by Clara Stone
“Wait, what?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” I turn to look at her, frustrated and worried about the damage Jags has already taken from the eggs.
“You’re rambling. You’re not making any sense, and . . . what the hell’s wrong with you, dude? You’re sick in the head!”
Now I’m confused. Are we even talking about the same thing? “My car, Blake. Look at my fucking car.”
She flinches. “You’re talking about your car?”
Both of my eyebrow rise high. “What did you think I was talking about?”
“I-I thought . . .”
“It doesn’t matter.” I step toward her and ignore the looks Monkey-boy and her other teammates are throwing at me from a few feet away. “Why would you torture Jags like that? It’s not right, Blake. You don’t hurt a man’s car that way.”
Then, the most unthinkable thing happens—she laughs, her head thrown back, mouth wide open.
“What’s funny?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You,” she says, waving her hand. Her teammates start to head toward the parking lot, either because they think the conversation is over, or they’re done giving us a moment. “Listen. You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I need to get home. So . . . see ya.”
She saunters past me, shaking her head like I’m just a nuisance. But I don’t let her walk away. I grab her wrist and twirl her back to me. Her hands land on my chest. She looks up through her eyelashes—those long, thick eyelashes.
She swallows. “Let me go.”
I loosen my grip, but my gaze goes to her trembling lips. I wet mine. I expect her to pull back. She doesn’t. She continues to stare at me. My head dips lower, toward her mouth, feeling the pull I always seem to when she’s near.
But we’ve never been this close. Not where I could feel her breath on my chin and the beat of her heart against my chest. My breath hitches. God, I feel like a thirteen-year-old virgin, which, technically, is half true, I suppose. I draw in deep breaths as my lips get closer and closer to hers.
“I didn’t touch it,” she whispers against my mouth.
I pause.
“I didn’t touch your car,” she says again, putting some distance between us, the palms of her hands pressing hard against my chest as she pulls away.
A tingle of heat lingers from her touch, and I fight the urge to rub my hand over it. “Then who did?”
She shrugs, shaking her head and walking away. “I don’t know.”
And I believe her. She heads toward Wimpsicle, who’s waiting within hearing distance.
“Hey, Blake,” I call after her.
She looks over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she says.
I point to her and gesture that she’s beautiful in sign language. She smiles. Her eyes tilt downward, then back to mine, a slight blush tinting her cheeks.
She’s never been more beautiful than in that moment of vulnerability. I watch as she climbs in the car with Whimper and two other teammates, and drives off.
I’M A MODEST person. So lying in the birthing room, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and having a male obstetrician’s hand creeping up where no man but Hudson has been is jarring. I look around at anything and everything, anywhere but down below. Doctor Shah sits back, his face coming into view above the privacy cloth that somewhat, sorta, keeps me covered.
“Okay,” he says, snapping off his gloves.
I look up at Hudson; he’s standing next to me, his hand in mine, his jaw set. I know that look. It’s the one he wears when he wants to duke it out with Doctor Shah about risks and mitigation plans. Since we found out about being pregnant, Hudson’s been obsessed over every detail and all the possible risks associated with pregnancy, not just for the baby, but also to me. So right now, even though he knows better, he can’t help himself; he wants to find out what’s going on. I think if he’d been allowed to do the exam himself, he would have. Heck, I would have preferred that too, but it’s against hospital policy to let family members work on family.
“You’re only five centimeters dilated and seventy percent effaced,” Dr. Shah says.
Hudson squeezes my hand and relaxes his rigid form. He looks down at me, a small smile playing on his lips.
Dr. Shah flips through my charts, making note of something. “We want her ten centimeters dilated and one hundred percent effaced before we have her push for the baby.” He looks at Hudson, then me. “Since your water broke two hours ago, we can wait another fourteen before we’d need to take action. So hang in there, Blake. I’ll be back in an hour to check again.”
He turns and walks out, our nurse going with him. Hudson sighs, pulling his hand away from mine. Panic strikes me.
