I’m rambling because if I stop talking, I might think about how nice it feels to sit here on the couch with a good man who listens to me and likes to play with my hair.
“Also, now it matches that piece,” I gesture to the piece of furniture directly across from us and under my TV. “It’s actually a holdover from my grandma, whose house this used to be,” I tell him, pointing at the floor, as if he didn’t know what house I was talking about. “And it was actually part of a dining set but I think it works perfectly. I can fit a bunch of stuff in those cabinets and drawers, and I actually drilled a small hole in the back to shove all the cords through. My ex-boyfriend worked for the cable company and one day he came and fixed it so that all my TV cords and stuff go down the wall and now it looks nice and neat.”
His hand freezes in my hair.
“Your ex was a cable guy?” He asks for clarification.
“Mmhmm. Colton.”
I move my eyes away from my furniture to his face. His nostrils are doing this thing, I’m not sure what it means.
“He was good with wires and…stuff.” Oh. Oh, Holly, why? I look away again, focusing all of my attention on the television remote, hoping he doesn’t intuit what I meant by stuff, but since his hand has moved back to the sofa cushion, I’m guessing he may have. I don’t even know what is wrong with me.
“I think we should watch TV now.”
“Yup. You got it, I am on it.” I start pushing buttons on the remote. “I think we should watch Stranger Things, I think you might like it.”
I don’t actually know what he’ll like, seeing as how I never gave him a chance to even respond to my question before launching into the one-woman show that is Holly.
The next morning he leaves with his uncle Red to go surfing and after lunch, a dark-colored Jeep pulls into my driveway and Dean hops out of the driver’s side. I lean an arm over the back of the couch to spread the window blinds open further. Yup, that’s Dean. I watch him pocket the keys and strut up to the front door.
“Hey,” he says, shucking off his flip flops outside before coming inside. I love the way his hair looks after he’s been surfing, a little sun-kissed and a lot messy. But I shall not be distracted.
“Uh, Dean?”
“Yup,” he calls out. I can tell his head is in the fridge because of echo-y sound of his voice.
“What is that?” I point out the window as he comes back into the room, apple in hand.
“Oh,” he follows my pointer finger, “I figured it was time I got a car.”
“Wait, so you don’t actually have a car?” I knew he had a motorcycle (I know, I know, he’s too much, right?), and, well, I guess I hadn’t thought a whole lot about his vehicle situation.
“Nope, just the bike.” He crunches into the apple. “Can’t fit a baby on a bike.”
I look back out to the beast in my driveway and laugh.
“What, you don’t like it?” He looks out towards the driveway.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, rising to stand next to him and look out the dining window. “I just think it’s kinda funny that that’s your idea of a family car.”
I press my lips together and look up at him. His head turns slowly in my direction, his eyes looking down into mine. Nothing but crunching and eye contact. A small laugh escapes me and he rolls his eyes.
“It’s got four doors, loads of airbags,” he gestures out, apple in hand, to the driveway, “and a latch bar for rear-facing car seats.”
He looks back at me with a smile and a wink, so proud of himself.
“Wanna go see it?”
“Yes. Yes, I would love to go outside and feel the sunshine on my face.” I’m already looking for some sandals to slip on, but before I can take a step, I’m off my feet and being carried out the door by Dean.
“Seriously? Dr. Graysen said it was okay to do a bit of walking, that it’s actually good for me!”
He sets me down by the driver’s side and the first thing I do is close my eyes and tip my face up to the sun (hello, Vitamin D, I’ve missed you). When I’m done soaking up the rays, I tip my head back down and open my eyes to find Dean staring at me with a funny look on his face.
“Is it still bedrest if I’m on a blanket in the sand, you think?” I ask him. “Remind me to ask tomorrow when we go to the doctor, okay?”
He grunts and I turn from him and to the car. It’s a nice gunmetal gray color, matte, not shiny, and when he opens the door, I take a deep whiff of the new car smell. He shares some of its features, I ooh and ahh, and then he carries me back inside.
