His words are seriously slurred and that helps me squash down all the feelings bubbling up inside of me.
“Do you maybe want to sit down?” I offer and he pulls away to lumber over to the couch. He mumbles something else as he plops down, but I don’t understand it.
“I’ll get you some aspirin and water,” I say, knowing he’s not going to comprehend anything I say right now.
When I come back, I find that he’s tipped over and his big body takes up my entire couch. So I set the pills and water on the coffee table and remove his shoes before lifting his legs onto the couch with the rest of his body. And, oof, he’s heavy. Once that’s done, I grab one of my super soft, faux fur blankets (make that two, he’s a big guy) and tuck him in.
If nothing else, I figure this is good practice in mothering…I mean, I’ve heard babies be compared to drunk adults before. I decide to go ahead and take a minute to stare. He’s always staring at me, after all. I wonder if he snores. Nah, he’s way too handsome to snore. I’ll bet his big body is super warm, though, and since I’m always cold, the thought of snuggling up to him is very appealing.
Sigh. He’s not for me, though. I’m not sure Dean Slade could ever belong to anyone.
“Well, my little cabbage, at least I got you to snuggle me,” I say, giving my belly a pat. I lock up, turn off the TV, and all the lights, except for one in the hall in case Dean needs to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, then head to my room where Mr. Bubberchop is warming up my pillow. I debate locking my bedroom door…I mean, the whole snuggling thing…yeah, I’ll leave it unlocked in case he needs something.
It’s kind of weird, knowing he’s there in my house, and it takes me longer than usual to fall asleep because my brain, like my body, turns against me and all I can think about is cuddling up to Dean Slade’s naked body and-oh, come on, you traitorous mind! We are better than this, stronger than this. I flip my pillow (because it’s so much easier than turning over myself these days), and force my mind to think of something else. But it’s useless because even in sleep, I dream of him, and his moans? my moans? are loud enough to wake me.
But that’s when I realize the moans are far less of the sexual variety and much more of the misery variety. I flip back my blankets, get out of bed, and tiptoe to my door, pressing an ear against it to listen. There it is again, and it sounds like Dean’s in pain. I bite my lip and debate what to do, what to do. I turn the knob and open my door, obviously choosing to check on him. Once I’ve crept to the end of the hall, I peek around the corner and see that he’s still on the couch, but the blankets I’d laid over him are now in a tangled mess around his legs and when he groans again, his arm flies up over his head.
All signs lead to Dean having a nightmare.
“Dean,” I whisper, afraid to get too close for fear of being clobbered. My whisper does nothing.
“Dean,” I repeat, more forceful. Still nothing.
I pad over in my fuzzy socks and pinch his toe, “Dean. Wake up, Dean.”
When he starts to make noise again, without thinking, I slap his leg and shout his name. He shoots up to a sitting position, his eyes a bit wild, but alert.
“What? What’s wrong?” He latches onto my arm, tugging my body closer.
“Nothing, it’s okay,” I assure him, laying my hand on his shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong, I think you were dreaming.”
He lets go of my arm to rub a hand down his face and curses.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Side effect of war.”
Well, doesn’t that just tug at my heart strings.
“It’s really okay. Are you alright?” My hand slides up into his hair and this is what happens when I let my body drive. But I just want to calm him down, my brain tells me. I allow my hand to have one sweep through his thick hair before returning it to my own body, but he stops my withdrawal with a quick grab of my wrist.
He uses the other hand to throw the blankets to the side and that’s when I realize, at some point in the night, he’d taken off his pants and was currently sitting on my couch in his tight little boxer briefs. Oh, come on! I tip my head back, eyes on the ceiling, and pray for some self-control.
“Come here, Mama,” he grumbles low and, yup, there goes my last shred of hope for any kind of control. He tugs at my wrist and pulls me to stand between his legs and rests his forehead against our baby. I’m only wearing a t-shirt nightgown and that is not nearly enough of a barrier between me and Dean’s sexiness.
