Hence the selfishness. I hadn’t even taken a moment to consider how Dean is even still here, I mean, wasn’t his leave up weeks ago? So now I feel guilty because my problems have negatively impacted another person’s life. The self-protective part of me wishes Dean would just go away so it would just be me and my bean again; Mama back in control. But that small part of my heart that I usually ignore, desperately wants him to stay, to take care of me. I spent a handful of years in therapy learning how to make good emotional choices for myself, training myself not to seek out relationships that would ultimately have a negative impact on my life, and to ensure I never ended up like my parents. In reality, that mostly meant I avoided relationships altogether. I mean, like, the deep, meaningful, long term kind. I ended up choosing people who’d never get close enough to break my heart.
Again, until the night of Dean Slade.
I though he was safe because he wasn’t permanent; he had a job, a life that he lived far from here most of the time. How was I to know he’d become permanent in the most permanent way possible.
Now, as I lay in bed, the lush body pillow he’d hand-picked for me resting under my intensifying baby bump (read: cradling our baby), thoughts of him swarm my mind. I’d sworn to be the best mom I could be and to be that person, I needed to have a good relationship with her father. I was going to have to stop being so childish and open up more-
“Holly, you got something to tell me?” Dean asks, coming in through the open door of my bedroom, a tiny, pink tutu in one hand and sparkly ballet flats in the other.
Starting with sharing the gender of our unborn child. Epic face palm.
“Um, it’s a girl,” I announce, adding jazz hands for effect.
He looks down to the items in his hands and I watch him, trying to read him (which I have yet to do with any measure of success). Is he angry at me for not telling him sooner? Disappointed? Shocked? Appalled? Shocked and appalled?
“Huh.” He looks up to me, nods, then leaves the room.
In the center of my bed I sit, trying to work out what just happened. I glance to my kitty boy, but he looks just as clueless as me.
After several moments, in a good faith gesture of new and improved behavior, I get up and go to find him. I don’t have to go far because I spot him directly next door in the room I now recognize as a disaster. I’d kind of ignored just how much stuff I’d bought and dropped off in this room, shutting it away for another day that hadn’t come (until today).
“What are you doing?” I ask, finding him in the middle of the debris, still clutching the tutu and ballet slippers (and what a picture that makes, let me tell you: big, sexy oaf holding onto tiny, sparkly pink baby things-I was suddenly feeling positive about our future).
“You mentioned something about an unfinished crib a few days ago, I hadn’t seen it around, so I thought I might be in here,” he responds, still taking in his surroundings. “There’s a lot more than a crib in here.”
“Dean, are you upset?” I twist a long curl that had sprung free from my (unintentional) messy bun in the fingers of both hands. I’m suddenly nervous.
“Why would I be upset?” He rests the tutu and baby shoes gently on the seat of a chair and turns to me, hands on hips. His posture says mad, but his facial expression says genuinely curious.
“Um, because I forgot to tell you we were having a girl? Because, well, lots of reasons, all of which involve me being so stupid?”
His left hand slides down into his pocket while his right hand moves to rub down his face.
“Holly, none of what I’m feeling has anything remotely close to do with you being stupid,” he says on a sigh.
“Oh.” I avert my gaze.
“Because I don’t think you’re stupid,” he clarifies, bending at the waist to see me more intently.
“Okay.” I close my eyes, hating the way I’m feeling, all insecure and pathetic. I can’t help but think, this is what happens when you let down your guard, Holly.
“You wanna go sit down now?” He asks, but it’s not really a question.
“Eh, it’s kind of time for my walk,” I shrug, turning towards the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” He follows.
“Getting a drink.” I open the fridge and am shocked by its contents. “Where did all this food come from? Did you clean out a farmer’s market or something?”
I move around a few leafy, green things in search of something familiar.
“Let me make you something,” he offers, trying to move me out of the way.
“I can take care of myself, you know,” I snap, standing up and slapping my hands against my thighs.
“I know you can,” he stares me down until I huff and puff myself around to the other side of the island and onto a barstool.
Welp, back to my default of anger and impatience. The new and improved Holly lasted all of five minutes. I lean my elbow onto the counter, rest my chin in my hand and watch him throw a bunch of stuff into the blender.
“You really like smoothies, don’t you?”
“This is for you,” he says, pouring in some almond milk. Well, that’s a new addition to my diet.
“What makes you think I want a smoothie?” Maybe I was broken and stuck in bratty setting, I don’t know.
“You said you wanted a drink, it’s the afternoon and you also usually have a snack around this time, tending to go for something sweet. This checks all the boxes and it’s better for you than whatever it was you were looking for in there.”
He chucks his head towards the fridge and shoots me a smug look before turning on the blender.
Annnnd, I’m speechless. How? On earth? Could he possibly know all that?
A few minutes later, a thick, pink drink in a big, clear glass is placed in front of me.
“Hang on,” he warns, leaning back in towards the fridge, reappearing with a can of whip cream.
My eyes go big and I clap my hands, oh, yes, they do, because, YAY!
