Picture Us (Turn it Up Book 3)

by Natalie Parker

  Damn. He’s got a damn good point there. And he just said co-parent, as in be the other parent. He really got me the other day when he said he was going to be the best dad he could be, but it definitely doesn’t hurt to hear this.

  “Okay, yeah you’re right.” But if you come over, I might kiss you… or worse.

  “Great,” I can hear him smiling into the phone and it makes my heart glow. “What are you in the mood for? I can grab Chinese, Pizza…?” he leaves the question open-ended for me to fill in the blank. The thought of Chinese makes my stomach turn over, but a barbeque chicken pizza from Leo’s sounds good.

  “You got it, I love that one too,” he agrees after I suggest it. “Need me to grab anything else?”

  I hold up the empty carton in my hand and sigh. I cringe as I get ready to ask.

  “Chocolate milk?” I ask, closing my eyes, just waiting to hear it.

  “Chocolate milk?” he echoes. Here it comes. “What are you, six?” I can hear a playful chuckle in his voice.

  “Shut up! It’s a craving,” I defend sternly.

  “You’re serious?” Now he sounds interested. “When did this start?”

  “Yesterday… I don’t want to say how much I’ve already gone through. Anyway, do you mind?”

  “No,” he tells me reassuringly. “I don’t mind at all. I’ll see you about seven, okay?”

  “Okay,” I answer before we hang up.

  “Chocolate milk? What are you, six?” the grouchy old cashier digs at me while he rings me up. Hank is one of those cranky senior citizens who took on a retirement job to get out of the house. He’s charming with the lady customers, but loves dishing out shit to ‘whippersnapper’ guys my age while he’s waiting on them.

  “It’s a pregnancy craving, smart ass,” I throw back as I open my wallet.

  “Oh, congratulations. When are you due?” he says with an exaggerated look of excitement on his face, his voice reeking of sarcasm as he takes my cash.

  “Bite me,” I tell him as I grab the milk and shove my wallet back in my jeans.

  “Screw off.”

  When I get to Annie’s house ten minutes later, my knuckles barely touch the door before it’s yanked open and Annie urgently looks me up and down until she spots the chocolate milk in my hand and lunges for it.

  “Oh my God, thank you!” she exclaims, prying it out of my hand and immediately tearing into the top opening.

  Holy shit.

  She continues to wrestle with it as she turns and heads into the house. I follow behind her carrying the pizza box in my other hand. She sets the milk on the counter and with the added leverage, manages to get the carton open before lifting it and taking a few chugs that would put most men in a beer chugging contest to shame.

  Good God. She appears perfectly pretty and feminine in her jeans and red sweater, with her luscious locks hanging down around her, yet she’s savagely consuming the milk I brought her. She sets the carton down with a thunk and sighs with relief. Seeming satisfied, at least for the moment, she turns towards the cabinets and pulls out a couple of plates as if her crazy craving didn’t just possess her to mug me at her front door.

  “Okay, sooo…” I start to ask casually. “The cravings have commenced. Any other symptoms kicking in yet?”

  She shrugs, looking at me with her hazel eyes. “Not really. Just the dizziness when I first found out, and I have days where I’m super tired or don’t have much of an appetite, but that’s it. I feel good today,” she tells me as she sets plates down on the counter and I flip open the box. She turns to grab glasses out of the cabinet and puts ice water in both after I tell her I’m fine with that.

  “That’s great,” I tell her, feeling a little relieved as I shrug off my jacket and drape it over a dining chair.

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “I even made it into the dance studio today.”

  “You’ve been dancing?” I ask, wondering if that’s okay.

  “Yeah. I was feeling good today and it’s good to stay active. I read it in a book.”

  She read it. Shit. I’ve got to get a pregnancy book so I can stay on the same page as her, pun intended.

  “Oh!” she exclaims, snapping her fingers like she just remembered something. “The hormones are insane. I used to think pregnant women were exaggerating to get attention, but holy shit, it’s sooo real.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, leaning on the counter. I’ve heard people talk about this before and I’m interested in her insight.

