Make Me a Mommy: A Mother's Day Secret Baby Romance

by Liz K. Lorde

  I’m still stunned, frozen in place as Shawn moves a still doubled-over James towards the door.

  Chapter 17

  Shawn

  “That’s right.” I hold James in a firm, steady grip, mostly to keep him from collapsing on the floor like a pile of firewood. “I know you just got home, my friend, but it’s time to hit the road again—or at least get a breath of fresh air.”

  Something about hearing me say those last few words sends James into a coughing fit that takes him several seconds to get back under control.

  He still had a fraction of discipline left from his SEAL training—just enough to start keeping pace with me and avoid struggling to push away my arm.

  “Right,” James barks in his best menacing tone, which, at the moment, isn’t too menacing. “We’re going outside…I’m going outside, because I need…I need some goddamn air.”

  Who the hell knows what’s running through Evelyn’s mind right now? I’ll be happy to ask her in a moment, after I deposit this current messy situation outdoors.

  “Get some air,” James grumbles for no reason. He’s either confused or trying to convince himself of something—or all of the above.

  I can guess what Evelyn is thinking: that this is all suddenly happening so fast. It feels almost like it’s getting ahead of everyone, but my old friend is hit especially hard by me and by everything else.

  At this point, he really needs some time to fucking think. For his own sake, for Evelyn’s sake, for Tanner’s, and everyone around him, I really hope he takes every goddamn second he needs.

  After we step through the front door, and I loosen the grip of my arm on his back, James tries to contort himself back into a confident posture, something any swabbie should be able to easily do by their second week at RTC.

  But James, the SEAL, is still just a touch too fucking winded.

  “Catch your breath,” I admonish him as he half-walks, half-stumbles away from me and the home of Evelyn and her child.

  Even with so many things currently shrouded in the fog of who the hell knows what the fuck is really happening, the unspoken connection between James and myself is still very clear. It’s a connection forged through not only operating together in the life or death climate of a war zone, but also through the bond of friendship.

  And, at this very moment, that connection that’s so clear to both of us is announcing to James that he better not fucking dare even try to turn around until he’s had some more fucking time to dwell on how he’s acting.

  He needs time to cool down, and so do I. With James’s back still to me as if his life depended on it, I swing around to go back inside and check on things.

  “Evelyn…”

  I am so wrong about Evelyn, at least in this situation. I am worried about her, picturing a lingering look of shock and confusion on her face from watching me usher her fiancé out the door after taking some necessary steps to defuse his lit temper.

  However, standing just inside of her home with her hands perched confidently on her hips, Evelyn, at least, is in control—if not more in control—than anybody else in or around her house.

  Still, I need to ask, “Evelyn, are you okay?”

  “Am I okay? How about you? You’re the one who’s bleeding.” With a fucking gorgeous little hint of a smile, Evelyn lifts up her forefinger to point in the direction of my right hand resting at my side.

  “You’re right,” I respond before even looking at it. After raising my hand to glance at the damage, I notice that two of my knuckles are not only scraped, but indeed actually fucking bleeding from the force of contact.

  “Even punching can be risky business,” I comment jokingly, starting to walk towards her.

  “Uh, yeah, it’s punching.” As Evelyn’s smile starts to grow slightly, losing a few drops of blood is the last thing on my mind.

  Sadly, that tiny spark of carefree warmth is put to rest by the intruding fucking thought of my friend outside.

  Notwithstanding his recent actions, the bewildered, distressed man outside is my best friend. After what we’ve been through together, with all of our shared experiences through the regular trials of life and the unspeakable fucking hell of war, that is not something that just goes away.

  “Are you a bit befuddled?” asks Evelyn. “Or just distracted?”

  “Both those options and more,” I quip, trying to discount the weird, sinking feeling that came out of nowhere to start pulling at my gut.

  “Hmm…” Evelyn keeps the light tone going while she tries to think of what to do next. “Why don’t we go to that table? You know, that one in the kitchen?”

  “The kitchen table?”

  “That’s it exactly.” Evelyn tries to smile, but she hesitates for a fraction of a second. And in that minuscule fucking flash of time, I can just make out the effort in her eyes as she tries to keep on a brave face.

  In that fragment of a second, it becomes obvious that Evelyn is wading through her own heavy fucking thoughts about the whole situation.

  But after that, she hides it well as her smile returns.

  “Why don’t you go take a seat there,” she suggests, “and I can at least go find some antibiotic stuff and bandages for your hand.”

  “At least,” I answer with a little laugh, which sounds as fucking forced as anything. “What else could you do for my wounds?”

  Evelyn shrugs, naturally and assuredly. “That’s about all I can do, I suppose.”

  There is so much about this woman that’s just beyond words, and I would be a hypocrite to blame anybody for developing feelings for her or for thinking something crazy, like they’re in love with her.

  Hell, James would probably be pretty fucking happy for the rest of his life being with Evelyn, because she’s fucking amazing.

  And he would try, and probably do everything he could, to keep Evelyn happy as well.

  And that’s far from nothing, right?

  “Are you distracted again?” asks Evelyn.

