An hour later, he wandered into my room, where I was set up in my bed doing some work on my laptop, Mr. Bubberchop splayed out next to me, with half a disfigured bagel in his hand; he stood at the end of my bed, his eyes on me, through each and every bite. Then, when he was done, he said “Mmm,” and licked all his fingers, one by one before turning and walking out.
Well, that was a backfire of massive proportions (because that finger licking? Unh).
So that night, I stuffed tissue in the toes of his running shoes, froze all his socks, and replaced his “running” playlist on his iPod with nothing but Taylor Swift songs. Boy, was he in for a surprise at his early morning run time.
I didn’t stop to think about the depths I’d sunk to, constructing pranks in the cover of night, all to avoid a confrontation with my baby daddy. Because, even though we were technically living together, we were still an autonomous pair. We’d had few conversations that consisted of more than what I wanted to eat and where I wanted to sit (yes, I recognized that most of our interactions revolved around my needs).
Today, he was taking me to see Dr. Graysen. She was going to tell me how much, if any, of my normal life I was going to get back. I’d been feeling good, Dean made me take my blood pressure on this little machine three times a day and it was only a touch high on two occasions (one of those times just so happened to be after my assault on the kitchen).
I’ve been wearing the same sweatpants since yesterday morning and don’t even get me started on my hair-I was dangerously close to dreadlock territory. My showering and personal grooming routine hadn’t been what it usually was, especially since the first time I tried to shower after coming home from the hospital, Dean attempted to help. As in, get in the shower with me.
“Mama, there isn’t nothing there I haven’t seen,” he told me, that wicked smirk of his coming out to play.
I’d responded by slamming (if a shower curtain could be slammed) the curtain in his face and ordering him OUT! What a horrible, sensually suggestive oaf.
I was sitting at the edge of my bed, working on pulling clean leggings on when I hear him come in the back door (must’ve been a beach run today). I quick hike my pants up and sit back down just in time for Dean to help himself through my bedroom door, sweaty and delicious-I mean disgusting.
“Hey, Mama,” he says, before carrying on the guzzling of a full bottle of water.
“Why do you call me that?” I’d let it go on for long enough. I needed to know.
“Well…” He tosses a hand out in my direction.
I look to my left. I look to my right. I’m sorry, was his hand-flinging supposed to be an answer?
“I’m not your mother,” I remind him, my confusion evident.
“No, but you’re…you know…”
It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up…and when it does, my jaw drops and my eyes widen.
“Your baby mama?! That’s why you call me that?”
He didn’t know that I referred to him as my ‘baby daddy’ often in my head. The point is, it was only in my head!
“Now, don’t get all worked up, Holly, remember your blood pressure.” He holds up both hands, palms out, in a placating manner. Neither his words nor gestures were placating.
“Okay, I’m just…gonna…” With his hands still up, he backs out of the room.
Okay, truth time? I maybe, kinda, sorta liked the whole ‘Mama’ thing. It seemed affectionate, or intimate, and it was always said in that deep, rumbly voice of his. But, I don’t know, knowing the reason behind it made it seem significantly less affectionate and/or intimate. And Maya said talking to each other would help, argh! Whatever.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s showered and dressed (fifteen minutes, I know!), and I am waiting for him by the front door, keys in hand-until he walks right up to me, hand out, and I have to relinquish them.
“Ready, Daddy?” I ask him (blech, somehow proving a point never felt so gross), squeezing past his big body and out the front door. He boops the door locks and I get in and get buckled up, my bag in my lap. He’s just sitting there in the driver’s seat, his keys in his hands, hands in his lap.
“Well?” I push, and he turns to me abruptly.
“Please don’t ever call me that again,” he asks, and I can tell he doesn’t like asking anything of me.
“Why not? You call me Mama, I call you Daddy, and we can both be reminded each and every time of what we are to each other,” I tell him, and yes, I realize I’m being patronizing and childish.