  “Yeah,” she says, nodding at herself with exasperation. “It’s like every emotion I would have normally is amplified by, like, ten.”

  “How so?”

  “Oh, crying at Angel Soft commercials, or wanting to throw my laptop out the window when it won’t load photos fast enough.”

  “Jeez, that’s rough” I sympathize as I imagine her in these scenarios, looking cute as fuck. “But did you just say you cry at toilet paper commercials?”

  “Yes, the one where the little girl is crying in the bathroom and her dad passes her a note under the door written on the toilet paper; it’s sweet, it gets to me, I don’t wanna talk about it!” Her voice elevates and alternates between emotional and indignant. Holy hell, I need to steer this is another direction or I might not leave here with my manhood attached.

  “So, is this every feeling?” I ask, clicking my tongue so she’ll get my lighthearted innuendo. I want to be closer to her but I’m still trying to not make things too heavy. I want her to feel comfortable and get used to the idea of having and raising a baby with me before I tell her I want even more with her.

  “Oh, there’s the Tyler I met three years ago. I was getting worried,” she banters back with a warm and charming smile, laced with a hint of humor. It makes my heart give a hard pound and I try not to falter.

  “Oh no, he’s gone honey. I’ve sent him far away. He just occasionally writes,” I quirk my eyebrows at her, chuckling. “Me on the other hand… I’m here for you. Anything you need…” I don’t drop a hint in my voice this time. I want her to take that however she wants to.

  13

  When we’re loaded up with our plates and drinks, Tyler turns to face the table while I cruise past him towards the living room.

  “I’ve been eating in here,” I motion him towards the living room and place the plates down on the coffee table. I haven’t been able to bring myself to actually eat, or do anything really, at the kitchen table. I keep telling myself if I’m not going to use it I should just get another one, but I don’t want to cough up the dough. Besides, something in me doesn’t want to let go of it.

  “You don’t eat at the table?” he questions.

  “Well, call me crazy, but it’s a little weird to eat meals at the table I got pregnant on,” I retort, cynically.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Tyler shrugs, sitting next to me on the couch and setting his drink down before turning to me with what looks like a swoony look of nostalgia in his eyes. “It could’ve been in the bed.” We sit looking at each other for a moment not saying anything, and I swear I can see all of my favorite flashbacks from that night reflecting in his eyes, like he’s thinking of them with the same longing and fondness I am. I’m still mulling over what he said in the kitchen, about the old Tyler being gone. What does that mean? He’s not going to womanize anymore? He probably just meant he’s taking our situation seriously and isn’t going to try to score with me anymore. Which is probably for the best, but it’s a damn shame.

  I play the chicken and look away first, grabbing up the remote and putting the Thursday night game on. Our home team isn’t playing but I always follow whoever is anyway. It was a good move because Tyler’s eyes shoot to the screen with interest, and I feel the atmosphere immediately relax.

  After we’ve taken some time to enjoy our pizza while commenting and bantering about the game, Tyler sets his plate down on the coffee table and his eyes seem to catch sight of the book lying to the side. He picks it up with one hand and sits back, e
xamining it.

  “Is this the book you’ve been reading?”

  “Yeah.” I press my lips together and give him a shrug.

  “So,” he starts flipping through it. “Eight weeks…”

  Holy shit, he’s keeping track. I mean, it’s only been a couple days since the doctor’s visit so the math shouldn’t be hard, but still, most men are morons about this kind of thing from what I hear.

  “The baby is the size of a raspberry,” he reads aloud. “Interesting.” His eyebrows go up. “Now I’m curious to see how big it will be next week.” He flips more pages. “A green olive. What the hell is it with the food references?” he asks, putting the still open book down in his lap and looking at me.