“We’ll probably need a second car seat, one for each car.” He pulls off his t-shirt (he does this every time he returns from the beach or from running, I’ve learned- it’s really quite distracting). “That way, once we get the seat in, we don’t have to mess with moving them around and not getting them back in right. The guy at the dealership told me there’s a place where they’ll check your baby seat to see if it’s been strapped in right.”
Has discussing car seats and safety features ever been this sexy? I assure you, it has not. I just sit back, ogle, and hum in agreement when it seems appropriate.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower-you okay?” He tips his head at me.
“Yup, I’ll be here.”
He narrows his eyes and stares for a beat before heading down the hall to the shower.
In a moment of weakness, mistaken by yours truly as kindness, I told Dean we should go ahead and have his parents over for dinner. They would be here in half an hour.
We’d gone to see Dr. Graysen this morning, she patted my head and said, good dog. No she didn’t, but she did commend by bedrest skills which kind of felt like the same thing. She said I could spend some time in the sand and sun, as long as I was resting with my feet up, and for limited times because even minimal activity could tire me easily. I was thrilled and tried to get Dean to stop at Mermaid’s Cove on the way home, but he refused, said he “needed time to plan it out, make sure I have everything we might need.” Honestly.
So, instead, I’d come home and taken a hot shower, I even blow-dried my hair (sitting down of course). I had it rolled back on the sides and hanging long and wavy down my back. All of that was actually quite tiring, so after my hair was done, I took a short sitting-up nap on the couch (and if you think this can’t be done, you haven’t been pregnant). I was currently in front of my vanity mirror putting on the final touches of my makeup. After my two week hiatus from makeup and any type of clothing that didn’t stretch, I hardly recognize myself. My skin is pale (I mean, it’s always pale), but my cheeks still had a nice rosy glow about them.
I’d squished myself (seriously, I had actual boobs now) into a low cut, retro blue dress that had pale pink flowers with green stems on it and, fortunately, a high waistline that landed just under my bust and a double pleat in the front that left just enough room for my belly. I’d done my makeup in a pink palette and added round, pink gemstones to my ears. I stood up, still barefoot, brushed down the fluttery cap sleeves and smiled at my reflection.
There I was.
It’s not that I thought a woman had to “make herself up” to feel “pretty” or be presentable; it’s just how I felt comfortable. I liked the ritual of putting on makeup and doing my hair and coordinating clothes with accessories. I couldn’t explain the psychology behind it, I just knew I felt better and more comfortable looking at myself in the mirror now than I did earlier today in leggings, a sweater, and no makeup. In fact, I think the “making up” of myself made the dressing down all the more sweet; I could truly appreciate the comfort of sweatpants and slippers after a day in tights and heels.
And this is why Dean catches me smiling at my reflection when he sticks his head around the doorjamb of my open bedroom door.
“Hey,” he pauses, taking in all of me. “You look nice.”
“Thanks. It’s kind of nice to have a reason to get dressed.”
“What, I’m not reason enough?” He splays his palm
s against his chest, wounded.
“Dean, I let you see me naked, are you really going to quibble over a dress?”
He stutters back onto his heels, a shocked laugh bursting from him. Heck, I’ve surprised myself.
“Actually, all said and done, I’ve never actually seen you naked. Not completely.”
And, here comes the blush, up my cleavage, my chest, my neck, and all of my face.
“So, yeah, I’m gonna quibble.” Then he winks. Not even cheesy. “Now let me help you out to the kitchen, I’ve got a special place at the table just for you.
He moves towards me, but I stop him with my hands up and out.
“Wait, I need my shoes,” I insist, looking down and around for my pink peep toes.
“Mama, you are not putting those shoes on.”
“Dean they’re part of the outfit.” I go to slip my first foot in, but he sweeps the shoes out of the way with his feet. I look up at him, mouth open in shock.
“Dean!”
“You don’t need shoes, you look beautiful. And it’s not like we’re going outside.”
I’m so mad right now. He has erased all of the good feelings I had just moments ago.
“You wanna wear those shoes, I’m carrying you down the hall.”
“Is this your attempt at a compromise?” He knows I hate to be carried.
