by Bromberg, K.
“I’m . . .” He pauses as he tries to figure out the rest of his thoughts. “I’m sure that my uncle cares more about the monthly payment he’d get for fostering me than he does having a thirteen-year-old boy in his house.” He breathes out long and even. I scour my mind to decide what to tell him next that might help to draw out more of his feelings and get him to talk, so I’m startled when he continues without any prompting.
“I remember his house,” he murmurs. “The cigarette smoke, the bent spoons, lighters, and tin foil on the coffee table next to the needles I was forbidden to touch. The couch that was supposed to be brown, but was almost white on the seams, and stained everywhere else that I could see even when all the shades were drawn. I remember sitting in the corner while my dad and him would slap the inside of their elbows before turning their backs to me . . . and then they’d sit back on the couch with their heads looking at the ceiling and creepy smiles on their faces.” His eyes focus on our hands where I’m rubbing my thumb back and forth over the top of his. And yes, he broke the rules, didn’t start his confession with “I’m”, but he’s talking and that’s ten times more than I ever thought I was going to get when I knelt down beside him.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I try to add strength to my voice so he doesn’t realize how much his words have affected me. “And I’m so very proud of the person you’ve become in spite of all of that.”
His eyes flash up to mine again on those last words, his head shaking back and forth a few times like he wants to reject them as my statement sinks in. “You did two ‘I’ms’,” he says.
“So I did.” I shift, feeling a tight pang as my stomach twists with worry. I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick. I try to take a deep breath and push it down. “You can go again if you want.”
“I’m going to run away if I’m told I have to go live with them.” My mouth shocks open and I immediately start to refute him, but when he shakes his head to tell me I can’t speak. I bite my tongue, which is laced with so many pleas for him to have faith.
“I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure neither of those things happen.” The sadness and resignation returns to his eyes. Tears well in my eyes and my chest constricts. This is one promise I have to follow through on.
“I’m certain that…” he says, and then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“No. Please tell me,” I urge, because the break in his voice worries me. Shit. Another painful twinge. Zander’s eyes are closed and his lips are pulled tight in thought.
After some time he draws in a long, uneven breath, and when somewhere in the house laughter erupts, he opens his eyes to find mine again. “I’m certain that if they’re allowed to foster me, I’ll die.”
And yes, he’s a thirteen-year-old boy and most people would write the statement off as melodramatic, but he’s not one to say something for attention. So as his statement hangs in the air and suffocates us, I struggle with a response so he knows I hear him and haven’t disregarded him. And yet I have no clue what to say because his comment can have so many connotations, and I’m not sure which one he means by it.
“Zander . . .” A sharp pain knocks the rest of the thoughts from my head and has me doubling over instantly. I try to hide the grimace on my face and fight the immediate need to curl up in the fetal position. Another pang hits me, causing my whole body to tense and my fingers to grip the comforter beneath them. I cringe when I feel the wetness between my legs; Full bladder, baby resting upon it, and a tense body is not a good mixture.
Seconds pass as I try to register the pain, and how I’m going to explain to a bunch of boys—who are obsessed with bodily functions—what just happened. Then I realize that the wetness keeps spreading.
Another sharp pain hits, this time drawing a gasp from my mouth. My mind spins as elation mixed with fear vibrates through my body on a crash course of adrenaline-laced hormones.
“Rylee?” Shane is at my side in an instant. Zander shifts to sit up, his face a picture of panic, and his eyes ask Shane for help. His face looks just as freaked out.
“My water broke,” I say with a laugh tinged with hysteria.
“What?” Shane exclaims, eyes wide with panic. “You can’t be—it’s not—oh shit. What do you need?” He walks to one side of the room and then back unsure what to do as I breathe deeply and slowly push myself up from the ground. And then he stops abruptly, eyes lighting up and mouth shocking open. “This is because I brought you here, isn’t it? The stress. Zander. Holy shit!”
“No.” I shake my head, trying to hide my own fear.
“Yes, it is. You promised,” he shouts, worry controlling his thoughts. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” His hands are in his hair; his feet are walking the floor. “Colton’s going to kill me. Frickin’ kill me.”
“Shane,” I say softly. “Shane!” He stops and turns to look at me. “No. He’s not.”
“It’s too early,” he whispers, eyes wild with fear.
“Go get Sammy.” Oh shit.
It’s too early.
The thought runs through my head, paralyzing me with a mixture of anxiety, fear, and worry, until a sniffle behind me snaps me to the here and now.
The baby’s not full term yet. In a pregnancy that has left me in a constant state of worry and fear, the thought is downright unnerving.
“I’m okay, Zand,” I say, hoping it’s the truth, fearing it’s not.
I look back to meet eyes welled with tears. “This is my fault,” he whispers.
No. No, that’s not true.
But for the first time in my life, I reach back and put my hand on top of his and don’t say a word to assuage his fears.
Because mine are greater right now.
And when I squeeze his hand, I’m not sure who I’m reassuring more, him or me.
SWING. WATCH. WALK. SCRATCH YOUR head and contemplate. Repeat.
