by A. M. Wilson
“You’re lucky I’m already on bed rest, or I’d be withholding sex from you until our kid is in college.”
“As if you could hold out that long.”
“Try me,” I growl, not about to admit that I’m having a hard time abstaining after only two weeks. Another two months seems impossible, but according to my doctor, even manual stimulation is a no-no because we don’t want to upset my angry uterus. And here I was hoping to get cleared for a little hand action.
Or tongue action.
We could even get creative with toys.
Not to mention that Cami said it’s another six weeks after the birth before I’ll even want to have sex again.
I’m counting down the days to week thirty-six. My doctor said once I reach that point, it’s full steam ahead, and I can come off bed rest because the baby will be close to full term. Translation: Get ready to fuck your man because the restrictions are over until the baby is born.
I’m keeping that bit close to my chest, though, in case I need to use a little naked persuasion for anything. If he counts down to week thirty-six too, that’ll just take away my surprise and power.
The doctor returns with my discharge packet and hands it to me. “So you look to be handling everything well since the hospital. Your cervix is less than a fingertip dilated, and you’re about sixty percent effaced, which isn’t much different from when you were having contractions. That’s the good news. The bad news, as I mentioned before, is I’d like you to remain on modified bed rest for a few more weeks.”
“Ooo, I’m being upgraded to modified.”
She grins at us. “You can move around your house a bit more but no strenuous activity. For the next few weeks, you’re off the hook for chores, and don’t stay upright for more than fifteen minutes at a time.”
Even that slight improvement to my prison sentence is enough to lighten my mood. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“We’ll see you again in two weeks.”
I hoist myself out of the chair, and Nathan takes my elbow, steering me from the room. Once in his truck, he drives us back to my house.
Nathan breaks our comfortable quiet as he takes the corner to my street. “You might want to brace.”
“What? Why?”
“Cami may have gotten a wild hair.”
“Oh, hell. Usually, I’m the wild one. What is she up to?” I sit up as far as I can with a beachball resting on my thighs and peer out the front windshield. The four cars lining my curb are a dead giveaway.
“Just tell me it isn’t a party.” I groan and flop back against the seat. “I’m tired of alcohol-free celebrations.”
Nathan cuts me a sharp glance. “You better get used to it. You have eighteen kid birthday parties in your future.”
“Ha! You think Cami and I haven’t been sneaking booze at every single one of Evelyn’s parties? I didn’t say we need to tie one on, but I could kill for a glass of red right about now.”
He navigates the truck up my drive as close to my front door as he can get and parks. He kills the engine and slings an arm over the back of the seats. “Can’t you have just a glass? I thought I read somewhere that a single glass is okay in the third trimester.”
I wave him off and unbuckle my belt. “Not for me. I’m not risking it with a single drop.” I look up and catch him gaping at me. “What?”
“Nothing, babe. You just continue to surprise me.”
“I’m not a wino, babe. I’ve enjoyed weekly happy hour in the past, and sure, maybe too much tequila led to our swift induction to parenthood, but I can go a year without a drink if it means keeping our baby safe. Why is that surprising? I think I should be offended.”
“Definitely not. Forget I said a thing,” he drawls and exits the cab.
I open my door to hop out my side. “Well, now you’re just fucking with me!” My voice is a little too loud with company waiting inside. Not to mention, the entire neighborhood can hear. He appears at my door and takes my elbow, once again assisting me from the truck.
“You have no idea how much I’d like to be fucking with you,” he growls in my ear before straightening.
My thighs quiver like he just gave me a mini orgasm.
By the number of cars on my street, I can tell this isn’t a large get-together. I’m grateful people wait just inside because Nathan set off a sexual atomic bomb. I don’t think the threat of bed rest would be enough to keep me from tearing his pants off and mounting him if we’d been alone.
As it is, the tension has me contemplating if I can sneak him for bathroom blow job while my Mimi and Papa are in the other room.
