Locked Out

by Anna Chastain

  “You were fourteen when you came to live with her?” I nod in response. “So, what’s that, a freshman?”

  “Yes, I started high school here in the Cove, where I work now, actually.”

  “Wait, so were you the same year as Grace?”

  “Yes.” I feel a blush creeping up my neck because high-school-Holly was not great.

  “So we went to the same high school for a year?” He’s looking at me with a grin on his face.

  “I, uh, I suppose we did.”

  “Huh.” His gaze drifts away as he thinks. “Man, I was such a dick back then.”

  “You were?” I’m surprised he remembers himself that way.

  “Yeah. I was so selfish, so careless. Man, I hope this baby takes after you.” He tosses another piece of clothing into the little hamper.

  “Oh, I was a mess back then.”

  He stares at me again, the stare he has that makes me feel like he can see right into my brain and read my every thought.

  “So what saved you, your grandma?”

  “My grandma…and books.” The geeky confession makes the color creep up into my cheeks again. When I risk a glance, it’s to find him smiling at me all soft and sweet.

  “Tell me how.”

  “How what?” I’m embarrassed and start picking at the corner of the box.

  “How books saved you, and is that why you chose to become a librarian?”

  I take a minute to gather my thoughts, twisting a curl that’d slipped from my braid as I do it.

  “Books just helped me escape, you know? When I felt overwhelmed and sad and hated myself, I could read a book and feel hope and peace and safe. My therapist was constantly urging me to make friends, find connections with other kids my age…she just didn’t get it. I had these fictional friends, these people who felt what I felt, ugly and afraid and powerless, and they were able to be happy, to solve their problems, to grow stronger.”

  My scalp is starting to hurt where I’ve been tugging on my hair, so I let go and pick at the box in my hands, instead.

  “And as I got older and worked through therapy, I was able to wean myself off my book dependency a bit to live in the real world, but I’ve never forgotten. I knew before I even started college, that my future career would revolve around books, and I thought that, as a librarian, maybe I could reach out to kids at the same time. I was lucky to get the position here. I’d been working at the public library in Hammer Beach when it opened up, I applied immediately, and, yeah, have been at the high school ever since.”

  “So what did you end up getting your degree in?” He’s relaxed his body now, all the articles of clothing having been de-tagged, and his back is leaning against the crib, legs bent, arms resting loose against his knees.

  “Well, I got a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature and a Master’s in Library Science concurrently. Ultimate book nerd, right here,” I inform him, raising my arm.

  His smile is affectionate now. Ah, the many smiles of Dean Slade.

  “Did you ever think about going to school?” I ask him, ready to steer the attention away from me.

  “I did.”

  “What?” I stop rocking, stunned.

  “It took me a long time, but I went to school between deployments, did some of the courses online.”

  “What did you get your degree in?” I’m feeling all warm and lusty.

  “I have a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and a Master’s in Social Work. I did my thesis on the effects of multiple combat-related deployments on PTSD and how that can affect a veteran’s transition back into society. One could say I had a personal, vested interest in the topic.”

  I can’t remember ever seeing Dean looking embarrassed, but I think he is now. I also can’t remember ever being so turned on.

  “I’ve never been more attracted to you as I am right now,” I confess, before I can think better of it.

  “What?” I’ve ruffled him, but he recovers quickly, grinning. “I’ve been taking off my shirt for weeks trying to impress you and all I had to do was talk about my degrees?”

  “You were trying to impress me?” I ask, grabbing a gift bag and using it to fan myself.

  “Well, there’s no one else here to see, but your cat.”

  “I thought you were just hot.”

  “Hot for you.” He lifts an eyebrow, slipping comfortably into confident-Dean.

  “No!” I squeak, my blush taking over every part of me. I’m now using the gift bag to hide my face.

  “A woman who’s hot for college nerds, I should’ve known.” He’s laughing, and based on the rustling of tissue paper, probably standing up. I, on the other hand, am frozen in mortification.

  “I’m not hot for college nerds, I just appreciate a well-educated man,” I say from behind my gift bag. He’s still laughing.

  “And I, a well-educated woman.” He’s nearby now, I can tell. When I feel the hair on his legs brush against my knees, I know he’s real close.

  “Come on, Mama, I’m gonna clean up, but first, I want you on the couch, we got TV to watch.” I reluctantly lower the gift bag, but totally avoid his eyes, because I know I cannot get out of this rocking chair on my own.

  I lift my hands, while keeping my eyes on his knees, and let him help pull me to standing. When I’m steady on my feet, he tips my chin so that I can no longer avoid his face.

  “For the record, I’ve never been more attracted to you, either,” he says quietly, “a little more every day, I think.”

  And, that’s when I turn to goo, like Slimer from Ghostbuster’s, I am a blob of gooey ectoplasm.

  “Come on,” he tugs me forward, “you want another piece of cake while we watch?”

  Oh, come on, he’s offering me a second piece of cake too? Will there ever be another man who knows a quicker way to my heart?!

  “I would love more cake,” I answer, the pounding of my heart pushing me forward.