He lifts an elbow to rest by the window and I can tell we’re going to sit here until he’s happy with the resolution. And, well, he’s got the keys and the able body, so I have absolutely no control here.
“What do you mean, what we are to each other?” His eyes have taken on that narrow, probing look that makes the skin around them crinkle in stupidly attractive way.
“I’m your ‘baby mama’, you’re my ‘baby daddy’. Right?”
“No.”
My eyes bug out and I lift my hands in question.
“What do you mean, no? You told me that’s why you called me ‘Mama’.”
“I know what I said.”
I wait for more.
“Ugh.” I fling my hands out and they slap back down onto my legs. “And?”
“And, no.”
He grabs the keys, sticks them into the ignition, starts the car, and backs out of the driveway, and proceeds to drive us on our merry little way to Dr. Graysen’s. That may have been the stupidest conversation I’d ever had in my life.
“Hmm,” Dr. Graysen hums, her brow furrowed.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“It’s okay,” she pats my arm reassuringly, “it’s just that your blood pressure is a bit high.”
“Oh,” I stretch out the word while aiming an accusing glare at Dean. Her eyes follow the direction of mine and now both of us are looking at where he’s sitting in a chair against the wall. His response is to sigh and hold out his hands, palms up, in supplication.
“You do know the whole idea is to keep her blood pressure down, right, Dean?” Dr. Graysen reminds him, and before she turns back to me, I smirk at him.
He just rolls his eyes and leans back against the wall, his arms crossed against his chest.
Dr. Graysen grabs her clipboard to mark down my stats while asking me questions about how I’m feeling. I answer honestly because, even though being home (with Dean) all day, every day would drive anyone crazy, my number one concern truly is my baby’s well-being.
“Okay, well, the verdict is, more bed rest,” she reports (with jazz hands and all) after all the questions are done. “Odds are, Holly, this is going to be the situation for the rest of your pregnancy, though I want to continue to see you each week.”
She goes on reminding me of all the things I should and should not be doing, and I notice Dean lean forward, elbows on knees, to listen better. I should be listening, too, but instead, I’m looking at his face. I don’t even think I’ve told him we’re having a girl. He’s going to have a daughter. With me. We’re going to have a daughter. He’s really handsome. I should be nicer.
He looks to me, totally catching me staring, and tips his head just slightly in question. It’s super cute, like a grumpy little puppy.
“Okay?” He asks, and it’s then that I notice Dr. Graysen isn’t even in the room anymore.
“Yup,” I reply, looking away.
He moves to stand right next to me, like, close enough so that his chest rubs against my shoulder and arm.
“We got this, Mama,” he says quietly, humor in his voice, and I elbow him in the ribs in response, which causes him to laugh out loud and back up.
“Yeah, you’re real funny.”
“Hey,” he stops laughing and cups his big hand under my chin, forcing my face up. “I mean it.”
His stupid, stormy eyes reel me in. If I looked him in the eye every time we spoke to each other, he’d be able to blast through my defenses i
n no time.
He nods, eyebrows up, waiting for my affirmation. I nod back, because…no words.
I can’t get out of bed. I mean, obviously, I’m on bedrest so there’s that, but it’s more than that. Ever since my appointment with Dr. Graysen yesterday, I’ve been hunkered down under my blankets. I hear Dean’s mom when she stops by but I pretend to be sleeping when Dean peeks into the room; instead I lay there and eavesdrop on the pieces of conversation I can hear. Do we want to come over Sunday for barbecue? Dean says no, he doesn’t want me going anywhere or around that many people. She and his dad could bring dinner by one night, keep it simple. Maybe, he’ll let her know after he talks to me (I mean, that’s nice, his actually considering consulting me on something). Dean, please, we want to spend time with you and her, stop hoarding her here. He’s not hoarding me, he’s trying to follow doctor’s orders. Then they move into the living room and I can’t hear anymore.