When we enter, my family members mill about my open plan living room and kitchen. Mimi and Papa are on the sofa conversing with Regina, and my mom, dad, Cami, and Law are gathered around a spread on my kitchen island.
“Well, hello!” Cami calls. I toe off my boots, but when the left one becomes a struggle, Nathan drops to his knees to help.
“Hey, what’s this?” My voice is breathless from the man before me, and she doesn’t miss it if her smirk is any indication. I buy myself time and cross into the living room to give my grandparents a hug.
“Child, are you sure there’s not two in there? You sure are large for just one,” Mimi yells in my ear as I pull back from my hug.
“Oh, I’m sure! Must have had too many tacos.”
She pairs her wrinkled nose with a grimace.
“Regina,” I greet stiffly with a nod. Her reply, if she has one, is lost as I move to the kitchen to finish welcoming my guests.
“How was the appointment?” Mom hands me a small plate of finger foods.
Nathan appears behind me and pulls out one of my island chairs. “Sit. Then answer questions.”
I set the plate in front of me and hop up onto a chair. “The appointment went well,” I reply over a dry mouthful of crackers. “I’m on modified bed rest now hopefully until thirty-six weeks.”
Mom’s face glows with that news. I know she’s anxious to meet her first grandchild. If it were safe for him to come out, I’m sure she would have spent this trip running me through the catalog of old wives’ tales to induce labor. Evening primrose, drinking castor oil, spicy foods, pineapple, a steam treatment for my vag. I wouldn’t put it past my mom to try every trick in the book.
“Cami, dear, can you get me a coffee?” Regina interrupts from the other room.
She exerted herself cleaning my house the other day, and it still sparkles from her efforts. I’m actually not embarrassed to have so many people unannounced at my house because of her. But a part of me holds out for a heartfelt verbal apology that may or may not come.
“Sure, Regina. Anyone else?”
“I’ll take one,” Mimi demands. “Put some booze in it, girl!”
We all chuckle, and as Cami turns to fill cups, she winks at me. That tricky girl is totally going to splash some Bailey’s into Regina’s mug.
Light conversation resumes over the snacks. Midway through munching on a piece of bread topped with cheese and pepper jam, and regaling my parents with tales of odd emergency phone calls I’ve received on the job, I happen to catch a glance of the other room and nearly choke on my food. Nathan pats my back, and my eyes widen at the loss of breath but also the scene before me.
Regina takes a sip from her unassuming coffee mug decorated in what at first glance appears to be a rainbow assortment of flowers. She leans left, murmuring with Mimi, and holds the mug in front of them as they admire the design.
“Nathan,” I cough again, and his pats turn to circular rubs.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “What’s the problem?”
I clear my throat and turn my face into the warmth of his neck. “You have to get that mug away from your mother,” I hiss with urgency, knowing as I say it that it’s an impossible feat to accomplish discreetly.
“Why?” The dread in his tone is palpable.
“Don’t say it like that,” I snap beneath my breath. “This isn’t my fault. I’v
e been on this chair the entire time.”
We both turn to survey the complex situation before us.
“What’s wrong with the mug? Do you store your poison in it?”
“Hardy har. No, buddy, but she’s going to be mortified if she figures out that those flowers she’s admiring are actually phalluses.”
His torso stiffens. “Excuse me?”
“Proud, rainbow-colored flesh-members. Multi-colored pork swords. Are you getting it? She’s drinking out of a cup covered in giant kaleidoscopic dicks.”
I think it’s quite beautiful. Purple, pink, blue, green, and yellow flowers decorate the outside, but instead of the pistil and stigma that normally rise from the center of a flower, they’ve been replaced with various dicks. Some veiny and bulbous, some short, and it even has uncut varieties. All dicks are fairly represented.
Even the chode.
“Why, dare I ask, do you have such a thing?” he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Bachelorette party guest favors.” I shrug and grab the bottle of water before me so hard the plastic crackles in my fist. After a cooling swig, I lower it from my lips. “The real question we should be asking here is if Cami handed it out on purpose.”