  And when he deposits me on the couch, covers me with a blanket (even going so far to tuck my feet in), kisses the top of my head before sauntering to the kitchen, it’s confirmed: I am a stupid goner for stupid Dean Slade.

  Chapter 40

  Holly

  It’s Thursday again (they just seem to keep rolling around, these days and weeks) and Maya is over making me dinner. She’d asked me what I wanted, I’d answered bean and cheese burritos, she informed me “You are such a white girl, I offer to cook you whatever authentic Mexican meal you want, and you pick boring-ass bean and cheese burritos.” To which I responded, “What, your beans are good.” She rolled her eyes, and now here we are, Maya cooking for me in the kitchen, me, feet up at the table, scrolling through social media on my iPad.

  “Gah, these pregnant women are all so cute. I should’ve been more like this,” I say, turning the screen around to show Maya a pic of a pregnant lady doing a yoga handstand.

  “Holly, could you even do a handstand like that when you weren’t pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “Then shut up.”

  “They just make me feel like I’m failing at pregnancy. I mean, look at her!” I turn the screen around to show her another gorgeous and limber pregnant lady, but she slaps the iPad down to the table without even taking a glance.

  “Stop it,” she orders, dropping a plate with a giant burrito on it in front of me.

  “I can’t.” I pat the tightly wrapped delight and pick my tablet back up. “Was I supposed to do some sort of maternity photo shoot?”

  “No, you’re not ‘supposed to’,” she says, slipping into a chair across the table from me, a much smaller burrito on her plate. My eyes flit from her dinner and back to mine. Perhaps this burrito is why even my leggings feel tight these days? I mean, I thought those things had an endless supply of stretch to them, but no.

  “Holly, you know these women represent about two percent of pregnant ladies out there in the world, and that the other ninety-eight percent are sitting around with cankles and hemorrhoids, right?”
>
  “Mmm, I guess.”

  “And, sister, seriously, you are one of the cutest pregnant women I’ve ever seen. I mean, your belly’s so big and your body’s so tiny, you’re like a cute little preggo cartoon character.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about that assessment, Maya,” I tell her before taking a ginormous bite of my burrito, delicious beans and Mexican cheese squishing out the side.

  “Aye,” Maya watches, a look of revulsion on her face. “That’s one way to do it, I guess.”

  “So good, Maya, thank you,” I respond with a smile and a mouth full of food.

  “I was thinking,” she says, drying her hands on a kitchen towel after doing my dishes (yes, people, she cooked me dinner and did the dishes, I absolutely owe this woman), “We should do one of those maternity photo shoots.”

  “Huh?” is my intelligent response.

  “Yeah, I want to remind you of the amazing thing your body is doing right now by dressing you up, doing your hair and makeup, and taking your pictures.”

  “Ehhhh, I don’t know.”

  “Girl, don’t you remember standing in that dressing room waxing poetic about ‘the cutest baby bump ever’,” she says, air-quotes and all. “I need to get you back there.”

  She sits primly on the edge of the couch next to me, her hands in her lap, still holding the kitchen towel.

  “I do feel a bit like an elephant seal,” I say. “Remember when we took your kids up north to see them a couple of summers ago, the way they’d heave their giant, blubbery bodies around on the sand, and then collapse with a great huff in exhaustion?” I stick out a thumb and point it at myself. “Hashtag, me.”

  “Stop it.” She grabs my hand and pushes it down. “The talking down about yourself and the hashtag thing, just stop all of it.”

  “Alright, let’s do this, but no nudey pictures.”

  “Why not? I did it for my hubby and he loved them.” She stands with an extra little bip in her bop.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, honey, you call them boudoir photos and they’re sexy as fuck.”

  “Huh. There is so much I don’t know about the world,” I say in wonder.

  Forty minutes later, I’m standing in front of my bedroom mirror wearing a vintage, satin, soft pink dressing gown, (with undergarments still on to cover my lady bits), my hair is parted deep to the side and hangs down my back in soft waves; Maya had dug out one of my (also vintage) beaded hair combs and pulled back my hair on one side. My eyes were smoky, my cheeks blushy, and my lips were a deep red. I was effin’ gorgeous. The dressing gown was a perfect choice because it clipped closed just under my cleavage, and to the side, with a sparkly brooch clasp and then opened again at my belly, but had a full enough skirt to not expose things I didn’t want to expose.

  “Oh, honey,” Maya breathes out, taking a step back, hands pressed together at her chin. “Do you see it now?”

  I did see it. “Yes,” I confirm.

  She steps out of the room to get her phone, and when she’s out of the room, I spread the dressing gown apart so my belly is on full display. I have some stretch marks, being so fair-skinned, it was inevitable, but for the most part, my stomach is smooth and round. You can even still see some of my light tummy freckles. I rub a hand from top to bottom affectionately and my little fruit responds with a nudge.

  “Alright, Mamacita, where shall we do this?”

  The next hour is consumed with poses and camera clicks (of the iPhone variety), background changes, and even a wardrobe change. I feel a little silly, but also, I’m having fun. When we’re done and my face is washed clean and I’m back in my pajamas, I hug Maya tight and thank her.

  “It’s what we do for each other, girl.”

