by Nina Levine
Leaving her, I head into our bedroom and take a shower. Another long one while I try to work some heat into my tight muscles. It’s been a week since I’ve hit the gym in our garage or gone for a run, and I’m feeling it. And since sex has been mostly stripped from our relationship, my other form of working tension from my body is off the table. I need to get some time in the gym tomorrow.
A call comes through as I step out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I grab my phone and answer it after seeing Javier Torres’s name on the screen.
“I take it you’re calling to give me the news I want,” I say, my shoulders tightening even further. Dealing with Torres has become one of my least favourite jobs.
His voice comes on the line, cold as ever. “You’ll have the price agreed on.”
“With no further threats of it being upped?”
“Correct.”
I exhale the breath that dealing with his bullshit has trapped inside me all day. “Don’t fucking pull this shit again, Torres.” My eyes cut to the doorway as Birdie enters the bedroom. “I won’t play this game another time if you do.”
The call ends without another word from him. Throwing the phone on the bed, I make my way into the walk-in robe to find some clothes. “I’ll be out for dinner in a minute,” I say to Birdie.
Locating a T-shirt and sweat pants, I turn to go dress in the bedroom where Birdie’s quietly staring at me. “You good, angel?”
“I’m good, but you’re not.”
Ditching the towel on the bed, I pull my pants on. “I’m tired.”
“It’s more than that, Winter. I’m worried about you.”
I don’t want to discuss Johnson’s death with her. Not when she’s dealing with the wait on these eggs. And not when my mind is as dark as it is. Fuck, I don’t want to talk about anything tonight. I just want to be with her. To have her touch. She knew what I needed last night, and while I don’t expect the same tonight, I need the same understanding that discussing my shit isn’t going to make me feel better. “Can we not do this tonight?”
She flinches at my tone, but being the Birdie she is, she doesn’t fully take it in. She keeps going. “When would you like to do it? I mean, you came home last night in bad shape and you’ve done pretty much the same tonight. You’re not yourself at all—”
“Fuck, that’s being dramatic. I’ve got shit going on, yes, but I—”
“It’s not being dramatic.” She moves closer to me, the fight brewing in her eyes. “Tell me, when was the last time you came home and didn’t kiss me or put your hands on me like you did tonight?”
The only answer I have for her is that I’ve never come home and not touched her. I didn’t even realise that’s what I did tonight. Fuck.
When I don’t answer her, she says, “I don’t want to fight with you over this, and I’m not trying to force you into a big conversation about it, but I’m concerned you’re going through something difficult. And if you’re not sharing your stress with me because you’re trying to keep me stress-free, don’t do that. You should know by now that I worry more when I feel like you’re tiptoeing around me over something.” She pauses. “Your dinner is ready.”
With that, she exits the room, leaving me with a headful of thoughts over whether to tell her what’s happened.
When I married Birdie, I knew what it meant for her. Club life and all that entails. In my fucked-up thinking, I thought I could keep her protected from the danger and from everything but the good part of being an old lady. What I didn’t factor in was that I live with the pressures of being president 24/7, which means Birdie does too, even when I attempt to push them out of our relationship.
I find her in the lounge room, staring at the TV like she’s watching it, but I doubt she is. “Johnson was killed last night,” I say when she looks at me. “Memphis and Thorn were shot the other night, but they’re both okay. I’m trying to figure out who’s responsible.”
Her eyes widen and fill with fear, but she keeps her shit more together than I expected. “Are you thinking this will keep happening? Do you know who is responsible?”
This is why I didn’t want to share the news with her. Birdie always has a million questions for me, and with this, I don’t want to answer her questions. I just want to give her the information I choose and update it when the situation is resolved. However, in this one year of marriage, I’ve learned a fuckload more about how our relationship works best than I ever learned in the ten years we were first together. It turns out I can’t control everything in the way I would prefer, especially not when it comes to my wife and the information I share. I’ve gotta give her more and trust she can cope with it.
“I have my suspicions as to who’s responsible, but they’re yet to be confirmed. And I don’t know the future, Birdie, but I’m taking every precaution I can here.”
She opens her mouth to say something but quickly closes it. After a pause, she stands and comes to me. Gripping my shirt, she says, “You do what you need to do, even if that means you’re not here much. I just want you to focus on the club, okay?”
I wrap my hand around her wrist. “No, not okay. You and our child will always be my main priority.”
“I know that, but this is serious, Winter. I don’t want to be the reason something bad happens if you’re out there thinking about me when you need to be thinking about the club.”
Because I know Birdie so well, I can see the thoughts racing through her mind. Thoughts that aren’t serving her or us in any good ways. “I was trained to fight battles, angel. I can handle everything I need to handle.”
“Okay,” she says after weighing that up. Then, bringing her hand to my neck, she threads her fingers through my hair. “You should go eat and then we should have an early night. You need sleep.”
I bend my face to kiss her. An early night with her in my arms is exactly what I need.