  “Who the hell knows?” I retort with a roll of my eyes and look back at the game so I don’t give away how awestruck I am that he’s taking a genuine enough interest in this to actually pick up a pregnancy book and flip through it. In my peripheral, I can see him flip through a few more pages before setting it back down on the coffee table and reclining back into the couch. He tucks an arm behind his head and lets his other hand rest on my thigh. I’m a little surprised; not by the action, but by how naturally it seemed to come to him. It feels thrilling, scary, yet oddly comfortable at the same time. I suppose it’s okay that he’s being affectionate. We’re two people having a baby that care about each other, and it’s good that we become close. I shudder to think how awful it would be if we couldn’t stand each other, for us and our child. I’m just so afraid of falling. Imagine that. I’m afraid of falling for the man I’m having a baby with.

  “So how are you feeling about everything?” I ask, deciding I want to know where his head is at, the one sitting next to me on my couch with his hand on my leg and his offspring in my uterus.

  He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the game for a second before letting them drift over to me.

  “I’ve been feeling a lot of things,” he says, his eyes, taking in mine.

  “Like what?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual and not like I’m prying.

  He looks into space before answering. “Scared, nervous, kind of excited…?”

  “Excited? Really?” I ask pleasantly surprised.

  “Well… yeah. I mean, sure it’s scary and unexpected, but what the hell good is it going to do me or you if I treat it like a burden or like a bad card I got dealt? It’s better to look at it as an adventure, and be optimistic that I’ll be a good parent.”

  “That’s… amazing,” I marvel at his outlook. “That’s really reassuring too.” I nod up at him.

  He gives my thigh a squeeze. “And I could have a way worse partner on this journey, you know?” he looks down at me, affectionately.

  Partner. Yeah, I guess you could say that’s what we are. And this affection he’s showing me must be friendly affection, combined with a certain respect. That works; I like it. So long as I don’t read any deeper into it than that. I’ve known from the start that Tyler Hayes was someone I could fall for, and I could now, more than ever. But he doesn’t do love, not romantically. I thank my lucky stars that I’ve got him as a supportive partner, and that our baby will have a dependable father. I don’t think I should ask for more than that, not from him. Not if I want to keep my heart intact.

  “Yeah,” I finally agree. “So, speaking of being partners, how are we going to do this?” He looks at me quizzically. “I mean, do we work out some kind of parenting schedule? Get together and discuss tactics once a week? When do we start telling people? All that stuff.”

  Tyler drops his head back on the couch cushions and nods gently at my rapid fire questions.

  “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” I say nervously shaking my head and waving my hands. “It’s just, you said on the phone -,”

  “I know,” he says, gently cutting me off. “I haven’t told anyone yet. Have you?”

  “Just Mayzie.”

  He nods again. “I can see wanting to tell your best friend.”

  “Yeah… I was freaked out. I’m not ready to tell my family and I just wanted to talk about it with someone that knows me and loves me, you know?”

  His eyebrows pensively draw together and he looks off to the side, presumably considering the concept.

  “I get it,” he says quietly. “I haven’t told my parents yet either. I plan to, but I figure it’s early and there’s no harm in getting used to it ourselves first.”

  “Exactly,” I agree.

  “And we could have a schedule for who gets the kid when, but I think we should also consider…” he takes a deep breath, “living together.”

  Whoa.

  “What? No,” I shake my head, dismissing the idea.

  “I just said, consider it. I knew a lot of kids growing up whose parents had joint custody, and it was really hard on them.”

  “As did I, but Tyler…”

  “What? If we can get along under the same roof, so much the better for our kid, right?”

  “Well…” I stammer, trying to argue. In some fantasy world, sure, I’d love to live happily ever after with Tyler and raise our baby together, but this is the real world where Tyler doesn’t commit to one woman.

  “What?” he gently challenges.

  “I don’t want to live with you, knowing you’re… out doing whatever… with whoever.”

  He closes his eyes, letting go of my leg to lean forward with his elbows on his knees and huffing out a deep sigh.