  “Are you?” I ask back, gathering all the warmth I can find within me to smile at her, to maybe make her laugh a little.

  But she doesn’t laugh at my vague joke. She does smile again, but it’s a slight, sad smile. And seeing the anguish in her face brings that sinking feeling back to my gut with a serious fucking vengeance.

  “Evelyn…”

  “What?” She’s looking up at me like she knows I don’t know what to say next.

  And she could be right.

  But she’s not.

  I know exactly what to say next. Of course, I fucking do. It couldn’t be more obvious.

  “I love you, Evelyn.”

  I watch carefully for just an ounce, a drop of sadness to leave Evelyn’s face when she hears those words. But she just looks at the floor, and it becomes much harder to tell what she’s feeling.

  “I love you,” I continue, “and all I want, all I want, is for you to be happy—however you get there. If, for you, that means staying with James and marrying him, well…then…that’s all I want.”

  Evelyn’s still staring at the floor, and that sinking feeling reaches a painful crescendo as I hear myself say those words out loud, but then…

  Then the feeling subsides, just a bit.

  There’s still a profound, intense fucking pain at the thought of the woman I love, the only woman I’ve ever loved, spending her life and giving her heart to somebody else.

  And that pain will always be there in some way, because she’s the only person I could ever care about with that infinite, indescribable depth and passion that only she can inspire.

  The love of my life…

  But there’s something else, mixed with that crushing fucking feeling, and that’s a peculiar yet undeniable joy, a warm glow around my heart, at the idea of Evelyn, the love of my life, being happy.

  What more could I ask for than that?

  “Forget the kitchen table.” Evelyn’s finally speaking up, and looking up, at me. “Just wait here, and I’ll go get the
Band-Aid and stuff.”

  Evelyn doesn’t take off right away, but she looks over in the direction of the front door.

  I get another sort of sinking feeling: that Evelyn’s not even going to acknowledge the whole speech I just gave her, that I might’ve said it all for nothing.

  But, ultimately, if she does what makes her happy, and she is happy, then none of that fucking matters anyway.

  “On second thought,” Evelyn says, “I better go out and talk to James. He’s still out there.”

  Fuck. That might be her acknowledging what I said after all—maybe.

  I’m still standing, frozen in place, trying to let my mind go blank, trying not to let myself think about the future or any of this shit when I hear Evelyn walk out though the front door while Tanner’s soft footsteps thumping from the stairwell, across the floor and towards where I’m standing.

  I take the excuse to get out of my own head and grin kindly at Tanner as he walks to where I am and looks up at me.

  “Hey. Where’s Mattie?” I ask him.

  “Aw, she had to take a phone call.” Like his mother did just a couple minutes ago, Tanner’s eyes drop down to the floor, except his stay there for just a second before he looks back at me.

  “Oh, well, it might have been personal. That happens sometimes when people get phone calls.”

  “Oh, I know it was personal.” Tanner nods at his own declaration and smiles slightly, which again reminds me a little of his mother.

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask. I realize that I’m using my left hand to cover up the scrapes on my right, instinctively trying to hide them from Tanner.

  It does seem to escape his notice as he shrugs.

  “Oh, it’s just her boyfriend, calling as always. She always ignores me for like twenty minutes when that happens, so I have a while to do whatever I want.”

  Now it’s my turn to nod, mostly because I’m not sure what to say.

  “So…you just snuck downstairs?” I ask.

  “I walked down the stairs,” Tanner states, correcting me…I think.

  “Almost all the way to this floor,” he continues, “but then, when I was on the very last stair, I heard you and James yelling, and I heard other noises, and I thought I saw…”

  I sigh deeply as Tanner hesitates.

  “Were you fighting?” he asks. “I didn’t think adults fought usually.”

  Fuck. I wanted to be distracted from my own thoughts, but I should know by now to be careful what you wish for.

  “Adults don’t fight usually,” I respond gently.

  “Every single teacher at school says you should never fight. It’s the one thing they agree on.”

  “Every single teacher at school is right about that, Tanner. In an ideal…well, nobody should fight. Ever.”

  “What’s ideal?”

  I sigh subtly. This kid is tough, but I’m learning to respect the hell out of him.

  “Well, I was going to say an ideal world, which is a place where everything that should happens does, and everything that shouldn’t happen doesn’t.”

  I’m not sure if the explanation sounds right to me as I say it or if I’m phrasing it in a way for Tanner to grasp any of it, but he nods with seeming understanding.

  “That’s not our world,” he observes. “Is it?”

  I think I have to start giving this kid more credit.

  “Our world is not ideal—no.”

  Tanner’s eyes roll up towards the ceiling in introspection.

  “So…you shouldn’t ever fight, but sometimes people fight, because…” Tanner makes eye contact with me, seeming to reach some sort of realization that I hope I can explain if I have to. “Because the world…”

  “The world’s not ideal. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do everything we can to make it better.” I’m getting ready to proceed with some improvised lecture about the nature and morality of fighting, but I feel relief wash over me as Tanner nods, seemingly satisfied with the last thing I said, or maybe just bored as he takes off in a gleeful, aimless sprint around the room.

