t been this close to Beckett in months. I shouldn’t be this close to Beckett now, so that by merely leaning forward, my lips could brush his scruffy jaw. So that I caught the hint of his aftershave, reminding me of how my bed pillows used to carry the same scent.

  I should have somehow resisted—kicked and screamed—when Beckett picked me up. But that would have been a bit melodramatic and over-the-top for me. And probably not good for the baby.

  I just needed to tolerate the whole “he-man” moment Beckett was having. Act like it didn’t faze me. Besides, it would be nice to go outside again.

  Of course, Mom came through the kitchen door as Beckett carried me out of the living room. “Oh. I didn’t realize Beckett was here.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Thatcher. I stopped by to check on Johanna.” Beckett’s grin was in full force, but it would not disarm me. “I thought she might like to sit out on the new deck she just told me about.”

  “That sounds nice. I’ve been wishing she could see it. Johanna, would you tell your dad to come up here, please?”

  “I thought you were going to sit outside—”

  “No. Not tonight. I want to, um, talk to him about something.” She smiled at Beckett. “There are drinks in the small fridge in the family room if you two want anything.”

  “Right.”

  Beckett’s shoulders shook as he carried me downstairs.

  “Stop.” I would not laugh. “Although I admit Mom was a bit too obvious.”

  Dad greeted Beckett with the same surprise but didn’t argue about going inside as Beckett settled me in a chair by the table.

  “I’ll go grab the bag and something to drink. Do you want anything?”

  For you to leave. “There’s ginger ale in the fridge. Grab whatever you want, too.”

  “Be right back.”

  “No rush.”

  Really. No rush.

  I refused to watch Beckett leave. I’d use this time to concentrate on settling my heartbeat back to normal. I was surprised Beckett had picked me up, nothing more.

  Mom’s wildflowers were blooming, butterflies darting back and forth among the vivid blooms. I hadn’t been outside in days, and I tried to forget how Beckett’s presence unsettled me and just enjoy the breeze against my skin. The sense of openness.

  When Beckett returned, I was able to offer him a nothing-but-friends smile as he set our drinks on the table and positioned the bag between us.

  “Are you ready to see what I brought you?”

  “You didn’t have to bring me anything.”

  “I know. But you’ll be glad I did.”

  “Fine.” I twisted the lid off my bottle of ginger ale, releasing a soft hiss of carbonation. “I’m ready.”

  “First, we have a puzzle.” He held up his hand to forestall my protest. “Now before you say, ‘I don’t do puzzles,’ take a look at this one.”

  “Colorado columbines.” The purple and white wildflowers were spread across a mountain vista.

  “I thought you might want to assemble it—maybe when you’re too bored to do anything else—and then frame it and put it in the baby’s room.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever done a puzzle.”

  “There’s always a first time.” Beckett winked.

  I chose to ignore him. “And this could be a little touch of color in the nursery. The baby’s going to be a Colorado native, after all.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” He set the puzzle box aside. “Next item is . . . some nail polish.”

  “You bought me nail polish?”

  “I didn’t know if you could leave the house for your monthly pedicure or not. I thought maybe you could do your own nails. Or maybe ask your mom?”

  I sorted through the four bottles of colors. Beckett might as well have offered to do a pedicure for me. “You selected these yourself?”

  “Technically, yes. But I asked a saleswoman for help and she pointed me to a display of new colors. Is that cheating?”

  “No. That was smart.”

  My comment earned me another smile as he began stacking magazines on the table. It seemed my immunity to Beckett’s smiles was weakening. I’d blame it on lack of sleep. And boredom.

  “I went for an even dozen here. Just something to flip through. Women’s magazines, cooking magazines. And last but not least—”

  “There’s more?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t forget snacks. And I should confess I enlisted help here, too.”

  “Help? Who helped you?”

  “Payton and Jillian. They insisted on Warheads. And peanut M&M’S. They stressed it had to be peanut. But I remembered you like sour cream potato chips and chocolate-covered caramels from Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory.”

  Spread out on the table before me was an extravagant act of kindness from the man who’d wrecked my heart.

  “If you’re being nice to try and get on my good side, then you can just put it all back in the bag and go home.”

  My words snuffed the light out of his eyes. His smile disappeared, and I could breathe again. “That’s not it, Johanna. I know being confined to your parents’ house is hard for you.”

  “The fact that my life is hard is not—”

  “Stop. Stop saying things like ‘this is not your concern.’ Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you.” Beckett sat in a chair across from me. “And just because I admitted that, you’re going to have to believe me when I say there are no hidden strings attached to any of this.”

  “You’re not being nice to get me to give you what you want?”

  “I don’t even know what I want, even though I know what I lost.” Beckett blew out a raspy exhale, scraping his fingers through his short hair. “I lost you. I lost us. We should be married—or at least planning our wedding at the Broadmoor. Celebrating the fact that we’re having a baby. I lost all of that. I want to be a part of this baby’s life—and I’d like to figure out how to talk it out before the baby is born, if possible, so my name can be on the birth certificate.”