Nathan’s gaze swings to Cami on my right. She must feel the lasers burning a hole in the back of her head because she abruptly turns in Law’s hold with a, “What?”
“Did you purposely give my mom a mug covered in dicks?”
“Oh, shit.” Her eyes grow wide and horrified. She gawks in the direction of said dick mug. “Shit, shit, shit! I didn’t even notice!”
“Camouflaged little peckers,” I mumble beneath my breath. At this point, it’s impossible to hold back my grin.
Cami shrugs off Law’s arm, apparently on a mission to retrieve the vibrant cock cup.
“There are PENISES!” Mimi jumps off the couch as if she’s received an electric shock.
“Too late,” I hoot and catch Cami’s bicep as she moves to pass. “I’m surprised her eighty-two-year-old eyes made out those shapes before anybody else’s did.” Tears of hilarity form in my eyes.
At the commotion, Mom and Dad enter the living room as Papa moves to calm down Mimi, and Regina finally turns her attention to her mug. She brings the ceramic close to her face, squinting her eyes as she studies the flowers. The moment she sees them with clarity is obvious. She exhales a little guh, sets the mug on the end table, and wipes her hands as if it soiled her.
For the record, any remaining animosity toward her is wiped totally clean. Watching that woman carrying on with a penis cup in her hands is more satisfying than any glass of wine would taste right now.
I catch Regina’s eye and mouth, “Sorry,” with a shrug. She knows I wasn’t the one to deliver her the cup. What takes me off guard is the smile that breaks across her face with a little chuckle.
I’d say all is finally right between us. Hopefully, we can keep it that way.
26
Kiersten
Me: Just pulled up to your house. I packed a couple bags, but I’m only carrying one ;) You bring dinner.
Nathan: Be there in about 30. Got the bags and will get the food.
Grabbing my lightest duffel of the bunch, I trek through the muck and head inside Nathan’s two-story townhome. It always baffles me that for as many years as we’ve been friends, I’ve only been here about fifteen times. My stint of bed rest here just over a month ago almost added up to more days spent in his place than all the years combined.
My first assumption is that Cami or I hog the party invites. Our houses are always open for a place to chill, and Nathan has a typical bachelor pad. A few dark pieces of living room furniture, a tall corner lamp with a carved wooden base, a dining table that I know he doesn’t eat at. The walls are bare and have been since Janessa passed away. She used to have a myriad of photos of the two of them covering the walls. When she died, I think Nathan couldn’t bring himself to keep staring at the painful shots and took them all down.
My second assumption has always been that this is a sanctuary of sorts to Nathan. After he cleared out, stowed, or sold anything that reminded him of Janessa, he grew to embrace the solace here. I think he liked keeping his home all to himself.
Which raises the question: How is he going to feel with his son living here too?
A sick feeling rises inside me. We still haven’t discussed custody and how we’ll work it out. I imagine the infant stage will be the hardest. I could make a strong argument for keeping him with me at all times, and I’d put money on Nathan backing down. Even if I feel it’s for the best, and I do since I’ve decided to breastfeed, it feels like a crappy position to put my best friend in.
If working mothers can deal with pumping over eight hours and being away from their babies six weeks postpartum when they’re forced back to work, I can manage a few overnights a week.
At least that’s what I’ve started to tell myself because it won’t be long before this little one is here.
On that thought, I ascend the staircase to the second floor. Nathan put so much care in setting up my nursery so I didn’t have to worry about it, but did he do the same for himself?
His second level has a master bedroom with a private bath, two extra bedrooms, one of which I stayed in during my bedrest, and an extra full bathroom. I’m grateful we both have more than enough space to raise a baby, but is it awful I want to argue that mine is safer being a one-story without stairs?
All these hypothetical arguments bursting into my head add to the sick feeling from earlier. We can do this without a fight. I know we can. So why am I preparing like the next World War is about to begin?