“Where are you going?” I practically shout. “Don’t leave me.”
He smiles, shrugging out of his jacket. “I’m not going anywhere, firecracker. I’ll be here, all the way.” He takes my hand again, pulls a chair up next to me, and sits. He kisses my knuckles, and I feel some of the fear slowly leak away. He talks soothingly, trying to get me to relax.
“Do you want to watch some bad infomercials?” he asks, giving me a lopsided grin.
I shake my head. “Can I get some water?”
“Sure.” He kisses my forehead and lets go of my hand again. But before he takes even a step away, all sorts of thoughts shoot through my head. What if the birth doesn’t go smoothly? What if the baby is hurt? What if I can’t do this?
“Blake.” Hudson leans down; his breath fans over my cheek, soft and controlled. “I trust you, firecracker. You need to trust yourself. And, if nothing else, trust that I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I swallow. “How can you say that? How can you guarantee that nothing bad will happen?”
“You’re right. I can’t,” he says. He kisses my forehead again and runs his hand down the length of my hair. “I wish I could. I wish I could take all the pain and doubt and everything away. But I can’t. I wish I could show you how strong and beautiful you look right now. But all I can do is stay right here, by your side, and remind you that you can do this. I’m not going anywhere, promise.”
“Stay. Don’t go.” I’m hysterical. I know I just asked him to fetch me some water, but . . . I just can’t. I’m pathetic.
“Okay,” he says, sitting back down. I close my eyes, seeking comfort in his touch.
A few seconds later, our nurse steps into the room. “How can I help?”
“Can you please bring her some ice chips?” Hudson asks.
“Sure,” she says with a kind smile. She disappears and comes back a few moments later, handing me a cup. “Remember not to consume too much.”
I take a small ice cube and pop it into my mouth, letting the cold solid melt, slowly. That feels amazing!
“I’m sure you’ve done your research, Dr. Lovelly,” the nurse says, eyeing Hudson as she adjusts my IV. “Probably too much research.” She gives him a wink. “But don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her. Try to take a deep breath, okay?” She then turns her attention to me. I’m not sure what she sees, but she smiles in encouragement. “God wouldn’t task you with such an important mission if he didn’t think you could handle it, sweetheart. Trust him. Trust yourself. And trust that husband of yours. He looks like he’d burn the place down if it would make you feel better. ”
When I give her a tight-lipped smile, she looks to Hudson.
“Dr. Lovelly, might I suggest you two lovebirds walk around some?”
Hudson looks at me. “Care for a walk? It’ll help.”
I nod. Maybe doing something will ease this restless feeling inside me. I get my whale of a body off the bed with assistance from the nurse and Hudson, and then untangle myself from the twenty billion needles attached to me. After I’m free, we head out, ready for a walk down the ever wonderful hospital halls.
With newfound determination, I force myself to stop thinking about the negative possibilities. I wish I was stronger. That
I could be brave. I’d been warned in the birthing classes about the panic attacks some women fall victim to right before giving birth, but I never thought it would be me. It makes me feel so weak. I wonder what . . . I stop myself before I think her name. A flicker of sadness strikes through me. She would have kicked my ass—hormones or not—and told me to stay strong. That I could do this.
“I miss her,” I suddenly blurt.
Hudson looks at me, his eyebrows fused, knowing exactly who I’m talking about.
“Hope,” I say. Her name draws out a pain we’d both buried deep years ago.
His eyes grow sad, and he looks down at the green, floral carpet with purple stripes in the middle. He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. I knew mentioning her name would bring up pain-filled memories. I shouldn’t have said it. He runs his hand along the wall to his left, then looks to me with a sad smile. “Me too, firecracker. Me too.”
I place my head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around me, pulling me close. He kisses my forehead, and I look up, halting my awkward shuffle. The five o’clock shadow along his jaw is just long enough that it tickles my skin. Love swells inside me, constricting my throat with its power. My handsome husband.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
I swallow. “Like what?”