His hands slide up the outside of my calves to my thighs, his thumbs inching up my nightgown a couple of inches.
“What are you doing up?” He asks in his scratchy, late-night, sex voice.
“Uh…” I cannot even think through the haze of pregnancy hormones right now, doesn’t he know that? His wicked chuckle only fuels my internal inferno.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Three fingers slide to move against the inside of my thigh and I make a noise I can’t even describe. Suddenly, Maya’s advice to get it on with Dean seems like the best advice in the whole wide world. Totally rational, totally sane, totally pragmatic.
“Side effect of pregnancy,” I say, disgusted with how breathy my voice is.
“The sleep…or the sex?” His hands begin to slide up, up, up.
“Both,” I can barely eek out (and is it that obvious? Am I oozing sexual desperation?) before latching onto his shoulders with both hands because his fingers have reached my underwear and are tugging them down my legs. I am a spineless sex fiend, apparently, because I do absolutely nothing to stop him.
His wicked chuckle strikes again as I step out of my panties and silently plead with him for more.
“What do you want, Mama?”
“I don’t-yes-I…everything,” I settle on, lost for words since my brain has up and abandoned me completely.
He lifts himself up to get completely naked and I fall forward onto the couch, my knees cocooning his strong thighs.
“Dean,” I plead.
“I got you,” he whispers, his hands under my nightgown and on my waist.
This is going to be embarrassingly quick for me and the sooner I accept that, the sooner I will find sweet relief. And sure enough, the second he pulls me down onto him, it happens, like a lightning bolt, I’m struck and grabbing handfuls of hair and scratching at his skin because it’s too much, so good, I’m gone.
He’s talking, but I have no idea what he’s saying. I think it’s dirty; at least it sounds dirty, his voice deep and rough in my ear.
“More,” I beg, and he obliges, pulling and pushing and pounding at my body, over and over until we’re both incoherent.
I fit in his arms completely, even with the baby between us, and I love it.
This is a storm, but he feels like shelter.
He’s gone the next morning.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I definitely shouldn’t be feeling this heavy weight of disappointment in my gut…but it’s there, regardless.
After an awkward few moments after, where I invited him to sleep in my bed with me, and a not-awkward-but-fantastic sleepy, middle of the night round two (it seems like this is maybe a thing with Dean), I kinda thought he’d be there for eggs and toast in the morning (because I was not going to share my cinnamon roll with him, duh).
But he’s gone, with no note this time.
I shower and pull up my big girl pants (literally-I’d stopped by Target and gotten a pair of those elastic-waisted maternity jeans and they were fabulously comfy), deciding to go ahead and pop over to Red’s Surf Shop and see what was going on. And if I happened to run into Dean, well, so be it. I could be cool, play it aloof, no biggie.
The temperature had finally dropped somewhere near winter-like, so I pull out my navy peacoat with the big, gold buttons and head out. The streets are lined with cars and I was glad to be in walking distance to downtown; it looked like Grace’s ‘thing’ was enjoying a good turnout. A big banner strung up between two palm trees announced the festivities as a fundraiser fo
r the city’s Parks and Rec department. There was a rock climbing wall, bounce houses, skate ramps of varying sizes, as well as a varied number of local shops represented with booths and a gaggle of good smells all around. I keep to the perimeter of the parking lot and away from the activities, heading instead for the churro stand (wanting to support the community, of course), all the while keeping my eye out for Dean.
Only, he isn’t here, and when I see Grace and she asks me if I’ve seen him, I think it a tad strange. Though, if anyone could pull a sneaky disappearing act, it’s probably Dean. His mom asks me if I want to come over for dinner and I politely bow out, excusing myself to work. Which I totally did, for three straight hours that afternoon, into the evening, until my back is aching and my stomach growling.
“Alright, alright, you tiny dictator,” I cave at last, saving my work and shutting down my laptop. I was very close to being done with that particular piece of work and then I’d collect a paycheck that would get me the fancy stroller I had my eye on. I’d gradually been accepting more editing requests than usual in an effort to save all the pennies I possibly could before the baby got here and all of my free time was no longer free and I’d have to cut way back on everything not baby-related, at least for a while.