  Chapter 18

  Evelyn

  “Is that you?”

  Once you get to the point of agreeing to marry somebody, you should probably know them pretty well—or very well, ideally.

  Yet I can’t think of too many distinct traits my fiancé possesses. Sure, I could describe him in great detail, but it’s difficult to think of things about James that really set him apart, things that would help paint a picture of who he is to someone who’s never met him.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I respond to his question. “Who did you think it was?”

  However, I’m just now thinking of at least one unique way to describe James: he’s not usually a silently-and-wistfully-looking-off-into-the-distance type of guy.

  But when I step outside, I can tell that’s exactly what he’s doing. Even with his back to me, it’s obvious.

  “Who knows?” he responds, still not facing me.

  “Okay—what are you still doing out here?” I ask. “Are you afraid to go back inside or what?” Right away, I wish I hadn’t asked that, even though I suspect that fear might just be part of what’s keeping him outside.

  Even if he’d never admit it, and even if he might not realize it himself.

  My question prompts James to finally start turning around to look at me, and I’m able to perfectly predict his hurt-but-trying-to-hide-it expression just before I see it in all its dejected glory.

  “Is that a joke?” James’s voice matches his face, and it all goes from predictable to sad.

  “Yes,” I sigh, hoping he’ll buy it.

  I don’t think he does, but he takes the excuse to drop the put-upon act and start walking back towards me—and what was meant to be our future home.

  If this is the man I’m going to marry, hopefully, we can have some things unspoken between us.

  Like how I’m starting to find this whole thing oddly funny—I mean, I know we have a lot to figure out. But it’s just so much at once, and maybe before we delve into all this heavy lunacy we can’t avoid, maybe we can at least share a smile, a bit of a laugh.

  Something light, something human between two life partners.

  But James’s face stays where it is, and so does he—out in the driveway, next to my car.

  It feels like my smile, as small as it was, is making him stop in place, and now, he’s refusing to cross the threshold to the bit of the driveway that holds his truck.

  Or he’s just refusing to get any closer to me, or the house.

  “You okay?” I ask. I was trying to avoid acknowledging the wicked blow James absorbed so I wouldn’t embarrass him further.

  We’ve now both stopped where we stand, ten feet away from each other, but I can still see the redness entering James’s cheeks.

  “What?” he croaks, almost too quietly to travel the distance between us. “Of course, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Yes, I embarrassed him alright. I start foraging through my mind for a way to change the subject, but I give up after about a second when I realize that it’s no time for small talk.

  “I can barely hear you from here.” I’m almost yelling now, mostly to make a point.

  “What?” James reaches around to give the back of his head a little scratch—a weird move for him. “Do you want me to come closer to you or something?”

  Finally, I allow my small smile to emerge. I don’t think this is funny anymore, but I feel like I need to be reassuring.

  “I’ll tell you what: why don’t we get into the truck,” I suggest. “You can have the shotgun seat. I’ll drive.”

  “W—where would we go?”

  “Nowhere. That was a joke.” Okay, this is taking long enough. I start walking around the front of James’s truck to the driver’s side.

  “Getting in the truck was a joke?”

  “No, driving,” I shout while opening the truck door. “Hey, the door was unlocked.”

  James is
unaffected by this as he climbs into the passenger’s seat.

  “Yeah, I unlocked it,” he explains. “I’m not completely out of it. Not anymore, at least.”

  I can feel a small laugh almost erupt from both of us, like a sneeze that doesn’t quite happen.

  But like that sneeze, it stays inside. We settle for eye contact and a mutual smile as we shut the doors.

  James might be in a better mood now than he was when I came outside. That’s the type of thing I should be able to tell for certain, by now. But it’s also the type of thing I can surely learn about someone if—when I spend the rest of my life with them.

  “I was just about to ask what you wanted to get in the truck for if you didn’t want to go anywhere.” James almost grabs his seatbelt but stops himself—I don’t know if it’s supposed to be a joke, or what he’s thinking. “But then I just realized why you wanted to come in here.”

  James exhales while looking through the windshield. It seems to take forever, like he’s been holding his breath since he got outside.

  “Are you relieved about something?”

  “Not really,” James responds, “I’m just happy to have this truck thing figured out—you know, why you wanted to get into the cabin of my…”

  “I wanted some privacy to talk,” I interrupt. “Is that what you realized?”

  “Exactly.” James is looking through the windshield again and not at me.

  Maybe the same questions that are pressing down on me are also burdening him. Or maybe it’s something else altogether.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted.” I start looking forward through the windshield myself. “Were you about to say something…?”

  “I don’t care about that, Evelyn.” Almost in sync, we turn our heads to face each other. “Aren’t you thinking about everything else now?”

  “Everything else?”

  “You know, someone from our past—our mutual past—just…showing up—rising up, in a way—and just throwing everything upside goddamn down? Aren’t you thinking about that?”

  “Is that the way you see it?”

  “That’s the way it is, Evelyn. I’m talking about what’s there, not just what I see…”