Having the Soldier's Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  But if he didn’t, she’d merely set to waiting for him to get better. Her patience could last a damned lifetime. Her lifetime.

  He needed her to see the truth. The plan was to show it to her.

  Life wasn’t about the beach anymore. Or gazing at the ocean and dreaming silly dreams. It was about keeping focus on the goal. In the end, that was all that lasted—the need for focus. For the decent guy to serve the goal.

  * * *

  She suggested stopping at the cell phone store to get him a new phone. She’d been paying for his line all along, still had the same number active. He went along with her, chose a new smartphone, because there was no good reason not to do so. And he needed one.

  Over dinner, her sitting in her normal seat, him in his, eating off the same dishes they’d bought together, from the same cupboards they hadn’t changed since they’d moved here, she gave him a rundown of their finances. She’d done an impressive job for them. Incredible, really. In two years’ time, she’d almost doubled their wealth. Not that it made them wealthy. But they were definitely more comfortable than when he’d left.

  Which meant she hadn’t done much spending. Or much living.

  “I recognize that outfit,” he said, nodding toward her capris and shirt. “You wear that for my benefit, because it’s something I’d recognize? And you know I like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t. Wear whatever you’d normally wear. I know you’ll have clothes I haven’t seen, that you’ll know people I don’t know.” That life had changed for them both.

  Though, looking at the house, he couldn’t see much evidence of it for her. It was as though he’d just walked out the day before and come back in.

  “This is what I’d normally wear,” she said, her tone soft. Understanding.

  When she didn’t understand. At all.

  It was as though she’d put her life on hold for him. All of it. Except work. Which put even more distance between them.

  She’d held on so tightly. He hadn’t held on at all.

  What in the hell was he going to do about bed?

  After dinner, he did the dishes. She hovered. In and out of the room. Wiping the table. And then bringing him over to look at the computer, showing him their accounts. Explaining decisions she’d made. Asking his opinion. They talked about a couple of options. Agreed upon them.

  He looked over at his own computer, on the other side of the partner desk they’d purchased from an antiques dealer. Had no interest in starting up the machine. The updates would take forever.

  She asked if he wanted to watch a movie. Started talking about a couple she’d seen that she figured he’d like. And told him about the streaming services she’d signed up for.

  Something new. Different. Apart from him.

  Good.

  He didn’t feel like a movie. He wanted to sleep. He’d been doing a lot of that in the couple of weeks he’d been back.

  What in the hell was he going to do about bed?

  “You go ahead,” he told her, referring to the movie offer. “I would rather just turn in.”

  It was barely eight o’clock. They used to rarely go to bed before eleven. At least to sleep.

  The stricken look that crossed her face made him feel bad. And also made him feel like he was doing the job he’d come to do, too. Showing her.

  “I’m so sorry, Winston. I wasn’t thinking... Of course we’ll go to bed. I, um, actually...have been going to bed earlier myself.”

  She sounded...odd...as though she felt uncomfortable about the admission. Because she’d changed up their routine? God, he hoped she didn’t feel guilty about that.

  “About your sleeping... Are you okay in our bed? Will it bother you to have me there beside you?”

  What in the hell was he going to do about bed?

  If he answered in the affirmative, she’d understand, be patient, wait for him to heal.

  “No, it won’t bother me,” he said, standing there in the office they used to share, still in his uniform khakis. “But I completely understand if it bothers you,” he added. “You’ve been alone a long time. I’m somewhat of a stranger to you. I have no problem taking the spare room.”

  Eyes wide, horror evident, she was in front of him in an instant, her face inches from his. “There’s no way I want you anywhere but in bed with me, Winston. You have to know that. We’ll get through this, just like we get through everything. Together. I’m truly just so thankful you’re alive, still having a hard time believing you’re really here, but there’s no way you’re a stranger to me.”

  He swallowed. Nodded. And turned to go to bed.

  * * *

  Hands shaking, Emily brushed her teeth and pulled on Winston’s favorite filmy blue negligee. He might be emotionally clogged, but Officer Hall had said physically, her husband was just fine.

  And one thing she knew for certain about Winston, he had a lusty sexual appetite. Even after all their years of marriage, he’d still been hungry five out of seven nights a week whenever he was home.

  He’d been without for two years.

  She knew what that meant. It would probably be quick for him.

  She was mentally prepared for that. Didn’t care if it was over in five seconds. She’d been without his touch, without the feel of him inside her, for two years, too. She’d gotten pregnant with his baby without him inside her. Even one second would be enough for her for now.

  He’d been under the covers when she’d finished turning off her computer and locking up the house. He’d already checked the doors before they’d gone to the office, but she wanted to give him time on his own to reacclimate with his things. As far as she could tell, he still hadn’t looked in his closet or any of his drawers.

  “Would you like the television on?” she called from her sink in the master bath. They’d never slept with it on the past, but she’d heard about guys who’d come home from particularly hard tours who’d suddenly been unable to sleep without it.