16
Birdie
* * *
If I thought IVF was hard, I didn’t realise what was waiting for me after egg collection. Holy mother of God, these progesterone pessaries can fuck right off with all their leakage. As can the constant holding my breath and waiting for good news. And don’t get me started on the embryo transfer. Or should I say, the full-frontal exposure of my vagina while Winter, the fertility nurse, the specialist and the embryologist all concentrated on said vagina and what was happening down there. I mean, it was really only the specialist who had her face inches away from me, and the embryologist who copped an eyeful, but still, I felt like it was opening night and I was the star.
The transfer was done five days ago and the mindfuck is real. The first two days weren’t so bad; I was on a high knowing my baby was inside me. Well, potentially inside me, but I don’t like to imagine she’s not in there. However, the progesterone quickly ruined my buzz, bringing the blues like I’ve never known. I drag myself to work and commence the daily pity party that I can’t shake. I then go home and keep it running even though I’m trying desperately not to for Winter’s sake. But my hormones have a mind of their own, and oh do they like ruling my world. And if I thought my bloating was bad before my trigger shot, well fuck me, I look about four months pregnant now.
Winter is at his wits’ end with me, I think. It’s been just over a week since the night he told me Johnson was killed, and he’s spending more time away from home than before that night, but he checks in on me throughout the day and comes home as early as possible at night. His patience is wearing thin with each passing hour. I don’t blame him. Not when he’s had to put up with my hormones for weeks, and certainly not when he’s got a lot of club stuff on his mind. I think the thing that really gets to him out of all the things I say and do, though, is my obsessive googling of “IVF success rates,” and “blastocycsts this,” and “blastocycsts that.” The day I found the IVF Pregnancy Calculator online and inputted all our data to find out our likely success rate percentage, he lost his shit with me and we didn’t speak for nearly twenty-fou
r hours. Well, okay, he spoke to me, but I wanted nothing to do with him. I may have even told him to fuck right off, words I’ve never used with him.
Anyone who says IVF is easy is a dirty, dirty liar.
“Birdie,” he says, coming into our en suite where I’m currently debating the sense in taking a pregnancy test. “Have you seen my running shoes?” He frowns at me. “Why are you sitting on the edge of the bath looking like you’re trying to figure out the answer to something?”
Shit, shit, shit.
My mind scrambles to come up with a lie. Telling him what I’m actually sitting here thinking about is not a good idea. In fact, it’s the worst idea maybe ever. The doctor advised against taking a home pregnancy test because it can give a false reading thanks to the fertility hormones in my body after the trigger shot. I’m on the tenth day after my shot, though, which technically is the day I could be tested. Because it fell on a weekend, the clinic is having us come in on Monday to do the test. I’m coming out of my skin waiting, though, and just want to take a sneak peek at a test today. Winter will probably start World War III over this if he finds out, so I need to figure out what to tell him instead of the truth.
“Your shoes are in the laundry. I washed them. And I’m thinking about Monday and our test. Are you still good to come to the appointment?”
His frown deepens. “You know there’s no way I’m missing that appointment.”
I do, but it was the first thing that came to mind when I had to manufacture an answer to his question. “Sorry, yes, I do. I was just having a moment of uncertainty over the whole thing.” Not really a lie. Every day is twenty-four hours of uncertainty while we wait to see if I’m pregnant.
He pulls me up and wraps his arms around me. “Don’t ever doubt me. I’m by your side every step of the way.”
My arms circle him and hold on tight. Winter’s body is my safe haven. I never feel as protected and secure as I do when I’m in his arms. “I love you,” I murmur against his chest.
We stay like this for a while before he takes hold of my face with both hands and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you, too.”
I watch while he changes into his running gear, thinking about our last nine days. Winter is still on edge over club stuff, but he’s not distant anymore like he was right after Johnson died. It took a few days for him to move through his emotions, time in which I wondered if this was our new normal. Thankfully it isn’t, and he’s back to his usual self. But he’s still the tensest he’s ever been, and all I can hope is that the situation with the club improves soon.
Once he’s finished dressing, he glances at me. “I might be a couple of hours.”
I shoo him. “Go. I’m good here.”
As we’ve drawn closer to Monday, he’s tried to be here for me more. While I love him for it, I’m getting to the stage where I need my space. I need time alone to think and to prepare myself for this test. Not to mention, I need him to leave so I can maybe do this home test.
The sound of the front door closing is music to my ears, and I go into my wardrobe where I’ve hidden the test I bought yesterday. I’m on my way back to the en suite when Lily calls.
“Hey,” I answer. “I thought you were busy all over town with the kids today.” She’d told me she had parties and sport to drive them to. That was in between telling me she’d decided to stay a virgin in her next life so she had zero chance of having kids to drive all over the place.
“King’s playing taxi driver. Apparently, I need to spend time in my bath today because I’ve got raging hormones he’s sick of having to deal with.”
“He doesn’t know what raging hormones are, Lil. It’s a good thing you guys didn’t have to do IVF.”
“We wouldn’t have survived IVF. I would have killed him long before he even had to get his dick out and do something useful with it.”
