by Diana Gardin
Standing, I shake my head. “Don’t know for how long. A lady who used to take care of me a lot when I was growing up just had a stroke.”
Quickly, I explain to Mea about Ms. Ebbie and how important to me she is. I also tell her what Ms. Ebbie said to me when we spoke earlier.
Mea sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll come with you.” She turns to face me. When I glance at her, I see her eyes shining with determination. She’s so beautiful my heart cracks a little bit just looking at her.
“You can’t, Mea. You’re getting the studio ready to open next month. And I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. You need to stay here.”
Hurt and rejection. That’s what I see in her eyes. Inflicted by me.
I look away, because the sight of her staring at me like that is too fucking much.
“Do you think that while you’re there, you’ll look in that box? I want to be there for you.” Her voice trembles slightly.
“I’ll be back, Mea. I just need to go and do this now.”
I reach for her. Even when my mind is full of tumult, and my spirit is curdling with poison and anxiety, I need to touch her. As I caress her face, she closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, they cut me with shame.
“I just need to stay with Ms. Ebbie until her daughter gets there. I…I don’t know about the box.”
“I know you have to go, but I don’t want you to.” Her voice is dim, depleted. She’s asking for this, and she means it. But I can’t give it to her.
“Mea…I have to. I wouldn’t be leaving you if she weren’t in the hospital. The guys will look out for you while I’m gone.”
Mea’s eyes are wide. Her hand cups my face. Something inside of me goes soft at the soft contact. But I swallow down the tenderness, because if I don’t get out the door now, I won’t go at all.
And I owe it to Ms. Ebbie to be there for her.
“I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back.” Her voice is soft and sweet.
“Will you stay here? At my place? I can make sure Grisham and Greta are checking in on you while I’m gone. I need to know that you’re safe. And if you need me, call. I’ll be in the car and on my way back to you.”
She nods. “I’ll stay here. Don’t worry about me.”
She wraps her arms around my waist. Burying my head in her hair, I take deep, even breaths.
She’ll be safe while you’re gone. You won’t be gone long. She’ll be fine.
Those thoughts turn into a chant for me as I grab a duffel bag, and kiss her good-bye.
24
Mea
When I woke up to the morning sun streaming in through the window, my first thought is that Drake is gone.
Hugging his pillow to my chest, I allow myself to become overwhelmed with the rising emotions. Crying, my tears soak Drake’s pillow.
I don’t know if I’m crying because he’s gone, or because the prospect of sleeping without him tonight is unbearable.
Maybe it’s because I never got to tell him that Aunt Tay had heard from…that man. I won’t call him my father. He doesn’t deserve that title. But I know he wants something, and I’m going to have to face it alone now. Not with Drake, my big, strong protector, by my side.
You’re strong, Mea. You’re in control. You always have been. A few months of happiness with Drake didn’t change that.
Maybe it didn’t, but it allowed me to believe I didn’t have to be so strong by myself all the time.
A bright spot lights the darkness of last night’s events. Drake opened up to me about his mother, about his childhood. His past is a subject he’s never previously broached, and I’m proud of him for divulging what he went through. I’m proud that he picked me to share it with. I have a feeling not very many people know the inner workings of Drake Sullivan, much like they don’t know the pulleys and gears that make me tick.
Maybe last night didn’t sever a bond. Maybe it made ours stronger. He’ll come back to me.
Rising from the bed, reluctant to leave my moment with Drake’s ghost behind, I plod toward the bathroom. I turn on the shower as hot as I can stand it, and then step back to study myself in the mirror as it heats. Stripped down, my body looks properly ravaged from my time in the kitchen with Drake last night. Just thinking about it brings a rosy glow to my cheeks and a pulsing ache between my legs.
Last night he was needy, and he was rough. But he was mine, and I wouldn’t have him any other way.
Mine. I smile in spite of the despair lurking just beneath the surface. I pull the pins out of my disheveled hair, knowing that as soon as it gets wet my wild and crazy curls will be back. Maybe I’ll text Drake a picture of the curls he loves so much.