I’ve felt this before, this lethargy to life. I know what it is and where the problem stems from. My psychologist helped me identify it when I was fifteen years old. That doesn’t mean I know how to turn it around once it gets its grip on me, this darkness. Back then, she suggested anti-depressants and, if I hadn’t been totally against it (hello, family history of addiction), my grandma was adamant. Ultimately, I’m convinced it was books (and a stable home life with a loving, consistent adult) that brought me back to life, but I’m just not sure that’s going to work this time.
Finally, when the room is dark and when I’ve had an honest nap, Dean appears at my bedside.
“You hungry?” He asks, looking me over.
“I really want pizza,” I moan from under my blankets. Seriously, my cravings are out of my control and he’s been such a food dictator, filling my belly with fresh fruits and vegetables instead of gummy bears and Hot Pockets, and smoothies (which, okay, they’re actually pretty good) instead of ice cream. But I am desperate for gooey cheese and soft bread.
“Please, Dean, I just really, really want pizza.”
He pulls back the blanket to glare at me, assessing my level of seriousness before answering.
“Alright, I’ll get you pizza.”
“Yesssss,” I punctuate with a tiny, under the covers, fist pump.
Twenty minutes later, I’m finally out of bed, waiting on the living room couch when the doorbell rings (yes, the lure of the almighty pizza finally got me out of my room). Dean answers the door, pays the pizza guy, and returns to set the pizza box on the coffee table in front of me, along with a plate, napkin, and a glass of water.
“Thank you,” I tell him, looking him straight on so he can gauge just how grateful I am for this. He is kind of bossy and controlling, so the fact that he is capable of small concessions is a relief. He’s not totally unreasona-
“What is this?” I ask, not even believing my eyes, not even recognizing the wicked tone of my own voice.
He’s taken a seat down the couch from me, kicked back and relaxing.
“I got you one of those cauliflower crust piz-“
“NO!” I shout. “I just wanted some bread, is that too much to ask?!”
Dean is usually so contained, so the look of surprise on his face is a, well, it’s a surprise. But a welcome one.
“Why are you so mean?” My voice wobbles as I’m on the verge of tears. “I’m pregnant, I’m hungry, I’m confined to my home, and I just wanted pizza-real, enriched flour, full of gluten pizza; not some stupid vegetable crust.”
I slam down the lid of the box and stand up.
“Screw your cauliflower,” I throw out as I stomp all the way down the hallway, my heavy footsteps exclamation points to my words, and into my room where, yes, I slam that door too.
Luckily, I’d left my cell phone on the night stand so I can text Maya. I mean, she did say call her if I needed anything.
I’m hungry, I want pizza, Dean ordered me some stupid, healthy pizza. I’ll owe you for life if you could just help a pregnant/dying woman.
I add several prayer hand emoji’s and send the text off.
Not even a minute later: What an idiot. I got your back.
Dean makes no attempt to talk to me.
And when Maya arrives with the ooiest, gooiest, stuffed (thank you, Jesus) crust pizza, I may have started crying all over again-well, it was either the delicious pizza from Heaven, the fact that Maya showed up for me like that, or that I heard her call Dean “a friggin’ idiot” when he let her in the door.
Chapter 25
Dean
I was failing spectacularly at my new life. I haven’t second-guessed myself this much since I was in the single digit age group, and it really fucking sucked. Holly is completely unpredictable. I’d been trying to set a routine for days, to build predictable into our schedule, but I hadn’t accounted for the temperament of a pregnant woman, or maybe it was just the stubborn nature of one Holly O’Brian. If I was really honest with myself, most the time, I felt like I was just making things worse. Then I remind myself, it’s only been a week, and I could be patient. Jesus, it’d only been a week.
Then there’s the fact that I really kind of like making her mad. I like the way her eyes burn with anger, and the feeling of anticipation over what she was going to do to try and get back at me. She’s so fucking passive-aggressive, it’s comical. If she thinks taking bites out of my bagels is going to bring me down, she’s got another think coming-I’m a Marine, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been through boot camp, I’ve sat bored in the desert for hours on end with a group of guys who enjoy nothing more than outdoing one another’s pranks. She can freeze my socks, she can paint my nails, that’s fine; I can take it because it means she’s feeling something. Right now, it might just be anger and frustration, but I can work with that.