Tonight’s dinner really needed to involve something vegetable-related, and I didn’t mean a veggie pizza this time. I managed to whip up a stir fry (and by stir fry, I mean white rice, frozen veggies, and some soy sauce) before settling down in front of the television for the night. I needed something that was going to keep my mind from wandering into dangerous territory, something dramatic and maybe even gut-wrenching-ooh! Bravo was doing a marathon of Million Dollar Listings, perfect.
Chapter 14
Dean
I am standing on top of a snowy mountain staring at a valley. It’s fucking beautiful, but I can hardly see it.
Holly O’Brian strikes again.
Out of nowhere these days, I find myself thinking about freckles or baby seats, asking myself if I needed to buy a car because the motorcycle I kept in my parent’s garage sure wasn’t going to cut it, not with a kid.
I want her more than I deserve her, that’s for sure.
And I want her a whole lot.
But after pulling the ultimate dick move by showing up on her doorstep after drinking way too many beers with Bear and Barney and fucking her on her couch (and, again, later in her bed), I doubt she wants anything to do with me. I just literally could not help myself, so I took. And took, and took, and took.
And that’s why I am here, standing on top of a snowy mountain, freezing my balls off.
Because my dad always told me, you can’t be a good partner or teammate until you’ve got your own head on straight first. And my head, while physically stateside, is still stuck in the middle of a battle.
Chapter 15
Holly
Every day that dawns with no contact from the father of my baby brings with it more and more anger. I try not to let it fester, try to shrug it off and deep breathe it away; call it irrational hormones or whatever, but by day eight, I am hacking away at my lettuce like a slasher film star. It doesn’t help that I’ve woken up the last two days with a monster headache that hangs out with a persistent, dull ache in the back of my head all day long.
Christmas is in two days, our school’s winter break began yesterday at 3:00 (for me, anyway-peace out, peeps, I’m outta here). I planned on staying in, not getting out of my pajamas, getting loads of editing done, and watching TV until I was slightly comatose. Hashtag: life goals, am I right? Once again, I tell myself I don’t need a stupid man to make my dreams come true. I am all I need-well, me and my TV. And bread. Ooh, and feta cheese. I reach back into the fridge to grab it and drop some crumbles on top of my salad. Look at me, eating like the adult I was. No Hot Pockets for me, no microwaved pizza rolls, no gummy bears. I am rockin’ this mom thing.
Fast forward nine minutes to me crying my eyes out because I dropped my salad all over my ottoman and shag rug. I’m on my hands and knees picking feta cheese out of the carpet fibers when there’s a knock on my door. Of-fucking-course. A shouted expletive, pleading with the person to just go away was on the tip of my tongue, but I catch it, and good thing, because it’s Grace Donovan on the other side. Again, of-fucking-course (and when did I start saying the ‘f’ word?).
“Hi, Grace,” I say, feigning chipperness, while wiping my face free of tears and snot, and simultaneously smearing ranch dressing across my cheek and possibly under my nose.
“Oh my god, what’s wrong?” She asks, reaching out to touch my arm, which, naturally, makes me cry all over again.
“I dropped my salad,” I wail, head back.
“Oh…okay.” She guides me backwards gently, while letting herself into my house, where she guides me to a kitchen chair, hands me some tissues and heads over to the scene of the crime.
“Sit tight, I got this,” she says with a smile. And I feel like a wretched mess (and I get that the description is a tad redundant, only serving to describe my current state of being). With surprising efficiency, Grace gets the mess cleaned up and has me sitting on the couch with a hot bowl of potato-bacon soup, which was the reason she came by, to bring me soup.
“Everything okay?” She asks tentatively.
I shoot her a flat look.
“Right.” She presses her lips together, silently weighing her words, probably afraid of setting me off.
“Is this because of my brother?”
A disgruntled sound escapes me.