  “That won’t be happening.”

  “Tyler, how do I know that? It’s kind of your thing isn’t it?”

  “It was, and now it isn’t. I told you I’m not going to be that guy anymore. I’m going to be a father and I’m not going to have time for that shit, and besides…” he trails off, not finishing his thought as he looks around the room, seemingly frustrated, before his eyes land on the deck of cards I have sitting on the coffee table next to the pregnancy book. He snatches them up.

  “What do you play?” he asks. I’m not sure if he’s trying to throw me off with the subject change or if he’s just uncomfortable, but I chuckle at the memory of why those were sitting there.

  “That was from when Mayzie and I and a couple of our other dance friends had a guy’s night here.”

  “A guy’s night?” he parrots. “You mean you had a bunch of guys come over and -,”

  “No, you perv!” I bite back giggles and he laughs along. “No, we decided we wanted to know what it would be like to have a guy’s night the way guys do. You know, with beer and cards? It was fun. We wore ball caps and flannels, and we even tried smoking cigars while we played.”

  He’s laughing harder now, presumably picturing the visual. “And how’d that work out for you?”

  “Well, the night is a bit fuzzy, but I believe I was on the floor coughing and gasping for air, thinking it was my last moment on earth. I think Mayzie tried to give me mouth to mouth, Emma barfed on the back porch and Bree just sat there puffing on hers like she was a pimp or something,” I tell him in quick rendition as he continues laughing.

  “So anyway,” he continues, after he’s composed himself. “What games were you playing?”

  “Well, I kick ass at gin rummy, but we figured if we were going to be guys, we’d play poker.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “I’m okay. You?”

  “Same. Okay. You up for a game?” he asks as he takes the cards out of the box and starts shuffling.

  I shrug and give him a weird look. “I guess,” I answer awkwardly, drawing the second word out. I’m not sure why he’d want to play with me. Don’t guys prefer to play with other guys? “What would we bet on?”

  He looks up at the ceiling like he’s giving this serious thought before leveling me with that hard stare. It’s intense and I feel almost vulnerable.

  “Clothes.” The word comes out plain yet bold as that stare of his continues to pin me in place.

  “Uh, like strip poker?” I ask for clarification, trying not to let him
see me squirm. He nods at me without shifting his eyes and I swear to God, we don’t need to play strip poker because that gaze of his is melting my clothes off.

  “Are you kidding?” This time he shakes his head. “No.”

  “What, afraid you’ll lose?” he asks casually as he turns to start shuffling the deck on the coffee table.

  Ooh.

  “Nope.”

  “Well then, you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?” he teases.

  Fine. I can play strip poker. I just need to go rifle through my closet for all my ski gear.

  Forty minutes later, Tyler is sitting on my couch in nothing but his boxer briefs and it’s driving me out of my fucking mind. That body of his should be illegal, along with that look he keeps giving me. I can feel my body temperature rise and blood run straight to that special place between my legs which is sooo not a good idea right now, seeing as how I’m not wearing pants. I absolutely must divert that look he’s giving me. I decide to start trash talking him.

  “You okay over there? Getting cold?”

  “No, but feel free to come over and sit in my lap and warm me up anyway,” he replies in a low voice that I’m not sure is meant to be seductive but it sure as fuck is, without looking up from his hand.

  Oh, dear God. I clench my legs together under my sweater.

  “This hand is for the boxers…” I remind, teasing him.

  “You never know, I could win this one and keep them on. But what do you say we raise the stakes a little?”

  “What could you possibly raise the stakes with? You have one article left.”

  “I win this hand, you let me take care of that little problem you’re having.” His eyes are back to being dead set and undressing me (well, the rest of the way). I feel another flood of lust toward my core.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What problem?” I give him an exaggerated shrug like I have no clue what he’s talking about. Oh my God, he knows. No, he doesn’t. He couldn’t possibly! I’m doing an amazing job of not showing it.