  “Because then you’ll have leverage.”

  “No, because it’s the truth. Legally, I don’t need leverage.” Beckett sighed. “I had a dad who didn’t care. I don’t want my child thinking I’m that kind of father—even though I know it’ll grow up knowing I messed things up with its mother. Please, Johanna, I’m asking for a chance to be the kind of dad my father wasn’t.”

  Jillian had given me a maternity dress as a peace offering. Now Beckett had shown up with a brown bag filled with an array of peace offerings.

  “Beckett.” Could I do this? “I’ll try.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll try. Not for us. We’re done. But for our daughter.”

  He half rose as if to hug me. “Wait . . . what? Our daughter? You’re having a girl?”

  All these weeks into my pregnancy, and I’d withheld this information from Beckett. “Yes. According to the ultrasound, I’m having a girl. I hope you’re okay with that.”

  “A girl. I hadn’t really thought about it. I mean, so long as she’s healthy . . .” He fell back in his chair, arms limp at his sides.

  That was a good thing. There didn’t need to be any hugging between Beckett and me. We needed to limit our physical interaction. No sense in confusing our daughter—giving her any false hope that we’d be getting back together.

  “You said you’d talked with a lawyer?”

  “Yes. I wanted to get a basic idea of my rights.” Beckett shifted
in the chair. “Fathers have equal rights in Colorado, Johanna. But I don’t want to throw that at you—force you to let me see the baby. I hope we can come to a reasonable agreement that’s fair for both of us.”

  “I found out the same thing when I contacted a lawyer.” I might as well admit that, rather than try to stall him with some sort of bogus information—not that it would have worked in the long run. “It might be best to let our lawyers talk to each other and draw up a preliminary agreement—maybe even before the baby is born.”

  “Okay. Sounds good. I won’t be unreasonable.”

  “Thank you.” I could be reasonable, too. “There’s something else we need to do.”

  “What?”

  “You need to help me get started on this puzzle, but we should take it inside.”

  “I’d be glad to. I’ll take you back first—”

  I held my hands up, shaking my head. “I can walk, Beckett. You grab the bag and I’ll meet you upstairs in the living room. Maybe Mom and Dad will want to help, too.”

  Beckett’s smile was back. Not his wicked, self-assured grin, but a more relaxed smile. The hardness in my heart seemed to soften. Maybe we could be friends again someday, if I could find a way to let go of everything I’d hoped for with Beckett and embrace what my life looked like now.

  31

  I’D MADE A BAD DECISION last night. A very bad decision.

  But I’d never imagined ignoring a sneeze could go so horribly wrong.

  Of course, it wasn’t only the sneeze I’d ignored. I’d gone to the bathroom right before bed and seen a dime-size spot of blood on the stupid pad I had to wear all the time. Doctor’s orders.

  Then I’d ignored doctor’s orders and decided not to call the hospital because that tiny spot of blood was nothing to worry about.

  It couldn’t be.

  And that decision was my mistake.

  But I didn’t know then that I’d wake up this morning—now—and find the same pad soaked through with bright-red blood. And that some of the same blood would be staining Mom’s yellow fitted sheet.

  There was no ignoring any of this.

  “Mom!” I shoved the blanket off my legs. If I tried to stand, I’d collapse beside the bed. “Mom!”

  Nothing.

  She had to be here. She couldn’t leave me alone. Mom had followed Dr. Gray’s orders without fail every single day since I’d come home with her three weeks ago.

  “Mom!” Her name ended on a shriek that startled me, my hands shaking as I cradled my stomach.

  Footsteps pounded on the stairs and down the hallway leading to my bedroom. The door was flung open so that it crashed against the wall before Mom stumbled inside. “Johanna—what? Why are you yelling?”

  “I’m . . . I’m bleeding.”

  Mom’s eyes widened as she reached out for me. “What?”

  “I’m bleeding.”

  “How badly?”

  “A lot worse than last time. A lot . . .” I couldn’t tell her about last night’s episode of spotting. It didn’t matter now. “We need to go to the hospital. I need to get dressed.”

  Mom’s gaze scanned the room. “Do we have time?”

  “I can’t go to the hospital in my nightgown.” I shifted my legs over the edge of the bed as if I were moving in slow motion. “Give me the blue sundress. Please. I can slip into it sitting down. And a fresh pad and underwear.”

  “I’ll go get my purse and put my shoes on.”

  “Perfect. Five minutes—no more. That’s all I need.”

  I’d woken up in a nightmare. A medical nightmare.

  As I smoothed the dress over my stomach, the baby kicked. I pressed my hand against the area as tears filled my eyes. “Stay with me, baby. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you. Stay with me.”

  When Mom insisted on helping me to the car, sliding her arm around my waist, I didn’t resist. My legs seemed unable to hold my weight.

  “Did you call Dr. Gray?”

  “Not yet. I’m calling the clinic—” I spoke as I speed-dialed the number I’d stored in my cell. “Hello? This is Johanna Thatcher. I’m on my way to the hospital because I’m . . . I’m bleeding. . . . No, I wouldn’t say spotting. I woke up less than ten minutes ago and I’d soaked through my pad.”