“Like you love me more than life itself.”
Heat creeps up my body. “How else am I supposed to look at you?”
He chuckles and presses his lips to mine. “Like that. I always want you to look at me like that. Always.”
“Always and forever,” I reply, smiling. I start to walk again, one foot before the other, waddling my way down the hall. We take a right at the end, and I ask, “What should I wear for Thanksgiving this year?”
“Hmm . . .” he says, not missing a beat as we continue our slow penguin walk. “I’d say . . .” he taps his finger on his chin, thoughtfully, “something red.”
I laugh. “What’s with you and red?”
He shrugs. “It reminds me of you.”
I widen my eyes. “Me?”
“Why do you think I call you my little firecracker?”
I wait for him to explain further. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s referring to. And yet, there’s something about hearing him say the words.
“You’re the only girl who’s ever burned bright enough to make me love you so fiercely. Right from the beginning.”
“HOPE!” I BANG on the gray door to the women’s bathroom at the mall. “Get outta there! Oh God, look, white hair. I’m turning into a freaking grandpa!”
She’s been in there for the past thirty minutes, doing God only knows what. At least three people have entered, and four have come out while I’ve been standing here. I groan in frustration and bang on the door again. It suddenly opens.
“Fina—”
I stop as a busty girl comes out of the bathroom with a scowl on her face.
“What?” I scowl back, shrugging.
She throws me a disgusted look and shoulders past, disappearing down the corridor and back into the food court.
Whatever. I shove open the door and step into the girl’s bathroom. The first thing I see is Hope on her knees, crying, picking up her stuff from the floor. What the hell happened here?
“Hope?” I run forward and grab a hold of her hand.
She looks up, teary-eyed, and I know. I know exactly why she’s crying.
I jump to my feet. “I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bi—”
“With what? Your surprising good looks, golden boy?” The angelic voice I’ve dreamt about for the past month echoes off the cream-tiled walls. I slowly pivot around, and there she is.
Blake Voss.
The five-foot-seven woman that’s plagued my dreams, here. In the flesh. Her brunette hair is knotted into a sideways braid, a few loose strands framing her face. Her chocolate-brown eyes crinkle as she smirks at me.
“Glad to see you’re as verbose as ever,” she says, her hands on her hips.
All kinds of flames come to life, twisting and turning, igniting from the depths of my stomach. During that one week she spent on our campus, she managed to get under my skin, embedding herself into every waking thought and quite a few non-waking ones as well.
“Firecracker,” I say. Because that’s what she is, with all that spunk and confidence.
“So, Goldilocks speaks,” she teases.
“It’s a lot easier when I don’t have a mouth full of shaving cream, don’t you think?” I had accidentally fallen asleep during lunch one day and woke up to someone shoving shaving cream into my mouth.
“Guys,” Hope calls, sniffling. “A little help, please?”
I turn, my focus shifting from Blake to Hope, who’s still picking up stuff from the bathroom floor and crying over her shitty boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend. He was the one who egged my Jags, over a misguided burst of jealousy. I never did like that douchebag.
I crouch down and pick up a bottle of metallic nail polish, studying it dubiously. “Please don’t tell me you destroyed my present—a very costly branded present, I might add—over that asshole? I mean, I totally would have approved if you’d whacked it against his head. But seeing how he’s not here . . .”
“Oh, shove it, Son,” Hope says as she throws a pencil into her bag. She’d made such a fuss over that thing, going on and on about it, that I’d made sure to get it for her birthday. “If you can’t be my friend, then keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“I’m just saying—”
Blake crouches next to me, picking up what looks suspiciously like a tampon and handing it to Hope. She then bumps her fist lightly into my knee. I look up. She widens her eyes pointedly and shakes her head, obviously warning me to back off. Like she knows Hope better than I do.
Whatever. I can be quiet. Kind of.
“Do you really need all this junk?” I ask, grunting.