Why anyone plays golf on a weekly basis beats the shit out of me. I’m so bored that watching paint dry would be more fucking interesting.
There’s a reason I race for a living. Adrenaline. Speed. Excitement. Too bad I can’t take the golf cart and open that baby up. Lay down some rubber on this boring green. Now that would be fun.
But sponsorships call. The dog and pony show must be performed. The ass-kissing must commence.
I slide a glance to Becks standing behind the head of Pennzoil and notice him giving me a lopsided smirk that says, “Quit being such a little bitch.” And he’s right. I need to, but I have so much shit to do and not enough time to do it in. Using my middle finger, I scratch the side of my head and give him the bird on the sly, causing his smirk to widen and his head to shake, obviously enjoying my misery.
The shrill sound of my cell disrupts the silence just as the Pennzoil rep is mid swing. He shanks the ball into the rough and immediately shoots me a glare for committing the cardinal sin of not silencing my cell on the green.
Fuck. Guess I screwed the pooch on that one.
I mumble an apology as Becks walks over to smooth over my error, and I pick up to see what Sammy needs.
“Sammy.”
“It’s time!” Rylee’s voice fills the line. Confused, I hold the phone out so I can look at the screen. Yep. Sam’s number all right.
“Time for . . . WHAT?” I shout, disturbing the silence on the green once again and not giving a fuck because my head is spinning and my heart is pounding.
“The baby,” she whispers, her voice a mixture of so many emotions I can’t place any of them.
“You sure?” I ask like a dumbfuck. Of course she’s sure.
“My water broke.”
Can’t get any more sure than that. Oh fuck. This is like real, real. “I’m on my way.”
I start to walk one way off the green and then stop and head the other way, hands shaking, mind reeling, and absolutely clueless about what to do now. The adrenaline I was begging for just moments ago is now coursing through me like jet fuel to the point I can’t focus
on anything and yet need to do everything.
“Wood. You okay?” Becks asks, as I look like a goddamn ostrich walking back and forth with my head stuck up my ass.
“I gotta go.” I put my phone in my pocket. Take it out. Grab my club. Put it in my golf bag upside down. Start looking for my glove and can’t find it only to see it’s on my hand.
“Colton.” Becks’s stern voice breaks through the mosh pit of chaos in my head so that I stop pacing aimlessly.
“The baby . . . Ry’s in labor. I gotta go,” I say again as Becks throws his head back and starts laughing.
“Not so calm and collected now, are you?” He chuckles.
If looks could kill he’d be in a body bag right now as I start rifling through my golf bag for my keys before realizing we’re on the back nine and way too fucking far from the country club’s parking lot.
“Chill, dude.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. “I’ll drive you to the clubhouse and then come back and deal with the suits,” he says, reading my crazed actions to know what I’m thinking. “Just promise me you’re stable enough to drive.”
That comment isn’t even worthy of a response.
Push the up button. Push it again. Pace three steps. Grumble. Push it again.
I’m not nervous. Not at all.
Door dings. Enter the elevator. Push the number three button. Smile politely to the man in the car, but keep my head down.
Scratch that. I’m freaking the fuck out now.
A stop on the first floor. The man walks off. Push close door. Push close door. Close the fucking door!
A baby. Holy shit.
Door closes.
I’m coming, Ryles.
Doors open just as my cell rings. I answer as I walk toward the nurses station.
“I don’t have much time, Shane. What’s up?”
“Is she okay?” he asks.
“Not sure yet. I’m almost there. I’ll text—”
“I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”
Come again? “What’s your fault?”
“I told Rylee I’d take care of Zander and then I called her and told her I was going there because the foster douchebag was meeting him and she was there. Zander told her lots of things and said he’d die if he went and that made her go into labor and now I’m worried I caused all of this—”
“Whoa! Slow down,” I say to stop his word vomit. What the fuck is he talking about? His words irritate my temper like an itch. How? Why?
Missing pieces fit together in my mind. Ry was at The House. Sammy was driving her to the hospital. Goddammit! Sammy drove her to The House to begin with. Against. My. Orders.
That itch turns into a full-blown scratch. I’ll be having words with Sammy. No doubt there.
“Colton?” I can hear the fear in his voice that I’m angry.
My mind is scattered as I make a wrong turn and get lost down the wrong hallway in this monster of a hospital. “I’m not mad,” I lie through gritted teeth because, hell yes, I’m pissed but it’s not at him. It’s at my wife.
“She was just trying to help Zander,” he says quietly, and my heart goes out to the kid. Kid? Shit. He’s a man now. When the fuck did that happen? I’m still trying to wrap my head around the notion—around the fact I’m here for her to have our baby—but it’s not lost on me Shane’s trying to protect Rylee from my anger.
Even now, when I’m frazzled and lost in this goddamn hospital trying to get to her, it’s impossible not to recognize the incredible job my wife has done to instill compassion for others in her boys.
Our baby’s going to be one lucky kid to have her as a mom.
“Colton?” Shane’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts just in time to prevent me from going the wrong way down a hallway.
Get a grip, Donavan. Pay attention. Get to Ry.
“Is he okay?” I finally digest his words from a minute ago about what Zander had said. My shoes squeak on the polished floor as I rush down the hallway and look for signs to direct me.