  “What are they saying?”

  I held up a hand to stop Mom from distracting me, then covered my ear with it. “I’m only fifteen minutes away. My mom is driving me. . . . Fine. Thank you.”

  When the phone call was finished, I hung up and spoke to Mom. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just worried.”

  “They’re calling Dr. Gray. It’s Friday. She’s in the clinic.”

  “She’ll still come to the hospital, right?”

  “I think so.”

  I hoped so.

  “Are we going to the ER?”

  “No. Her MA said to go straight to labor and delivery. They’re expecting us—no pun intended.”

  Neither Mom nor I laughed at my weak attempt at humor.

  “How are you feeling?” Mom clasped my hand.

  “Fine.” Not that the word meant anything. “I don’t think I’m contracting, but that’s why we’re going to the hospital, to let the experts tell us what’s going on. She’s moving around, so that’s good, right?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s good.”

  I was reassuring myself. Reassuring Mom. Lying. Telling her I was fine, when I couldn’t get the sight of bright-red blood staining my clothes . . . staining the bed . . . out of my mind. All the while, my hand rested on my stomach waiting . . . waiting . . . for each movement. Each kick. They were like oxygen to my lungs, allowing me to breathe again.

  I was doing all I could.

  But I should have done something more last night, instead of assuming everything was fine and going to sleep.

  For all the rush to get me admitted, I couldn’t understand why I was lying on my left side in a hospital bed, waiting.

  “Don’t you think Dr. Gray should be here by now?” Mom had paced the confines of the room over and over again since the nurse had left, after encouraging her to sit.

  “Of course I’d like her to be here, Mom. But I’m not her only patient. The nurse said she’s on her way.”

  Mom stared at the fetal heart monitor. “Her heartbeat sounds strong.”

  “It does.” Right now, that steady beat was my favorite sound. “Do you want to call the family?”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “Please, Mom, make some phone calls.” I motioned to the door. “People need to know what’s going on. At least Dad and Payton and Jillian.”

  “We still don’t really know what’s happening.”

  “We know enough. Call people. And go get some coffee.” Maybe getting out of the room for a while would help Mom relax. “We don’t know when Dr. Gray will get here.”

  At last Mom agreed, and within five minutes of her departure, Dr. Gray arrived. She stood at the end of the hospital bed, her air of calm assurance wrapping around me, allowing me to take an easy breath again. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I woke up this morning about eight o’clock. Everything seemed fine. No cramps. Nothing. And then I realized I felt . . . damp. I checked and I’d soaked through my pad. So much that there was blood on the sheet. I called my mom—yelled, actually—and then I called the hospital.”

  Dr. Gray shrugged. “Two strikes and you’re in—the hospital, that is.”

  And now it was time to be completely honest. “Technically . . . this morning was three strikes.”

  Dr. Gray stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “I—I didn’t think it was important at first.” I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “Last night, about an hour before I went to bed, I sneezed. Just this little sneeze. A little while later, well, I noticed the tiniest bit of blood. About the size of a dime. It wasn’t like the first time. Or like this morning—”

  “Wha
t part of ‘If you bleed again, come to the hospital immediately’ do you not understand?” Dr. Gray’s voice cut through my explanation with the precision of a scalpel. “Was there blood last night? Is that called bleeding?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “You’re smart, Johanna, but that was anything but a smart decision. At all. You could have woken up in a pool of blood in your bed this morning. Would you want your mother dealing with that? We could be fighting for your baby’s life right now—and yours, too.”

  “I just thought—”

  “How many cases of placenta previa have you dealt with in your career?” She paced in front of me, giving me no time to answer. “I’m your physician. I expect you to take my advice regarding something you have no experience in. And I have more experience than you’ll ever know.”

  And on those words, Dr. Gray walked out.

  The interaction had been like watching your best friend from middle school toss her matching “BFF” bracelet in the trash and then turn her back on you, linking arms with some other girl before walking away. Not that Hayden Gray was my friend. Or that I had friends. But my calm, kind physician had turned on me—lashed out—and then walked away. She might as well have slammed the door, the way the swish of the closing door reverberated in my heart. And she had every right to say what she’d said.

  I needed to go after her to explain, but I couldn’t.

  And there was nothing to explain because she was right.

  I closed my eyes, resting my head against the pillow. Swallowed against the tightness in my throat, the bitter taste of salt and unshed tears. My hands clenched the blanket as I tried to fend off the accusations assaulting me. Not the ones Dr. Gray had thrown, but my own.

  Why had I risked my baby’s life, not to mention my own, last night? Was control so important to me that I was blind? Foolish?

  This had to stop.

  The sound of my baby’s heartbeat pulled me from my regret. When I’d played piano, a metronome had produced a steady pulse, a beat, helping me keep the rhythm of a song when I practiced until it was effortless.

  I’d rarely used a metronome except for the most complicated pieces. Miss Felicia said I had an internal metronome. An innate sense of rhythm.