“Well, not all of us can wake up looking like you, pretty boy,” Hope snaps, running a finger under her nose. We stand as she shoves the last of her belongings back into her purse and snaps it shut.
I pull her under my arm and ruffle her hair as I lead her out of the bathroom. “You couldn’t handle pretty if it hit you in the face, snotty.”
Once outside, Blake walks past me and stops, facing us.
“It was good seeing you,” she says, smiling at Hope in an awkward I-didn’t-just-watch-her-bawl-her-eyes-out kind of way. Her gaze flicks to me for a nanosecond, but it’s long enough that I’m contemplating how I can get her to stay.
“We’re going to grab something to eat,” Hope says, her demeanor suddenly switching from mourning the loss of her boyfriend to one I’ve seen too many times before—the match-
maker.
I cock an eyebrow at her. What are you up to, Hope?
“It’d be awesome if you could join.” She grins, her gaze moving from Blake to me, and then back.
I turn my attention to Blake, curious, and somewhat filled with apprehension for her response. Please say yes. Please say yes.
She frowns. “I can’t.”
Disappointment bites, but I keep my face carefully composed. There goes that idea.
“Pleeeeease,” Hope sings.
Blake shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she says. “But I’m here with someone.”
“Wesley?” Hope asks.
“Umm . . . no.” She looks over her shoulder and points. A girl about our age, maybe a year or two younger, stands off to the side by the rail, watching people pass her by. She’s one of the four that left the bathroom earlier.
“Oh,” Hope says, understanding, but disappointed.
I can’t help but feel the same way. So, unraveling myself from Hope, I walk toward the girl. She doesn’t notice me until I’m right in front of her.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks at me, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, like she’s uncertain.
I smile reassuringly, shoving my right hand i
nto my pocket. I play with Jags’s key and point toward Hope and Blake with my other hand. They’re walking toward us, so I speak fast. “I’m a friend of Blake’s. And my friend, Hope, and I would be grateful if you and Blake would join us for lunch.”
“We can’t,” Blake says, reaching for the girl and wrapping her arm around her shoulder. “We don’t want to intrude.”
“You won’t.” I step toward Blake. Don’t be creepy, don’t be creepy. I reach forward to grab her hand, grinning widely, but stop just short of touching. Her gaze drops to my hand, then comes back to my face, taking in the grin I now feel is slightly manic. Her eyes widen.
Damn it, Hudson. I said don’t be creepy!
But, what if I never see her again?
That thought stirs an unwanted restlessness inside me. “I want you to join us,” I say, putting both hands in my pockets and donning my best impression of puppy-dog eyes. “Please.”
She bites her lip, hesitating, looking at me for a second longer than I expected. The girl next to Blake tugs at her shirt. Blake looks over at her. A sort of understanding passes between them, and she sighs heavily. “Okay. But only if I pay for Vicki and myself.”
I open my mouth to say, “Hell no!” But Hope beats me to the punch. Again.
“Deal!” she says, beaming.
I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m here.
Not in a “shit, what did I get myself into” kind of way, but more “holy sweet baby Jesus, I’m sitting in front of Hudson Lovelly, having lunch” kind of way.
I look up and watch Hope trying to make conversation with Vicki. Vicki isn’t a talker. It’s a wonder she even opened up to me. The first time I saw her, nearly five years ago, her long-sleeved shirt had hung on her like a hanger. She’d tugged on her sleeves, like she was trying to hide herself. I didn’t know then that she did that because she’d been hiding cigarette burn scars.
It took another year before I caught her dad shoving her out of the house. She’d looked so lost and defeated. I was only fourteen then, but I wanted to go to her, save her, protect her. I’d wanted to knock her dad over with a pan. I didn’t, of course. She told me that if I interfered, she’d pay the price. She’d also been quick to point out that I couldn’t do much either, with me being underage and all. I didn’t know any better back then. And by the time I did, she’d already made me promise not to say anything.