by Amelia Wilde
Seated behind Whit in the place of honor, my belly on prominent display in a pink maternity sundress, I roll my eyes at her announcement.
“I have already taken the measurement, so this won’t be embarrassing for Summer—” More laughter follows. “The guest with the closest guess wins a gift card to Sephora. If you’re a nice person, you’ll take this lovely pregnant woman with you.”
Whitney totally transformed the idea of my baby shower from a yellow celebration of gender-neutral everything to a pink explosion, and she did it inside of a week. I’d be impressed if I didn’t feel so pregnant, and I still have six weeks to go.
Six long weeks.
Another Braxton Hicks contraction squeezes at my belly, tightening down over baby girl. Baby Girl Sullivan, reads the name on her ultrasound pictures. Baby Girl Sullivan. That’s all fine and good, but I want her to have Dayton’s last name.
I want to have Dayton’s last name.
As for first names…
More and more these days, I feel my mind slipping into daydreams. It’s getting harder to sleep, what with the extra weight on my torso and the heartburn, so whenever my mind wanders during the day, the images come. Holding the baby in my arms. Whispering to her. Calling her… what? What am I calling her?
I didn’t have a name picked out when I first learned I was pregnant, and I still don’t have a short list.
What if it doesn’t turn out?
The doubt whispers the warning at the back of my mind and I shiver. The A/C is barely turned up high enough to keep me cool in my current state, but the sun on my back feels hot. I can’t win.
What if it doesn’t, though? The fight with Day earlier this week shook me to my core. Things seemed okay after the ultrasound, but when we were outside, back in the light of day, I saw a stiffness, a tension, that hasn’t gone away. He’s thinking about something, and he won’t tell me what it is.
It sets me on edge.
A cheer goes up, and I realize the game is over. One of my college friends, Mindy, has won the gift certificate, and she comes to the front of the room and throws her arms around my neck, promising to take me to Sephora anytime I’d like.
“No need,” I tell her. “Enjoy it for yourself.” The thought of standing in Sephora—or standing anywhere, for that matter—for long enough to make a purchase makes my entire soul feel fatigued.
After the games, there’s a round of picture-taking. Each of the shower guests swirl around me in different combinations, placing their hands on my pregnant belly. They’re tender about it, and despite the fact that I do not want to stand for any longer than necessary, it fills me with a kind of sisterly glow.
My mom is last in line.
“I don’t know if she’s excited,” I told Whitney on the phone last weekend. The two of them planned the shower together at a reception hall outside the city. “She never liked Dayton’s family.” She never seemed to dislike Dayton, but I was a kid. What the hell do I know?
“Sunny, stop. She’s thrilled. It’s her first grandbaby! She wouldn’t care if this baby was the product of a steamy one-night stand.”
“In a way…”
“Ha. If that was a one-night stand, then I’m in a lot of happy relationships right now.”
We’re happy. We’re happy. I repeat the words to myself over and over again. I can ignore that this current state of happiness is a temporary peace treaty. I can feel Day drawing part of himself away from me, even now. And he’s not here.
“Oh, baby girl,” my mom says softly, asking me permission with her eyes to touch my belly. I nod to her, and she puts both hands against the swell under my dress. “Oh! That was a kick!”
“She’s strong.” My mom beams, then turns me gently toward the photographer.
“A picture with my girl.”
The camera clicks. “Ugh. This angle is terrible, Mom. Take another one so I don’t look like a beached whale.”
“Only temporary, daughter mine. And you don’t look like a beached whale. You look beautiful.”
Whitney stands behind the photographer, inviting everyone to eat. My mom kisses me on the temple and moves to return to her role as co-hostess. I grab her hand at the last second.
She turns, worry creasing her forehead. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I mean, my feet hurt, but—” I laugh nervously, then turn her away from the guests, our backs making a protective shield, the baby wedged between us. “Mom.” I’m suddenly desperate for her approval. It’s stupid. It’s too late to change anything now, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. “Are you okay with this?”
She glances over our shoulders. “The party’s beautiful, Sunny. Everyone’s having a great time. Why? Did someone say something?”
“No, not—not the party. This.” I put my hand on my belly. “With Dayton.”
I’ve been afraid to say his name, to invoke any judgment. I don’t want that. Not today.
“Summer.”
I look up into my mom’s eyes. Blue, just like mine.
Her expression has never been more serious.
“If you’re not happy,” she says slowly. “If he’s done anything to—”
I clutch her arm. “No. No. That’s not what I’m saying. I—” I shake my head, the words disappearing even as I try to say them. “I’m in love with him.” My heart beats hard against my rib cage. “But I don’t want to spend my life in a shadow.”
“What shadow?”
“If you—” I’m struggling for breath now, I’m so nervous. “If you hate him. If you hate that kind of person. I don’t want to ruin everything for you if that’s what—”
My mom faces me, taking my hands in hers. “Sunny, take a breath.”
I do.
“I’ve known Dayton almost as long as I’ve known Wes.” Her mouth curves upward into a fond smile. “He hasn’t always been on the straight and narrow, but what teenage boy doesn’t make mistakes?”