“So you haven’t heard from him then,” she states, correctly interpreting my grunt.
Good gravy, I am a mess; a walking, grunting ball of negative feelings that hasn’t showered or changed out of her flannel fox pajamas. Even Mr. Bubberchop, my sweet kitty boy, has been steering clear of me today.
“He emailed me-“ Grace starts to say but I hold up a hand, succinctly halting her words.
“Look, with all due respect, I just don’t really care.” Obviously, that’s a total lie, but since I want it to be true, I’m taking it all the way. “If he wants to talk to me, he knows where I am.”
She sits quietly, chewing her lip, her mind obviously whirring with thoughts that she, appreciatively, keeps to herself.
And, after all, didn’t I tell him I didn’t need him to be involved, that I could do this on my own? I didn’t think I really had any right to be upset (except the obvious ditching-a-girl-the-morning-after-thing, I mean, that was just rude).
“This soup is amazing, by the way, did you make it?”
She smiles and nods. “My mom’s recipe.”
My spoon scrapes across the bottom of the soup bowl-
“Are you okay? I mean, you’re feeling okay and everything?”
I scoop the last drops of creamy soup into my mouth. “I’m tired and I have a headache, but other than that, I’m fine.”
She accepts my words without further questioning, and I appreciate that.
“If you don’t have Christmas plans, Holly, you’re more than welcome to come and hang out with us,” she tells me in a soft, wary voice. “I hope you know…anything you need, we’re here for you.”
She avoids my eyes, her long hair swinging over her face as she stands and turns to the door.
“Thank you, Grace,” I force the words, because I am thankful. I am beyond grateful that my baby will have such a welcoming, caring, and giving family, even if her father is none of those things; she will be loved, and for that I am so thankful because that is something I, alone, cannot provide.
Grace knows I won’t show up, though, I’ve already earned that reputation. But I’ll admit, the fact that they keep asking chips at the edge of my foul mood. The Slade family is relentless, that’s for sure.
This all makes me think that maybe I do need a change of scenery. Not to sound like Scrooge, but Christmas hasn’t been all that important to me for years, not since my grandma died. One year since then, I’d had a man in my life
, but he spent the holiday with his family out of town, so I’d still been on my own. Since I was twenty-three, the best thing about Christmas has been the break from work and waking up early. However, this time next year, I’ll have a tiny little someone to hang with and I realize, this is the last Christmas I’ll be alone for (I’ll never admit this out loud, but, what a relief).
With that thought, I head to my laptop and get to work. I end up finding a last-minute rental in Big Bear, just a few hours’ drive from here, and book it (even though I may have to take on a few more book projects to pay the holiday rental fee, or hold off on the stroller). I’ll head up tomorrow morning, stay a few nights, enjoy a white Christmas, and get my head clear. I’ll have to miss another Taco Tuesday with Red, but it’s the holidays, he probably assumes I have plans, anyway. I pack nothing but sweatpants, leggings, t-shirts and sweaters; not planning on venturing out of the cabin for much, no need to impress.
Two and a half hours into my trip, I’m supremely grateful for my all-wheel drive (I’ve had the car three years and never needed it) because it’s snowing and snowing and snowing. I’ve just left the market in town where I stocked up on food and drink and I know I’m close to the cabin because my GPS says so. After twenty more minutes of slow, windy road, I pull up to an adorable blue house (not a cabin, after all) with white trim. The roof is seriously sloped except for one window that juts out from the second floor (oh, please have a comfy window seat), and everything is blanketed in white: the roof, the porch railing, and the trees that surround the place. The driveway has been recently shoveled and is clear for me to pull my car in, which I do, and notice there’s also a shoveled path right to the front door.
I’m beyond excited right now. My head is filled with hot cocoa, a warm fire, blankets, and books. I’m thinking this was the best idea I’ve ever had…until a man appears at my window and scares the bejeezus out of me. He’s got a fluffy, red beard (is this a sign, God?) and a beanie pulled low over his forehead, but beneath that, bright, green eyes crinkle apologetically.
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