My initial question about the nursery is answered before I even hit the second floor. The bedroom across from the staircase is propped open. From where I stand on the third to top step, I can see it’s fully decorated inside.
I should feel relief he took this seriously enough to prepare for our son, but something about his preparation sends a pang to my chest. If Nathan wanted more from me, from this situation, why would he go to such great lengths?
I wave my hand in front of my face as if I can brush aside the hormones and tread the rest of the way into the nursery.
The breath is stolen straight from my lungs. This room…The complete opposite to the rest of the sterile house. This room looks lived in and full of love. The crib is gray and sits center in front of a wall painted in olive green palm leaf patterns. Above the crib hangs three full-color paintings of safari animals—a giraffe, a zebra, and a lion cub.
A fully functional rocking horse waits in the corner for our son to be of appropriate age, but until then it’s an adorable addition to the décor. The floor is covered in a soft, plushy rug. Finally, kitty-corner to the crib is a high-back white, cushioned chair that I can already tell will be perfect for bedtime stories and late-night snuggles.
My chest aches.
Whereas most of my furniture came from an outing with Cami and the rest was selected for me and gifted at my baby shower, I can tell Nathan’s wasn’t. He obviously took a lot of care in creating this special room for our baby, coordinating down to the crib bedding.
I think I’ve underestimated my best friend, and this is just another thing in a long line of new realizations.
I wander to the chair, needing to test it out for research purposes. It looks so comfortable that I may need one for my own house. Sinking down with the help of the armrests, I stumble over something on the floor. I use my foot to kick out whatever it is from beneath the chair. Nathan probably dropped a box or something when setting his nursery up.
Rather than cardboard like I expect, a wicker box filled with papers comes into view. I think I throw out a vertebra in my attempt to lean over and retrieve it. Sweat dots my brow as I drop it low as if I’m on the dance floor at a swanky nightclub, and I almost say screw it. Almost. Curiosity to the point of stupidity is my second biggest personality trait besides the stubbornness of a mule.
&
nbsp; Getting back up is even worse than going down, and I second-guess not wearing a Life Alert like I joked not long ago. I finally manage to get my ass in the chair and the box in my lap. I kick my legs out in front of me and cross them at the ankles. I’m going to have to put this box on a table or something because there’s no way I’m getting it back beneath this chair when I’m done.
Thinking on how to go about just that, my name scrawled on the top piece of paper grabs my attention. That damn nosiness slithers out of me until I’m lifting the sealed envelope out of the box and turning it in my hands. I can tell from the neatness and the swirls that the writing doesn’t belong to Nathan. Regina, perhaps?
I slip my finger beneath the flap and work the seal open. A piece of folded notebook paper comes into view. I retrieve it and discard the envelope beside my hip. The letter rustles as I shake it open and hold the paper before my face. My other hand caresses my belly as I read:
Kiersten,
I desperately hope you read this someday. I’d almost say it’s my dying wish. Speaking of dying, if you’re reading this at all, it means I’m gone, and Nathan has been alone for some time. This isn’t a letter to ask you to take care of him—I know you’ll already be doing that. This is a letter asking you to love him.
OhMyGod. Holy crap. I shouldn’t be reading this. Why is there a letter addressed to me from Janessa? Does Nathan know? The envelope was sealed, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t around when she penned it.
Unable to stop myself now, I keep reading.
He’s been given his own letters to open at certain times, so he knows this exists. He just doesn’t know what’s in it. He doesn’t know that I think the two of you would be perfect for one another. He doesn’t know what I’ve witnessed in these last few weeks of my terminal illness and the special bond the two of you have.
Please don’t think I’m speaking from jealousy. I’m not. Neither one of you has ever acted the slightest bit inappropriately in front of me or otherwise. It’s something you can’t understand until your days are numbered, and you’re confined to a bed. I’ve accepted that I’m about to die, but the part I can’t make peace with is that Nathan is going to be left on this earth alone.