  They needed it to drown out memories that came in the dark of the night.

  “No, but it won’t bother me if you’d like to watch for a while.”

  Thinking that maybe the television would help him relax, she turned out the light, picked up the remote and, once she was beneath the covers, turned on the TV. Winston lay flat on his back. Eyes already closed.

  After a minute, she turned off the television. Slid carefully down until her head was on her pillow. And lay there. His breathing was even. Too even. He didn’t snore, but there’d been a depth to his breaths when he slept. She had to figure that hadn’t changed, which meant he wasn’t actually asleep.

  Thinking of him, in physical need, lying there stiffly, willing to sacrifice himself and not touch her as he gave her time to get used to having him home and sharing her bed again, she swallowed back tears. Putting his own needs last was exactly what Winston would do.

  And she knew what she had to do. Exactly what she wanted so desperately to do.

  Turning on her side, facing him, she scooted over. Not crowding him. But close to him. When he didn’t turn away, she knew she was on the right path. Reaching out a hand, she touched his chest, surprised to come into contact with a T-shirt. Winston never slept with a shirt on.

  But...okay. Someday she’d ask him why, what had happened to him to prompt him to need a shirt at night. Someday.

  For those first few minutes she was just plain selfish. Reacquainting herself with the feel of his chest. T-shirt and all. The muscles, the breadth, it was all exactly as she remembered. He didn’t move, but she hadn’t really expected him to. His self-control was about as strong as everything else about him, and after two years, he’d be holding himself in check.

  A memory surfaced. She’d been seventeen...and knowing she was going to have sex with Winston for the first time. He hadn’t wanted their first tim
e to be in a car, or on a night when he had to leave her. He’d insisted they wait until they could spend the whole night together.

  She’d been so afraid of disappointing him. He, she’d later found out, had been worried about hurting her. She’d made the first move that night, too.

  When the T-shirt became too much of a barrier, Emily slid her hand down to the hem and up underneath it, feeling his skin like an electric shock through her system. The warmth, the hair that spread across his belly and upward...every sensation was homecoming to her.

  Pure, blissful. Right.

  As Winston lay still, silent, Emily grew bolder. And more blatant in her intentions. He’d taught her every single erogenous inch of his body and how to stimulate them, and she remembered it all. With a flick of her finger, she teased his nipples. The left always got him harder than the right, so she played with the right first. He liked a little tongue mixed in, too, but aware that he might not last long, she didn’t want to come on too strong.

  While he didn’t touch her—probably trying to stay in control since she knew that touching her turned him on fast—she was getting revved up with every second that passed. It didn’t take her long to know she was ready to host him, and she moved her hand slowly lower.

  He used to sleep nude, but would lounge in a pair of loose cotton boxers, and considering the T-shirt, she figured he’d have them on, too, was already remembering how to maneuver the waistband by the time she reached it.

  A quick glance told her that Winston still had his eyes closed. No matter. Silent sex was the most intimate sometimes.

  There were no words that could live up to this moment.

  Holding her breath as mind-altering sensations swarmed through her, she moved her fingers beneath the elastic at Winston’s waist and down. Moved her body, too, getting ready to move over him, to settle on top of him.

  He’d push up and into her hand first, and then into her. It was a dance they’d perfected.

  He didn’t push up. But the change in their moves didn’t faze her. She was making love to her husband. He was letting her. Nothing else mattered.

  With her breath almost catching on a sob, she slid her hand slowly downward, anticipating her first feel of him in two long years. The velvety hardness and...

  He wasn’t hard. At all.

  Shaking, and cold now, too, Emily looked up at him. He turned over, giving her his T-shirted back. He’d never even opened his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  Winston lay awake most of the night. It took stern discipline to remain still, his back to the woman he’d once thought of as the other half of himself, knowing that she was hurting. He couldn’t tell if she was crying, but he was fairly certain that she was. The Emily he knew would have been. But to roll over and console her, would, in the long run, be cruel, knowing as he did that things weren’t going to get better for them.

  That any consolation she took from him would be a lie. He wasn’t her soul mate. Their love wasn’t real because love wasn’t real.

  Duty. Loyalty. Those were what truly mattered. They came with a price, but he believed in their existence. Stood for them.

  She fell asleep at 12:03, almost four hours after her botched attempt at sex with him. He knew by the sound of her breathing. The way her hand fell to the bed between them, her fingers in contact with his back. As gently as he could, he leaned far enough away that if she awoke, she wouldn’t find herself touching him.

  Otherwise he didn’t move at all. Not even when, shortly after five, she got up. Left the room. Presumably to make coffee. She’d pulled on a robe on the way out.

  He’d give her long enough to get a cup of coffee in her hand and then go out to her. Ask her if she had any questions. Or wanted him to find another place to stay.

  She’d say no. She wasn’t going to let a little thing like a failed hard-on come between them. But he had to make the offer.

  Just as he had to tell her anything else she wanted to know. Like why he couldn’t have sex with her and never would again.