His answer is a shrug, and it takes all I have not to stomp my feet. I ignore his compromise and make one of my own by bending down awkwardly to pick up the shoes and walk down the hall with them in my hand. I come to a stop when I see the “special place” he’s prepared for me and shake my head. He’s cushioned a dining chair with pillows and placed in front of it a stool (also cushioned with pillows) for my feet.
I sit down gently in the chair, so as not to shift the pillow, place my feet on the stool set out for me, and put my peep toes on my feet. And then, when Dean enters the room and sees me sitting there, I ignore him and his (now trademarked) blank (working to gather patience) face.
“Ready,” I sing out, folding my hands on my lap.
And then the doorbell rings.
Dean moves to the front door, pausing a moment before turning the knob.
“Thanks for doing this, Holly,” he says to me, “it means a lot to my parents.”
I squeak out an, “un-hunh” right before he lets them in. I’m such a weak little loser for vulnerable Dean.
Both Dean’s parents hug him upon entering, his mom goes in hard, causing Dean to do his low chuckle.
His dad is holding flowers, which he hands over to me.
“Holly, it’s very good to see you,” he says.
“These are beautiful, thank you.” I stick my face in the bouquet and inhale. Star-gazer lilies will change your life, they smell soooo good.
“I’ll put those in water,” Dean says, sneaking up beside me to take the flowers.
“Okay, I have some-“
“I got it.” Well, I guess he’d become more familiar with my kitchen than I thought.
“Hi, honey,” Dean’s mom says, peeling off her coat and laying it across the back of the couch. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, pretty good these days actually.” I smooth down my dress at my thighs while telling myself, don’t be awkward, don’t be awkward.
“Well, you look fabulous, truly.” She’s standing in front of me, an older version of Grace, her hands clutched in front of her. Dean’s dad has moved to the kitchen and they’re chatting at the sink.
“May I…?” She reaches out a hand and gestures to my belly. I don’t understand at first what she’s asking, but when it dawns, I realize no one’s ever asked to touch my belly before, not even Maya.
“Um…sure.” I mean, what am I gonna do, tell my baby’s one and only grandmother no?
She squats down and places both hands on the center of my belly. I’m seven months into this gig, so I’ve got a pretty good belly for her to explore and she does.
“Mom, jeez,” Dean says upon walking back into the space.
“Oh, hush, you,” she commands him. “Does she move around a lot?” She asks, returning her attention to me.
“Yes. I imagine her living conditions are beginning to feel a bit cramped. She’ll probably start moving and shaking after dinner.”
Her hands pause on a sigh. “We are just so thrilled to be getting another grandbaby.”
She looks up at me, eyes watery, and smiling.
“Okay, Mom, step away from Holly,” Dean breaks into the moment. Good thing because I was just about to spew awkward babble all over the place. Gah! All those emotions his mom just put out there for everyone to see.
The rest of the evening was far less expressive. Most of the conversation revolved around their family with Dean and his parents chatting. Occasionally, they’d volley a question or comment to me and I’d respond, but Dean seemed to be playing the role of interceptor, working to steer conversation away from my life and back to theirs. I wasn’t sure if he was doing me a solid because he knew talking about myself was hard for me, or if I just embarrass him.
What am I saying?! That is fourteen-year-old Holly talking, not grown-ass, independent woman Holly.
I come back to the room to find Dean staring at me with an are you okay look on his face. I glance to his parents in the kitchen putting away dishes, then look back to Dean and smile.
“Zoned out for a minute,” I tell him quietly.
“Are you tired? You wanna go to your room?”
He’s pushing up from his chair before I can even answer.
“No, I’m fine,” I shoo him back down into his seat. “I’m a zoner-outer, get used to it.”
“Zoner-outer,” he mumbles, leaning back in his chair, and I watch as he tries to tamper down a smile, which makes me want to smile.
When I glance back to the kitchen, it’s to see both of his parents, his dad with dish towel in hand, looking at us. And, back to awkward.