The mirror begins to fog, and I step into the shower. Taking my time, I wash Drake’s scent from my body, hoping it won’t be long before he’s all over me once again. The steam rejuvenates me, makes me feel powerful and in control once more.
I’m going to need that power and control during my coffee date with Aunt Tay this morning.
Once toweled off, I dress quickly in yoga pants and a soft cotton tee before leaving Drake’s room and padding down the hallway. As soon as I enter the kitchen I’m bitch-slapped by the powerful scent of bacon. Greta stands over the stove, frying up breakfast.
“Greta?” I clutch my stomach, and as she turns around, her sculpted eyebrows knit with concern. Covering my mouth, I rush back through the bedroom and into the bathroom. I only just make it kneeling in front of the toilet before I’m throwing up.
Retching and heaving into the toilet when you haven’t yet eaten for the day is a miserable experience. The heaves just keep coming, keeping me coughing and doubled over. My throat burns and my eyes sting. Greta is behind me, pulling back my still-wet curls and speaking to me in a soothing voice.
“It’s okay, Mea. I’ve got you.”
When my body finally finished the wracking, wretched upchucking, I stand on wobbly legs and lean over the sink. Taking a few deep breaths, I fill the cup beside the sink with water and rinse my mouth out. Greta’s eyes follow me in the mirror as I load toothpaste onto my toothbrush and stick it in my mouth.
But at the first taste of my toothpaste, my face drains of color and my stomach roils again. Quickly pulling the toothbrush from my mouth I rinse it and slam it back into the holder beside the sink.
What the fuck is going on?
Weakly, I turn to face Greta, leaning against the sink for support. “Um, hey?” I wave a halfhearted hand. “Thanks for holding my hair.”
Her eyes hold massive amounts of concern, wide and knowing. But her mouth twitches ever so slightly as she nods. “What are best friends for?”
“What are you doing here?” The melancholy I’m feeling at the loss of Drake seeps into my voice.
Greta notices. “I’m making you breakfast, silly. Drake stopped by early this morning…gave Grisham and me a key, since we’re only a few minutes away. If Dare and Berkeley were in town, I’m sure he would have given it to them. But they left early this morning for their honeymoon.”
I nod. “So you know he’s gone?” My voice breaks on the last word.
Greta’s face melts into a soft place to fall. “Oh, sweetie. Yeah, he told us he was going out of town for a bit. What happened? He looked wrecked. Did you two have a fight?”
The tears erupt from my eyes before I know what’s happening.
I pride myself on my ability to keep my emotions in check. The fact that I’m now reduced to a quivering mess is a problem for me. Because I don’t do this.
“No,” I sob as Greta’s arms wind around me. “We didn’t.”
Between sobs, I explain Drake’s connection to his friend Ms. Ebbie and why he had to go.
Greta smooths my hair as she squeezes me to her. She just hugs me while I cry, and I find out that’s exactly what I need. To cry.
When I don’t have any tears left and my sobs have subsided, Greta pulls away from me and steps back. Her eyes scan me from head to t
oe, like she’s looking for something. Bewildered, I stare right back.
“Do you want some bacon?” she asks suddenly.
My nose wrinkles automatically. “Uh, no. And I don’t think I want to come out until you’re done cooking it.”
Her lips curl into a slow smile. “I thought you loved bacon.”
Rolling my eyes, I lean back against the countertop. “You are being so weird right now, Greta. Is your own wedding planning going to your head? We can have a girls’ night tonight if you need to unwind.”
With an intense focus, Greta reaches forward and grabs both my breasts in her hands. As I yelp, she squeezes.
Jumping, I swat her hands away. “Ouch. Dammit, Greta! What the hell is wrong with you?” My girl’s clearly lost her marbles.
Greta is staring at me hard, like she’s attempting to laser some sort of information from the inside of her head into my own. I just stare at her, a blank, mute stare.