  The printed photos are in my mailbox the next morning, and much to my mortification, Dean finds them first.

  “What’s this?” He asks, dropping the rest of the mail on the coffee table in front of me. I know what they are as soon as his movements freeze and his eyes go wide.

  “Noooo,” I screech, making a grab for them. However, my elephant seal status bars me from coming anywhere near his hands.

  “Mama, holy fucking shit.” I can’t exactly read his expression, I feel like it’s rather presumptuous to assume his look is one of awe, but- “Wait, who took these pictures of you?”

  I want to cry, I’m so embarrassed, I’m dying so hard behind this pillow over my face.

  “Holly, who?” His question is firm and I answer reflexively.

  “Maya,” I cry out from behind my fluffy fortress.

  He goes silent after that and after a minute (okay, probably less), my curiosity wins and I pull the pillow down just enough to peek over. He’s staring at one picture after another-jeez, how many are there-with such concentration his skin has wrinkled between his eyes. When he’s finished, he looks up and catches my one eye, drops the photos onto the table, gets on his knees, and wedges himself between my legs as much as he can with the giant baby barrier in the way.

  “Mama.” His voice is so gentle and sweet. I feel a tug at the pillow in front of my face and reluctantly let it go, keeping my eyes closed. His hands creep up my thighs and onto my belly.

  “It’s so stupid and embarrassing,” I say, my voice awkwardly loud. “I was looking at dumb pictures of hot pregnant chicks on Instagram and it was Maya’s idea and she did my makeup and hair and dressed me up and took my photos.”

  I feel his hands move over my stomach, sliding back down to the hem of my t-shirt and now they’re on my bare skin.

  “Holly, they’re beautiful pictures.”

  I take a deep breath and roll my lips in between my teeth to prevent blurting.

  “You are beautiful.”

  I feel his lips touch the center of my belly.

  “I feel like an animal when I look at you, when I look at those photos,” he says, his voice low, growly, “this is mine,” another lip press, “I did this to you,” and another-oof, is it hot in here?

  I open my eyes and he’s looking up at me, his lips against my pale, freckled belly. Holy shmoly, he actually looks animalistic, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them, feral even.

  “What do you think about your educated man now?”

  He presses his hands into the couch and pushes himself up to come face to face with me, his body bent over mine, caging me in. He’s so close, I could kiss him with a mere purse of my lips.

  I press my hands to his cheeks, thumbs brushing against his lips, and whisper the words of Rumi, my eyes holding his.

  “I want a trouble-maker for a lover, blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame, who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate, who burns like fire on the rushing sea.”

  His mouth parts just enough to bite the tip of my thumb.

  And I sooo owe Maya for talking me into taking those photos.

  Chapter 41

  Dean

  The doc said absolutely no sex.

  Like, not even third base stuff. For her.

  Which sucks.

  Bad.

  Obviously, I’m attracted to Holly, but after seeing those pictures of her that her friend took, getting naked time with her is almost all I think about.

  And it’s not just seeing how fucking beautiful she looked in those pictures, it’s the way she’s been looking at me these days, the way her voice sounds when we talk on the phone at night (and we talk about everything, more than I’ve ever talked about with another person, ever-including all the shrinks I’ve seen over the years), the way she laughs and makes me laugh almost every day. It’s like she might…like me. Fucking finally.

  And I know I’m making assumptions as to Holly’s wanting to have sex with me, but she did before, and I’m pretty sure she’d do it again. She might say it’s my education that turns her on, but I see her watching me when I strip down after a run. I’m pretty sure she’s at least physically attracted to me, which I can work with.

  But it’s a moot point.

  B
ecause…no sex.

  For now.

  I mean, the baby has to come out eventually, and then it’s game on.

  Chapter 42

  Holly

  Sunday mornings have always been my favorite. It was the one day I allowed myself to loll in bed and stay in my pajamas until noon. And now, instead of him taking off early to go surfing or for a run, I have Dean to loll with me. His body is warm while I’m always cold these days. Spring in our part of the world is chilly, chillier than the fall and most of the winter. The marine layer hangs low and thick in the sky all morning and the wind picks up and whips through the Cove in the afternoons. Perfect kind of weather for staying in bed.

  “What do you want to do today?” He asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  I’m on my left side (again), my knees tucked up as close to my body as I can get them. My pants don’t fit over my belly and neither does my t-shirt, so I have a cold patch of tummy that I wrap my arms around.

  “Come here,” he says, wrapping an arm around my back and hugging me close. His body is like a heater and I hum into his warmth.

  “Can we go over the plan again?” Dean asks a few minutes later.

  “Do we have to?”

  “I need to, Mama.”

  “Fine,” I huff. “If I go into labor, first I call your parents. If they’re not available, I call Red, if he’s not available, Grace. However, if the contractions are five minutes apart or less, I obviously call the doctor, and if I had it my way, I’d call Maya, but apparently, she doesn’t make the top three on your list even though she’s my best friend.”

  Okay, that last part isn’t in Dean’s plan, but I feel the need to insert my two cents, same as he feels the need to go over what I’m to do if he’s not here when I got into labor ten million times.