He chuckles and squirts a curly dollop on top of my drink, then leans back and does the same directly into his mouth, and…I…don’t…know…where…to…look. At my yummy snack beverage, or at his mouth. Either way, I’m drooling.
“You eat whip cream?” I ask, snapping out of my lusty daze.
“Yup,” he answers with a grin.
“Yeah,” I look back down towards my drink, scooping up some cream with my straw. “It’s good, I like it too.”
Right before I make it to my mouth, the cream drops off my straw and lands right at the top of my baby belly. I stare down at the lump of white stuff now sliding down the front of me and can feel the heat creeping up my pale neck and face. Yup, that was definitely less sexy than Dean’s display.
I hear a low chuckle and close my eyes against the embarrassment. If it were anyone else, I would have scooped that whip cream off my shirt with my finger, licked it off, and kept right on going. But, ugh, no, it has to be the stupid, intimidating oaf now headed towards me with a washcloth in my hand.
“Let me get that,” he says, reaching down to clean me up. Right as his hand makes contact with my belly, I realize, this is the first time Dean has touched my belly. I glance up at his face and could swear, though I’d never read him correctly before, that he is thinking the same thing. His hand pauses just a split second before quickly wiping away the cream and backing up. I’ve been living with this little cabbage for seven months and he’s never even felt it (there was that one night that we, ahem, you know, but he avoided the area like a pro). I wonder if he wants to feel it. The burn in my cheeks deepens.
“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, doing your Marines job?” I bumble out, hoping to move past this most recent case of awkward. “I mean, didn’t your leave already end?”
He rises to his full height and moves toward the sink, moment over. I lean back over the counter to sip my smoothie.
“My leave was extended,” he says, cleaning up the smoothie ingredients, all nonchalant-like.
“
What? You can do that?”
He folds the washcloth and lays it over the edge of the sink, then turns to rest his back against it, his arms bent and resting next to his hips.
“In certain situations, yes.”
“Certain situations,” I repeat. “Like…me.”
“Well, like, sick family members, yeah.”
“Huh.”
“And, well, since we’re on the subject, you should probably know, long story short, I’ve taken a new assignment.”
“New assignment,” I mumble, sipping my drink and mulling this over. So, that would mean he’s not leaving?
“Uh huh, and where might this new assignment be?”
“Camp Pendleton, San Diego.”
“So…you’re staying.”
His expression turns sour.
“Yeah, I’m staying,” he pushes off the sink. “What do you think is happening here? I told you I was in this with you.”
“Mmm,” I hum, screwing up my lips and tipping my head to the side. Did he? I’m not sure I can remember him saying those actual words.
“Well, I’m saying it now.”
Okay, stormy eyes, calm down.
“So, what are you gonna do?”
“Well, for now, I’m going to take care of you,” he smiles like he knows saying that will irritate me and it almost makes me think…no. Maybe, he likes pushing my buttons. Hmm.
Okay, Holly, it’s time to just have the conversation you’re avoiding, just get it over with. I scoot my glass away and wipe my mouth.
“Alright, look, here’s the thing,” I pause to take a breath and find him watching me warily. “I don’t trust people easily. I don’t have a lot of friends, I don’t have a lot of experience with, you know, relationships. I am really good at protecting myself and being by myself, and I’ve recently come to the realization that it’s maybe made me a little selfish.”
I twist on the stool, the hard wood not feeling so great on my backside. Dean sees, but before he can make me do something about, I halt him with a hand and keep going.
“I told you a bit about my life growing up and, you know, that kind of childhood conditioned me to be a certain way. I spent years working with a therapist, so most of the time, I’m a semi-normal adult.” I will never be ‘typical’, I came to terms with that a long time ago. “But I don’t do very well in situations out of my control. Yesterday, you mentioned becoming a ‘regimented Marine’ and, the thing is, I can totally relate. I try really hard to be flexible and roll with the punches, but all of this,” I gesture to him and my belly and, well, everywhere around me, “is a lot. I realized that I am really only flexible inside of my controlled environment.”
I take another breath, hoping I didn’t make the room too heavy, ready to wrap this up and get to the other side of all this tension.
“So, all in all, what I’m saying is, I am sorry for being selfish, for only thinking of myself. I hope you can find some way to understand it was just me trying to deal with all the change in my life, and I will work harder to trust you and, you know, be mature about all this.”
“What, no more pranks?”
“No more pranks.” I sigh and roll my eyes.
“Come on, grab your smoothie and go sit on the couch,” he bosses and I shoot him a look, but I do it. Because the barstool is hard and my couch is soft.
I settle into my sofa and Dean hovers.
“Look, I appreciate what you said, but I…” he does the jaw rubbing thing again, “I was never upset with you, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, settling my head against a pillow, keeping my eyes on him.
“And, as long as you’re okay with it, I’d like to continue staying on your couch and helping you out.”
“Okay,” I repeat, my lips growing into a smile. I’m pretty sure he starts to smile too, but he turns his face away quickly, so I’m not sure.
“I’m gonna start by putting that crib together so our girl has somewhere to sleep when she gets here.”
“Okay.” Now I know he’s smiling, there’s no hiding it this time. “But just so you know, she probably won’t sleep in it for a while, I ordered a bassinet that fits up against the side of the bed for her to sleep in her first few months.”