Then she spins on her heel to leave the bathroom. “Don’t leave this house. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna toss the bacon on my way out. Open some windows, and that should help with the smell.”
She marches out of the bedroom. It takes a few minutes for me to follow, and I do what she says. I sprint around the house, opening every single window. Standing in the middle of the living room, I inhale, smelling nothing but clean, salty ocean air.
That’s so much better. But then I scowl. Since when does bacon make me sick? I was sick yesterday, too. And why do my boobs…Oh, God.
No.
No, no, no.
When Greta returns, I’m pacing the living room like a caged tiger waiting for feeding time. She tosses me a brown paper pharmacy bag. My stomach clenches with some unnamed emotion. I snatch the bag out of the air and run to the bathroom.
Two minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes.
I sit on top of the toilet, staring across the room at the offensive white stick sitting on the countertop. Mocking me.
Two minutes is a long fucking time.
When the timer on my phone begins to beep, I leap off the toilet and snatch the thing off the countertop. I stare down at the two tiny pink lines.
Two tiny pink lines.
Two tiny pink lines.
I stare. And stare, and stare and stare.
I don’t know how long I stay in that bathroom. And Greta must know that I need a few, because she doesn’t pound on the door like I know she wants to.
I’m pregnant. I’m going to have Drake Sullivan’s baby.
Dropping the stick, I cover my mouth with both hands.
I’m pregnant.
What does it feel like to be in shock? If I had to guess, it would be shallow breathing. A difficulty catching one’s breath. A cold sweat breaking out all over the skin. Disorientation.
Check.
Slowly, I open the bathroom door and walk into the bedroom. I scan the room. Even though Drake and I have been sharing it, it’s still so very Drake. Dark wood furniture. Slate gray comforter. No curtains, so that the sunlight and views of the ocean can be seen clearly from anywhere in the room. Clean, modern designs.
That’s Drake.
Will a baby fit into his life? Will he want this?
Because, I realize through the haze of shock and awe that covers me, I do. I want this baby.
I don’t even realize tears are streaming down my face until they drip down my chin and onto my shirt.
In a daze, I leave the bedroom and walk right into Greta’s waiting arms.
I cry, and so does she. She hasn’t even seen the stick, but she knows. Pulling back, I hand it to her.
She glances down at it, and then bursts into a fresh wave of tears.
“You’re pregnant.” She hiccups. “You’re pregnant!”
I sink down onto Drake’s big brown leather recliner. “I’m pregnant. Oh, my God.”
She sits on the ottoman, her eyes scanning me carefully. Her eyes are shining with happiness. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”
“I feel…” I glance down at my stomach. My hands go there, caressing the little life inside me that I hadn’t even realized was there. Growing. Something inside me breaks apart then. It might be my soul splitting in two. Half for me, half for the tiny life growing inside me.
I look back at Greta, wonder in my voice. “I’m having his baby.”
Her expression lights up in a radiant smile. “You are.”
And then she launches herself at me, and we’re hugging and crying and laughing all at once.
When she finally pulls away, she picks up my phone from the arm of the recliner and hands it to me. “Call him, Mea. Tell him. He’s going to want to come back for this.”
I throw the phone back down like it’s burned me. Shaking my head with strict vehemence, I know that telling Drake right now is out of the question. “No.” I grab her arms, squeeze them tight. “And you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone. If you tell Grisham, he’ll tell Drake. I can’t tell him this over the phone.”
Shock permeates her features. She tosses her long, sleek dark hair over one shoulder in agitation. “But, Mea! He’s going to want to know this!”
“No, Greta. I will tell him when he comes back. End of conversation.” I lift my chin, and Greta sees it and resigns to my stubbornness.
She sighs. “Fine. I think it’s the wrong choice. But it’s your choice to make.”
We sit in silence for a minute, breathing in the salty breeze and thinking our own thoughts.
“What are your plans today?” Greta finally asks.
That question shoots me right back into the here and now. I grab my phone, look at the time. “Shit. I have to go. I’m meeting Tay for coffee.”