I laugh, imagining that scenario to be absolutely true. Lily and King are made for each other, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have their fair share of fights. “So you’re in the bath?”
“Yes, and I wanted to check in on you and see how you’re going. Are you holding strong?”
It’s been about four days since we’ve spoken; she doesn’t know about the test I’m about to do. I haven’t told anyone. “I’m a fucking mess, to be honest. My chest feels like it might explode with all the anxiety in there. I’m not sleeping well because I can’t get comfortable now that I’m the size of a hippo. And I’m all over the place with my moods, but mostly I just feel like I wanna cry all the time.”
“Jesus, yeah, King has no idea what real raging hormones are. I’m sorry you have to go through all this. Is Winter home?”
“No, he’s gone out for a run, which is a good thing.” I bite my lip, deciding whether to tell her about the test.
“Why?”
“Because I want to take a pregnancy test and I know he won’t want me to,” I blurt, unable to keep it to myself any longer. At the same time the words leave my mouth, my gaze meets Winter’s in the bathroom mirror. Fuck. I thought he’d already left for his run. “Umm, Lil, I have to go, sorry.”
“Okay, but we need to discuss this more when you’re free. Call me back.”
Oh, I don’t think there will be any test to discuss now. Not if the angry look Winter’s giving me is anything to go by.
“You weren’t going to tell me?” he says tightly when I place the phone down on the vanity and turn to him.
“No, because I knew you’d react this way.”
“Because it’s the wrong thing to do.” He slaps that down between us, his features wild.
I don’t know if it’s the way he’s speaking to me, all “I’m right, you’re wrong,” or if it’s the hormones surging through me, or if I’m just pissed off because it’s my body so I should get to choose this one thing to do with it—especially after practically donating it for IVF use for the last six weeks—but I suddenly want to fight him over this.
“Why is it the wrong thing to do?” I demand.
His nostrils flare. “You heard the doctor. Your body is filled with fertility hormones that could give you the wrong result. You don’t need false hope right now.”
“So what you’re saying is you don’t think I’m pregnant.”
“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”
“Well, I’m keeping faith that we are pregnant, so I don’t see how doing this test could be wrong.”
“Fuck.” He works his jaw. “I’m not the bad guy here, Birdie.”
“And neither am I even though you’re making me feel like I am.”
“That’s not my intent.”
“It’s my body, Winter.”
“Yeah, and it’s me who has to deal with the fallout whenever you crash. And I guarantee you the crash will be greater if you go in there on Monday expecting the world because this test told you to, and getting anything but the fucking world.”
I stare at him, hating the words out of his mouth. “You really don’t think we’re pregnant, do you? Be honest with me.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s not what I’m saying. Don’t twist my words. I’m trying to get you to see—”
I push past him and leave the bathroom, not wanting to hear any more of what he has to say. Tears prick my eyes and I let them fall. I want to curl into a ball, cry my heart out, and forget everything. Everything we’ve just said. Everything we’ve had to go through to get to this point. Everything that might go wrong on Monday.
Winter has other ideas, though. He comes after me, grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him. “Don’t walk off on me when I’m talking to you.”
I madly wipe my eyes but the tears keep coming. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore and I can’t stand here and listen to you saying the thing that scares me the most about Monday. I don’t want to see anything you want me to see. All I want to do is keep believing there’s a baby inside me.”
“Fuck,” he says, his eyes softening as he pulls me into
his arms. “This is hard, angel. I know.”
I bury my face in his chest and let all my tears out.
I don’t know why I thought doing that test was a good idea. He’s right about it, which pisses me off because he’s always bloody right. When I finish crying, I lift my head and meet his gaze. “You suck.” At his arched brows, I explain, “You’re always right. For once, I’d like to be right about something.”
“Trust me, I don’t like being right. You don’t play fair.”
“How do I not play fair?”
“Baby, you know I wanna give you the world. Me trying to take shit away from you while you’re standing there looking at me like I’m the biggest asshole in the world is something I don’t wanna have to do.”
“Well, maybe in future, just stop trying to take shit away from me.”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t know what to do with me. “Is it safe for me to go on my run now or are you gonna get into trouble while I’m gone?”
I sigh. “No, I’ll be a good girl. I’ll just be here dealing with the joys of progesterone pessaries and other fun fertility stuff. But maybe you should take that test with you so I’m not tempted again.”
“Done. And when I get back, you and me are going out for the afternoon. I don’t care where; you choose. But make it something fun you wanna do. Fuck knows we both need to get out.”
He’s right again; we do. And I know exactly what I want to do. I wanna go play putt-putt. Winter isn’t a fan, but he said I could choose. I used to make him play it with me years ago and he always grumbled about it. There was one thing, though, that he liked. It gave him a chance to get handsy with me while he helped me play, and that is perfect for what we need in our relationship right now.
17
Birdie
* * *
I stand in the doorway to our en suite and watch my husband apply balm to his beard. I’m not sure why, but it’s something I like to watch him do.