“I gotta put that together too?” He asks, licking his lips, but not at all annoyed.
“Maybe.”
He dials back the grin (what a shame, really), taps the back of the couch and saunters off down the hall.
I’m thinking I might enjoy this new nice Dean. I sure do like watching him walk away, anyway. Mm-mm-mm.
Chapter 27
Holly
Red comes over on Tuesday with a bag full of tacos and kicks Dean out.
“I’m the worst dinner buddy ever,” I tell him after inhaling my first taco.
“Nah.”
“I’ve only managed to make it to, like, three of our Taco Tuesdays.”
“You’ve been a little busy, it’s alright. Besides, just gave me more time with Babe,” he insists with a wink.
We’re set up at my dining table, food debris spread across the table top.
“It’s a good thing you kicked Dean out,” I say, preparing for another big bite.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not sure he’d approve of me eating all this.” I realize how it sounds, and amend. “I mean, not that I do what he says, it’s just,” I shrug, “he cooks.”
“Dean can sure be a wet blanket these days,” Red says and I snort a laugh. “He used to be the wild one, you know.”
“Really. Do tell.”
“Well, that boy attacked every physical challenge like it was his only duty in life. Wave? He’d surf it. Cliff? He’d jump it. Car? He’d race it. Not much of a surprise he ended up in the Marines, I suppose.”
“I can see that. You know, I went to high school with Grace.”
“Mmm, she mentioned that, said you were real quiet and super smart.”
I chew and nod. “More or less, I guess.”
“Guess you haven’t changed a whole lot.”
“Don’t be so sure.” I finish my last bite and lean back, rubbing my belly.
“I’ve found in life that the quiet ones are often the ones who think the most, observe the most, listen the most. Being quiet isn’t bad, Little Red; in fact, I think it makes you powerful.”
Well, that makes me sit up a little straighter. My favorite quote has always been one of Jane Austen’s: “I was quiet, but I was not blind.” I always felt like it could’ve been written about me. It was nice to hear that there was someone else out there who understands the power of quiet.
“Powerful,” I consider. “I like it.”
“How was your dinner with Red?”
“Soooo delicious,” I exaggerate the words from my side of the couch. He responds with the classic Dean blank-face.
He’d just showered after a few hours at the beach with his sister and dad and now he’s on the couch with me looking too cute in gray sweatpants and red Red’s Surf Shop t-shirt.
“Wanna watch some TV?” I ask him.
“Sure,” he half-grunts.
Our dynamic has shifted enormously the last couple of days. He’s consulting more and bossing less, and I am communicating with him like an adult. And, our baby girl finally has a put-together crib!
“What do you like to watch?”
He shrugs. “Don’t really watch TV.”
My mouth pops open in shock and I watch his eyes draw down to it.
“I love TV,” I breathe out, only to notice a look cross his face.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I feel conflicted sometimes too. I’m a librarian and I should be all about the books, right? Well, I am, trust me,” I hold up my hand, palm out towards him, in the universal I solemnly swear sign. “But it turns out, there’s room in my life for books and TV.”
His mouth twitches. Like he thinks I’m funny and maybe even cute. So, naturally I barrel on, attempting to mimic one of his assessing
stares.
“Hmm. Well, I for one, love a good period drama, which makes sense since I enjoy historical fiction novels so much; but I’m also a total sucker for romances, especially if the characters are smart and humorous. I don’t typically enjoy too much Sci-Fi, unless you count the show Stranger Things which I enjoyed very much, probably mostly because of its nostalgia vibe.”
I’m mentally weighing our options and trying to decide what he’d enjoy most.
“Oh, and I adore any show that involves renovating homes, but something tells me you wouldn’t be into that.”
He subtly shakes his head.
“No, but I can guess why you’d be into the nostalgia and fixing-up-stuff shows,” he pipes in, blatantly looking around the place.
“Oh. Well, yeah.”
“Just out of curiosity, not judging, but, do you buy anything new?” He folds his hands and lays them in his lap. I’m officially obsessed with his hands.
“My couch,” I answer, rubbing my hands lovingly along the soft fabric of the cushions. “Isn’t is the best couch you’ve ever sat on?”
“It’s a good couch,” he agrees.
“Oh, it’s better than good, Dean.”
His mouth twitches again before he nods in acquiescence.
“It cost a lot of money,” I whisper like it’s a secret. “Some things are worth the high price, though. And, besides, I got this table here,” I add, pointing to the coffee table in front of me, “for six dollars from the thrift store. It was in pretty bad shape, chipped, scratched, even a leg was broken.”
He unfolds his hands to rest one across the back of the couch, which means his fingers are close enough to reach out and touch my curls, which is exactly what he does, oh my goodness.
“But I sanded it down, repaired the dents, even fixed the leg, stained it, and voila! I mean, that’s real wood, none of that pressboard crap you find so much of these days. And I know, in order to retain monetary value, that staining furniture isn’t the best, but I don’t care so much about that, I just love bringing home furniture that seems worthless and, you know, breathing new life into it.”
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