Greta narrows her eyes. “Your aunt? That’s rare. What’s going on?”
I rise from the chair, one hand automatically going to my stomach to rub it gently. “I’ll tell you tonight, okay? You know how I told you there were some things I wanted to share with you? Come over and hang with me tonight. After coffee with Tay, I’m teaching yoga at the gym until early evening. Then I’ll come back here. Drake left me his key…he wants me to stay here while he’s gone.”
Greta nods. “Yeah, that’s what he told Grisham this morning. And of course I’ll come. I’ll bring Eggs.”
I smile at the thought of Greta and Grisham’s boxer puppy running around the house while I tell her the deepest, darkest part of me. He’ll make everything seem a little bit sunnier.
“Sounds good.” I give her a quick hug, grab my purse off the counter, and rush off to my meeting with Aunt Tay.
I’m going to have a baby. Drake’s baby.
25
Drake
As I’m sitting in the hospital waiting room in Georgia, something feels wrong. Missing.
I’ve been in contact with Ms. Ebbie’s daughter in Texas. She is arranging care for her children and will be on a flight as soon as she can. Until then, I’m here for the old lady as long as she needs me. She’s been awake, but the doctors are still running tests on her condition.
As soon as her daughter arrives and I know she’ll be okay, I can go back to the girl I’m in love with.
In love with.
It’s the fucking truth. I love her. With everything in me. I’d put myself between her and anything that might be coming for her. And that’s how I know. Risking my life for someone? That’s love.
And I’d do it for Mea without thinking twice.
“Mr. Sullivan?”
I stand when a doctor in a white coat enters the waiting area.
“Yeah.”
The doctor consults his clipboard. “You aren’t Ms. Ebbie’s emergency contact.”
Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yeah. I know. I’m just here until her daughter can make it. But I know Ms. Ebbie very well.”
The doctor nods. “Well, her condition is stable, but we would like to let her rest for now. Her daughter will be able to see her when she arrives.”
I let out a relieved breath.
“Good. That’s good. Thanks for letting me know.”
The doctor exits, and I decide to head for the house. Maybe I can do something useful, like grab some pajamas for Ms. Ebbie or something.
Ms. Ebbie lives next door to my mom’s house. Climbing out of the Challenger in the driveway, I stare at the small, one-story home where I spent my childhood. There are no good memories here.
And yet I’m pulled toward it without even planning to go in.
Sighing, I walk up the drive. Letting myself into the house, I note that it’s empty. The moving company packed everything up and placed it in storage. At some point, I’m going to have to dump it or sell it. I’m just not ready to decide either way right now. I stand just inside the front door, looking around as memories bombard me from all sides.
I close my eyes, remembering. Ms. Ebbie would try her damnedest to make sure I knew I was loved when my mother was unable to do it. She would hug me, she would tell me she was proud of me when I got all the answers correct on my homework. She would try to shield me from the full brunt of the effects of my mother’s drinking.
Walking over to the pile of boxes, I notice one is set aside.
Shaking my head, I mutter, “Thanks, Ms. Ebbie.”
The box doesn’t look familiar to me.
But then again, I didn’t have time growing up to go searching for clues to my heritage between cleaning up vomit and keeping my head above water.
I take a deep breath. And then I pull off the lid of the box.
Right on top is the photo Ms. Ebbie called me about. I pick it up, feeling the old photograph in my hands. It’s definitely my mother. Long, dark hair. She was beautiful when she wasn’t carrying lines from years of alcohol abuse. Her dark eyes are crinkled at the corners. Happy. She’s staring down at her swollen stomach, her hands lovingly caressing the bump.
Me. That bump is me.
I’m blown away by how happy she looks. And Ms. Ebbie is right. The man standing beside her, with one large hand covering hers, isn’t the man my mother always spoke about as being my father. She had a photo of Timothy Sullivan stuffed inside her nightstand. Sometimes she’d pull it out and curse his name for leaving us.