My family is hounding me, and I now feel guilty for ever pushing them on Holly. I haven’t forgotten what she yelled at me in the deli the day she went into the hospital, I just haven’t quite figured out how to have a conversation with the woman that isn’t cut short by her being pissed off at me. I intend to address all of it, though: my overwhelming family, the assholes who have made her feel bad, her doing everything by herself. It just turns out that making plans to work with Holly O’Brian is more challenging than planning a special ops mission.
Chapter 26
Holly
It is after the previous night’s pizza incident, and after his morning run, but before lunch. I’m in my bed, cozied up with my body pillow supporting my back, and a book supporting my soul, Mr. Bubberchop at my feet, when Dean comes in looking real serious.
“Can we talk?” He asks, hesitant in the doorway.
Oh, shit, he’s leaving me is my first thought and it kind of stuns me that it is. I slowly place my bookmark between the pages of my book and lay it down next to me, one hand resting on its cover, the other going protectively to my belly.
“Sure, come on in.”
I have a plush, cream chair in the corner opposite of my bed that he hefts over, no problem, and places at the side of my bed, facing me.
These days, he’d been wearing a mix of track pants and jeans, always with a t-shirt on top. I noticed (because, yes, I pay attention to these things) that he appeared to only own three pairs of shoes: tennis shoes for running, tennis shoes for regular wear, and flip flops. I was currently focused on the way his socked feet looked against my carpet. Comfortable. I mean, that’s a good sign, right?
“I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about how things have been going,” he starts, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “I realize that I am not the ideal candidate for caretaking and that there’s a good probability I’m making this whole situation worse.”
Oh, double shit, he is going to leave me. I mean, he’s not even making eye contact. Dean always makes eye contact, it’s, like, his thing.
“Look, I’ve been in the military since I was eighteen years old, and somewhere along the way, I don’t even know when it happened, I became that rigid, regimented Marine. I’v
e seen a lot of people get hurt and worse, and, I think, to deal with that, I locked up that other part of me. It’s how I deal. I’m trying to be better, I’m trying to let go of that guy, but it’s going to take time. I know I piss you off, and while I kind of enjoy it,” he holds up a hand to halt my indignant response, “sometimes,” I close my mouth, “it’s not usually intentional.”
Finally, he looks up and into my eyes and, ugh, the feelings come.
“I just want you to know that I’m trying.”
“Don’t leave,” I whisper so softly, I’m not even sure he hears it. But I know he did when I watch his face change so slowly, from completely guarded, to…not guarded, dare I say…soft.
“I’m not leaving, Mama,” he responds in an equally soft voice. If I were a different person, this is the part where I’d reach out and grab his hand or his face, or, hell, climb into his lap (because, yes, those are all things I’d very much like to do right now), but I don’t. Instead, I match his gaze with one of my own and attempt to send my feelings to him telepathically.
I think I like you. I’m scared. I don’t want to be alone. Oh, and don’t judge me by the current state of my hair.
Dean’s well-prepared speech changes things. A little.
See, we are obviously shaped by those who raise us. Dean’s childhood, the love his parents obviously feel for him, must account for his confidence; I mean, it seeps from his pores, wafts off of him the second he enters a room. He can feel sure of himself and his decisions because his life growing up was “normal”.
I am the child of addicts. Like, textbook case. I live in a constant state of fear, therefore I feel the need to control everything. And since the night I met Dean Slade, my life has slowly begun to spiral out of my grip. When it was just me and the little bean sprout growing inside of me, I was okay because I was in control of the situation. Then Dean and the rest of the Slade clan got involved and now look at me. Stuck in my home on doctor’s orders, dependent on people I don’t really know. I am in the most vulnerable position I’ve been in since I was twelve years old and it’s utterly terrifying.
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