“Everybody makes mistakes.”
Her eyes stay on mine, searching. “You’re an adult. If Dayton makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.” She shakes her head a little. “Those tattoos, though—” She saw them for the first time last night, when my parents took us out to dinner. It’s the first time they’ve been to the city since we moved in together. Both of them still work, so it’s not as if they’ve been avoiding it, but— “Those tattoos are something else.”
“I like them,” I tell her, and I honestly do. Tracing my fingers down the lines of them after sex is one of my favorite things.
“That’s all that matters.” She lets go of my hands and pulls me in for a hug. “Seriously, Summer, are you getting cold feet about moving in with him?”
I laugh out loud. “The last thing I have is cold feet. I just want—” I try to find the words to describe this feeling.
“You want peace before the baby comes,” my mom says sagely, and I’m more relieved than I’ve ever been. “He’s a good man, Summer. Let him be good to you.”
“I should have brought a bigger truck.” Dayton surveys the pile of gifts in the reception hall with a grin on his face. “These people must like you.”
It’s all lovely. All of it. But the size and shape of all these things makes anxiety rise into my throat. “They like me a little too much, I think.”
Dayton puts his arm around me. “Don’t worry about all of it,” he says softly. “We’ll go through it together.”
“He’s here!” My mom calls a greeting from the other end of the hall. All the other guests are gone. It’s just me, Whit, my mom, and Dayton. “Summer, sit down. You look like you’re about to have heat stroke. The rest of us will get this truck loaded.”
I watch out the window as they carry boxes and bags of every size out to the bed of the pickup truck Dayton rented just for this occasion. My mom says something to him and he laughs. My heart aches. It’s love and worry, all at once. I know we made up from our fight, but it still seems unresolved. Probably because that guy is still out the
re. And Dayton is still worried about it, even if he won’t tell me.
He carries another bag out, and halfway to the truck the handles break, spilling tiny onesies on the sidewalk. Dayton is alone, his dark hair shining in the sun, and he bends carefully to the ground, maneuvering around his prosthetic, picking each one up like it’s precious, irreplaceable.
Oh, my heart.
Those tiny clothes in his big hands.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I should quit. I’ll be taking maternity leave once our daughter is born. What’s the difference?
He stuffs the colorful onesies back into the bag and lifts it. Pain crosses his face as he stands up. Did he go to his appointment last week? Or did he reschedule it again?
I don’t know that Whitney is beside me until she speaks. “Look at that,” she says, and we both watch as Dayton crosses to the truck, opens the door, and tucks the bag carefully inside the cab. “He’s going to be a great dad.”
“Because he’s being careful with the onesies?” It’s a half-hearted joke.
She pats my shoulder and leans down to whisper into my ear. “Because he’s even careful with the onesies.”
32
Dayton
Something is still off between me and Summer. Not even the baby shower earlier today could dispel the tension between us.
I know exactly what it is.
It’s Alexei.
That fucker is following us everywhere. He has to be. He knows where she works, but I don’t want to scare her any more than she already is. I can’t do that to her. I can’t do that to the baby.
I bring in all the presents from the shower and stack the boxes in piles in the living room. She’s waiting in the bedroom, her hair lit by the soft light, and in the dark hallway, I pause and look at her.
“Summer.”
She turns from her spot at the foot of the bed. There’s that look in her eyes. It’s still there.
And yet…
She beckons to me, and as we climb onto the bed she pounces, tearing at my shirt and clothes. It’s harder for her to do these days, now that her belly is so big, but she climbs on top of me and pushes me back against the pillows. I take her hips in my hands and devour her mouth. She breaks the kiss and bends to my collarbone, biting at the skin, leaving pinpricks of pain and passion across my chest.
I can’t resist her.
She was irresistible before the pregnancy, and now, God’s honest fucking truth, it’s hard to look at her. Her body is that luscious with her glow. She’s always soaking wet, and tonight is no exception.
Summer lifts her hips and lowers herself onto my hard length, her belly heavy between us. My cock twitches inside of her—fuck, she feels good. She closes her eyes and rolls her hips in slow circles, hands braced against my chest.
In the dim light of the bedroom, I can still see her face.
I knew it. Something’s wrong.
Her mouth is pressed into a serious line, almost a frown. She’s not panting with the usual enthusiasm and furious joy that normally overtakes her when we fuck.
I put my hand to her collarbone. “Stop.”
Her body stills and she opens her eyes. “Why?”
“Are you enjoying this?”
She raises one eyebrow. “Yes. Are you?”
“You don’t look like you’re enjoying it.”
“I look how I look.” Summer tosses her head back.
I run the pad of my thumb over her cheek. “Look at me.”
She lowers her eyes to meet mine.
“I said what I did last night in the heat of the moment. I was panicking. It was stupid. I never should have said it.”
She casts her gaze down at my chest.
“Sunny, look at me.”
Her blue eyes catch all the available light.
“I’m not leaving you, Sunny. I’ll never leave you.”