After dinner is cleaned up, the dishes are done, no thanks to me, and Dean’s folks are gone, he and I settle in the living room for some good ol’ fashioned television watching. I’m camped out in one corner with a couple furry throw pillows and a soft blanket, while he’s taking up a good two cushions, sprawled out the way he is.
“Bubbers,” I call out for my kitty boy, making kissy sounds as I do.
My face is clean, hair’s up, and gone is the cute outfit and pumps from earlier, that garb replaced with a pair of stretchy, polka-dotted pajama pants and my Where the Wild Things Are t-shirt. Dean is similarly dressed down in gym shorts and a t-shirt. To anyone else, we probably look like a couple, maybe a married couple, all nestled and settled in for an evening together. I sneak a glance at Dean and try to imagine that life with him. A life where I could lean over to cuddle against him and he would curl an arm around me to keep me close, maybe absent-mindedly kiss my forehead while doing it. Then I force myself to shove that line of thinking deep down because I’m not entirely comfortable with the way it makes me feel, which is envious for a fictional life.
“What do you feel like watching tonight?” He asks, lazily rolling his head in my direction.
And, oh, the urge to lift my hand and sift through his overgrown strands of hair is strong.
“You pick,” I tell him, my voice scratchy.
He blinks slow and sleepy before responding. “Alright, let’s have a look.”
He scrolls through the Netflix selection in silence.
“What did you do overseas, like, in your free time?” I ask, ignoring the voice in my brain that asks why I’m suddenly so interested in everything Dean. “I mean, did you even have free time?”
“Yeah, we had free time, sometimes too much.” He’s still got his gaze on the TV screen and his eyes crinkle in concentration. “Mostly, I read books, I guess.”
“Wait, what?” I’m snapped out of my Dean haze by his response. “You read books?”
“Yeah, Mama, I can read.” His lip curves into a smirk and a tiny dimple
appears in his cheek.
“I know you can read, it’s just, you never mentioned it,” I stutter out.
His head rolls back my direction. “We haven’t had a whole lot of these types of conversations.”
“Right.”
And suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the image of Dean laid out on a cot somewhere in a tight t-shirt, fatigues, and boots, one arm behind his head, the other holding a book in front of his face. I think I just discovered my kink.
“What do you like to read?”
“Well, we kinda just read whatever was available wherever we were. Guys would share books they’d either brought or had sent to them. My favorites were probably the thrillers and mysteries, and I read the hell out of some Stephen King.”
He’s laid the remote down on his chest to answer my question, and is it crazy that I find the gesture so sexy? Like, hey baby, let me set this remote down so I can give you my full attention. And, oh, I’m going to set it right here on my rock hard chest. Damn hormones, sheesh.
“You ever read any romance?” I ask cheekily.
“Actually, I have. There was one guy, Berkowitz, he freaking loved those romances with the covers, you know, the pirates and half-dressed women, and such.”
“Ah, a bodice ripper?” I giggle out in answer.
“Bodice rippers,” he repeats, chuckling. “Yeah, that’s them. Man, he caught so much shit from the other guys for reading those books, but he didn’t give a shit. Fuckin’ Berkowitz.”
The amusement in expression melts away as he picks up the remote and returns to his perusal on the screen. And I think, uh-oh, what happened to Berkowitz.
“Hey, you watch any of these Marvel shows? I heard Daredevil’s good.”
“Dean…” I hesitate, knowing I’m wading into uncharted waters. “You okay?”
“Huh? Yeah,” he answers quickly, glancing to me and then back to the screen.
“What about this Jessica Jones?”
“I think Daredevil came first, so we should probably start there.”
I choose to let it go. I mean, if he wanted to bring it up further, he would have, right? I know he has nightmares sometimes, and I mean, what person, having gone through what I could only imagine he had, wouldn’t? And what does it mean that I want nothing more than to soothe those lines from his forehead right now. Was this my motherly instincts kicking in? Instead of doing that, I poke his thigh with my toe (I mean, it’s almost the same thing, right?), and he grabs first one foot, then reaches for the other, places them in his lap, and oh my gracious, he rubs them and I die. all. over. the. couch.
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