  Even if she asked, even if she listened to his explanation, he knew the dream wouldn’t die easily. He knew what she was in for in the coming weeks, because he’d already been through it. He’d clung, too, at first. Refusing to give up. To give in.

  But when it had come to choosing either his dream or the lives of his countrymen, his dream or the ability to help protect Americans from terrorist threats, the dream hadn’t had a chance.

  Truth was, the dream was just that, a dream.

  She’d get it. And if he could make it hurt less, he’d do that. She was a good person. A great human being. He respected her more than anyone he’d ever known.

  In boxers with cars on them—the first pair he’d encountered in his drawer the night before—he made a stop at the master bath before heading out into the hall. Maybe he’d be wrong and the night before would have been enough for Emily. Maybe she’d be more ready than he thought to discuss legal disentanglement.

  They could afford it more easily than he’d expected.

  Two steps into the hall and he stopped. Stared at the closed bathroom door halfway between him and the living room. Because it sounded to him like Emily was puking her guts out.

  Painfully, brutally regurgitating. Even when there didn’t seem to be anything left in her stomach.

  What the hell? She was ill? And she hadn’t said anything?

  Jackass, what chance did you give her? You, firmly focused on your plan, failed to factor in the unknown. You looked, saw she was buried in the life you’d left and assumed nothing else had changed.

  Was it cancer? Wouldn’t someone have told him if she was taking chemo?

  Or...jackass, maybe she just had the flu.

  Maybe he was making her sick. Maybe this was coming from the trauma of finding out he was alive, followed by him on her doorstep the next morning, and then finding out that he wasn’t at all the man she’d thought she’d married.

  If positions were reversed, and he’d still been believing in their fantasy, he’d probably have felt sick, too.

  Reaching in the hall closet for a washcloth, he tapped on the door and opened it, taking in Emily’s body, in the blue silk robe he’d bought her for an anniversary weekend at a luxury resort on the beach. She was pretty much hugging the toilet, her head resting on her arm. The sink was on, cloth beneath the flow within a second. And then he was on his knees, gently wiping.

  She flushed the toilet without raising her head. Looked up at him, seemed to be grateful and then had another bout of dry heaves.

  Back and forth between her and the faucet he spent the next ten minutes cooling the cloth and wiping her forehead and face, her neck.

  And then she was done. Sitting up. Standing. Apologizing.

  “I put coffee on for you,” she said, heading back out to the kitchen, where he found her picking up a cup with a tea bag hanging out of it. Tea? Since when did Emily start liking tea?

  Morning coffee had been the only way either one of them had been capable of starting a day.

  Though Afghanistan was steeped in tea tradition, he’d been lucky enough to have good coffee the entire time he was there. Still needed it to get going in the morning.

  “Em...are you okay?” he asked, using his shortened version of her name without thinking.

  “Yeah.”

  She wasn’t meeting his gaze. Because of the failed sex or the puking, he wasn’t sure.

  “It didn’t seem that way a few minutes ago.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not sick? As in... Have you been diagnosed with something you aren’t telling me about?”

  “I’m as healthy as a horse. My most recent checkup was last Wednesday.”

  Relief flooded him. Like when he’d touched down in the US for the first time in over two years.

  “So what was
that?”

  She shrugged.

  “Has it ever happened before?” Maybe she’d changed more than he thought. Had developed a weak stomach. Had it happened when he went missing? Had she developed her own form of PTSD? Was this it? Because of him?

  “No,” she said. And then, moving to the dining room table, pulled out a seat. “Sit down,” she told him.

  After pouring a cup of coffee, he did as she asked. He didn’t have anywhere to be until midmorning, when he met with someone from the anti-terrorist group. The questions he could answer, or insights he could give on active situations, were his reason for being alive.

  She was staring at him in a whole new way. More assessing than anything. He knew that was good. That his plan was already working, as he’d known it would. She was separating from him. Questioning what she believed them to be.

  He met her gaze straight on.

  “I’m pregnant, Winston. Only two weeks, which I’m pretty sure is too early for morning sickness, but I guess, with the shock of this weekend, on top of everything else, morning sickness came early. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Plus, it was exactly what I read about. Came on suddenly, out of nowhere, and was gone just as quickly. Dr. Miller told me to keep a box of saltine crackers by the bed. I just didn’t think I’d need them this soon...”

  He heard her voice. Watched her lips move. Stared. Focused. And couldn’t compute.

  “Winston?”

  She was frowning at him.

  “Did you, um, say...you’re pregnant? As in, having a baby?”

  He didn’t glance down at her belly. Couldn’t. But...the day before she hadn’t looked... She’d had on those tight white pants and...a loose top. Since he’d kept his eyes firmly shut when she’d climbed in the bed and gotten out of it that morning, he couldn’t say if she’d looked...

  “Two weeks,” she said, calmly. Right. She might have mentioned. But she was sitting there telling him she was pregnant. Couldn’t there at least be some kind of inflection in her voice?