“Is it the right thing—” Her voice breaks. “Is it the right thing, to stay together?” She shakes her head, once, sharply. “Of course it’s the right thing. I didn’t—I mean, should we stay in the city? Should I quit my job?”
“No, and no.” My resolve grows with every word that comes out of her mouth. I’ve been running from the past. I’ve been running from what happened with Alexei. I’ve been running longer than that. I’ve been running from what happened in that Humvee. And before that, I was running from my father, from the kind of man I never wanted to become. “I’m taking care of it.”
“I want—”
“You want to know more, and I’ll tell you everything.” I inch my hand a little closer to her throat. She’s not a breath play kind of girl, but the slightest pressure there is always rewarded with a gush of wetness between her legs. “But right now, you can relax. You can forget. Forget last night ever happened.”
Her hands tense against my chest, gripping the hair there, when I reach between her legs, finding her clit beneath the fine, soft hair decorating her pussy. It’s been a while since she felt good enough for a shave or a wax. The feel of it beneath my fingers makes me so hard that I’m excruciatingly aware of the blood rushing from my head to my cock.
I circle her clit, my hand close to where I’m inside her, and she gasps. “Do you promise?”
“Forget it ever happened,” I growl into her ear. “And I promise I’ll make you come until you beg me to stop.”
It takes a lot of orgasms to make Summer beg, but she does it at last, a final trembling wave moving through her body, a heaving, gasping moan.
Then she leans in, curling up against my side, and falls asleep without another word.
Her breathing is slow and even within seconds. I give it a few minutes before slipping from underneath the covers. Both of us could use a warm washcloth. I tend to myself in the bathroom and then heat a clean cloth, taking it back into the bedroom where Summer is sprawled across the bed. She stirs a little when I dip the cloth between her legs, murmuring something about how great I am.
Someday, she’ll be right about that.
Once the washcloth is hung over the towel rack in the bathroom, I climb back into bed next to her. I fall instantly into a dream.
I’m in the Army, but it’s not the same Army. Everything is different. The uniforms are all wrong, but the squad leaders are still assholes. I’m struggling to keep up. Where the hell is my prosthesis? I’m late for a drill and I look for it, realizing too late that I have both feet. Shit.
“Into the Humvee,” someone shouts at me, so I climb in. Wes is in the driver’s seat.
“I fucking hate you,” he says. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
“Don’t do this.” I look out the front window, but I can’t see shit. He shifts the Humvee into drive and we trundle away on the gravel road.
Wes drives with his teeth clenched, his eyes narrowed. He’s not wearing his helmet. I try to tell him to put it on, but the words stick in my throat. I don’t think we’ve gone far enough when he stops the Humvee and gets out.
“Wes!”
He’s gone, but then he reappears at my door, yanking it open.
He’s standing there with Alexei’s wife.
“What are you—?”
He hauls me bodily out of the Humvee. I’m bigger than he is. I’ve always been bigger. It doesn’t matter. I can’t do anything to stop him.
“Here it is,” he says. “Here’s what you get, for being such a piece of shit.” I scramble to get my feet underneath me as he pushes me forward, his fingers light on my shoulder blades.
I see it too late.
The land mine.
One of the ones re-buried by the Taliban after the Russians blanketed all of Afghanistan.
I feel the hard metal beneath my foot.
“Three, two, one,” Wes counts, and the mine explodes.
Agony. My foot is in agony.
It’s both on fire and frozen, the pain all-consuming, and I react with my entire body. There’s a strange howling. It takes me a second to realize what it is: it’s
me.
I grab for my left foot—anything to relieve the pain, anything, but it’s not there.
I shout out a string of curses into the pillow. I don’t know where I am. My vision is clouded red with pain.
“Day. Dayton.”
There’s another screaming twist of pain in my foot and I reach for it again, my hands scrabbling at the sheets.
“Dayton. Listen to my voice. Focus on my words.” A gentle touch brushes against my shoulder. It feels far away.
“Straighten out your back.”
I’m twisted, bent over in the bed, but I didn’t know it until now. I grit my teeth and force myself upright, force my head back to the pillow.
The pillow in my bed.
I sense a palm against my forehead, the back of a hand against my cheek, whisper soft.
“You’re at home in your bed,” the voice says. “If you put your hand out, you can feel the sheets.”
I stretch my hand out hesitantly. It takes a minute to register. There are sheets. There’s no gravel path, no punishing heat. The sheets. Of my bed. At home.
“We’re together at home. Your foot is hurting you, but you lost your foot during your deployment. It’s not there anymore. Does that help?”
“No.” It’s the one word I can manage to say.
“Take in a deep breath and relax your legs.” I fucking try. “I’m running my hands down your right knee, down your right shin.” The hand follows the voice. A shifting on the bed.
“Now I’m going to run my hand down your left knee. And your left shin.” The hand is on my knee, on my shin. “All the way down to your ankle. I’m putting my fingers around your ankle and squeezing, very gently.”
“Fuck.” The pain lessens by the slightest degree.
“I won’t do that too long. Now my hand is on the top of your left foot. Very gentle. A slight pressure.”