“I’m with him. Yes. But Ry was so upset and—”
“Look. I’ll fix it somehow, okay?” I then pass what feels like the same exact place for a second time. I’m anxious. Worried. Need to get to Rylee and yet couldn’t find my way out of a wet paper bag right now if I had to.
“There is no fixing it,” he says with resignation.
“There is if we adopt him,” I say off the cuff, distracted, overwhelmed, trying to get to Rylee, navigate this place, and carry a conversation that I shouldn’t be having right now.
“Oh.”
And then it hits me what I’ve said and who I’ve said it to. Fuck! Ry’s concerns flood my head and yet I just went and opened by big fucking mouth and did exactly what she didn’t want to do—hurt one of her boys. Let them think we’d pick one over the others.
“Shit!” I say through gritted teeth as I make myself stop and pinch the bridge of my nose. I need to figure out how to make this right. I’ve been there. Unwanted. Feeling slighted. Jealous. On the wrong end of the schoolyard pick. Fix this, Donavan. “That’s not what I meant. I’m doing too many things at once: talking, walking, and trying to get to Ry. I suggested the idea just to fix the situation but we’d never really do it because there’s no way we could just adopt one of you and not all of you. And social services—”
“Would never allow you to adopt all of us,” he says, finishing my sentence for me. But then nothing else.
Silence hangs on the line as I grimace at what I just said. At talking without thinking. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Talk to me, Shane. Cuz, dude, as much as I want to make sure this is right, I also have somewhere else I need to be like ten damn minutes ago.
“Shane?”
“Of course. Makes sense,” he says. And goddammit, I’m torn between making sure I believe he’s not upset and getting to where I need to be. I look up and fucking kick myself when I see the nurses station to my left.
“I’m here. I gotta go. We’ll talk later. I’ll keep you up to date, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I don’t hear anything else because I hang up as I impatiently wait for the nurse to look up. And when she does I get the usual response: wide eyes, big gasp, flushed cheeks.
“Hi. Wh . . . How . . . What can I help you with?” she stutters as her hand automatically goes to pat down her hair in a move I’ve seen more times in my life than I care to count.
“Room number for Rylee Donavan, please.” My smile is forced, my patience nil. Because now that I’m here I need to see her, touch her, know she’s not in pain.
That’s brilliant, Donavan. Labor. The word means it’s not going to be easy. Pain is inevitable.
“Three eleven is the room, and you’ll need this,” she says as she pulls out a visitor’s badge from a stack sitting on the ledge next to her. “What name do you want?” She winks. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Ace Thomas.” The name is off my tongue without thought. Where’d that come from?
“Ace Thomas, it is,” she says writing it out and handing me the badge. “Good luck, Mr. Donav—Thomas.”
I flash her a smile and jog down the hall to where Sammy sits in a chair outside the door to her room. He lifts his eyes and locks them on mine. He knows I know, knows I’m pissed, and stiffens his spine.
“Her. Safety. Comes. First,” I say through gritted teeth. “Always. Understood?”
The words he wants to say as my friend are written clearly in his eyes, but his obligation as my employee and lead security keep them from coming out of his mouth. “Understood.”
It’s all he says. All I need to hear from him. Discussion over. Point made.
I push through the door and into the room anxious about what awaits me. No turning back now. This is real as real can be.
Ry’s back is to me and Dr. Steele is just walking out. She smiles when she sees me. “Everything looks good, Colton. Be prepared to be a daddy within the next twenty-four hours,” she says, then shakes my hand.
&nb
sp; “Colton!” Relief. I can hear it in her voice and breathe a little easier now that I’m here.
“I guess we didn’t have time to repaint those toes,” I say as I walk to her side of the bed and press a kiss to her lips. That’s what I needed. A little bit of Ry to calm me.
“Or do other things,” she murmurs with a smile.
“I got here as fast as I could.”
“Ace Thomas, huh?” she says, her eyes flickering down to my nametag and then back to mine with amusement. “I seem to have heard that somewhere before.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” I feign ignorance.
“Just don’t tell my husband you’re here. He’s got a mean right hook.”
I laugh. God, I fucking love this woman. Framing her face with my hands, I take in the feel of her skin beneath mine and breathe in a huge sigh of relief. “You okay?” She nods her head, her eyes searching mine, and I know what she’s looking for, knows I’ve connected the dots. “Yes, I’m mad at you . . .”
Furious. Livid.
But I love you more.
“Don’t be mad at Sammy. I made him drive me,” she says with a cringe, and I hold back the snort I want to give because Sammy’s a badass motherfucker. I doubt she made him do anything but at the same time, I know how Rylee gets when it comes to her boys.
“Have you talked to Zander? I need to make sure he’s okay.”
The saint. In a moment that’s all about her, she’s thinking about them.
“Rylee,” I say with a sigh but know she won’t give up or relax until she knows they are okay. “I just talked to Shane.”
“What did he say about Zander?”
“We talked. Shane’s still there with him. I’m sure he’s fine. Let’s worry about—”
“No. He’s not. He was scared and said some things that—”