by Wendy Owens
“When will it be ready?” he presses with a smile.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how far are you?”
“I think it should be done in a few more chapters.” There is a bit of excitement in my voice.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’ve been writing every second I get.”
“I know.” He grins. “I like it when you write down here. I get to watch you.”
“You watch me write? That’s kind of creepy.”
He laughs. “I suppose. But it’s really fun to see the faces you make.”
“I don’t make faces when I write,” I huff in defense.
He laughs some more. “Oh yeah, you do. Sometimes you have this smirk ... I always wonder if you’re writing naughty bits.”
“Hey!” I start laughing right along with him.
“Is it funny because I’m right?” he asks, leaning in with a devilish grin.
“It’s funny because one of the chapters I skipped over writing was what you might call a naughty bit. I couldn’t bring myself to write it.”
“Perhaps you just need a little research,” he growls, one lip lifting up wickedly.
“Holden!” I squeal in protest, though now all I can think about is that exact thing—researching a steamy scene for my book with him.
Leaf strums at his guitar a couple times to ensure it’s efficiently tuned, then begins to play a song I’ve never heard before. The sound of the music drowns out my laughter. Holden stands, extending a hand in my direction.
“What?” I mouth, assuming he can’t hear me. He leans in close, his lips touching my ear. I shake for a moment.
“Dance with me.” He pulls away, and I immediately begin shaking my head. One of the more recent developments of this child-growing exercise is that I’ve developed a waddle. It might be the most unattractive thing imaginable.
In a flash, he takes the MacBook out of my hands and places it on the side table. I’m still frantically shaking my head, but this doesn’t deter him. He grasps my hands and pulls me into a standing position.
“I can’t,” I shout over the noise of the pub.
“You can,” he disagrees and pulls me a few feet away from the chairs. My stomach is so large making dancing face-to-face awkward and impossible. My face goes flushed, and I resist the urge to laugh.
He guides my body, and I’m now helpless, unable to resist. He turns me to the side, and we’re in a tight embrace. I start to giggle. I can’t help it. I feel my belly pressed against him, and I can only imagine how ridiculous we look. He doesn’t seem to care. The smile on his face is from ear to ear.
The Holden I knew when I first came back was hurt. He was sad. There was a brokenness I had caused in him. This, though? The man I’d seen reemerge in recent weeks, was none of those things. He was the Holden I’d first met. The man who exuded curiosity, wonder, and joy.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he whispers in my ear.
I pull away and look in his eyes; there’s a sparkle to them, and I want to go for a swim in the vast blueness. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. He breaks our dancing, and holding my hand, he pulls me toward the kitchen. At the last minute, he darts to the right, pulling me into the storage room.
The music follows us until he closes the door, and suddenly all the sound is muffled except for our heavy breathing.
“What are you doing?” I ask with a sideways glance.
“Do you remember the day you were upstairs cleaning, and I kissed you?” he asks. My heart stops in my chest. I realize I’m not breathing. Am I going to fall to the floor, completely deprived of oxygen? And then, as if paddles full of electricity hit my chest, my heart begins to beat again. In fact, it’s racing, and I gasp for air. I can’t say a word. I just nod my head. He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me. Oh, dear God, he’s going to kiss me again.
“Everything changed for me that day,” he continues.
The conversation is making me uncomfortable, so I do what I always do in these situations: I try and break it up with humor. “Well, I know I’m a good kisser, but I don’t know if I’d call it life altering.”
He grins at me. One of those where I know he’s thinking how adorable I am. It makes me blush, and I shift my gaze around the room. Anywhere but in those eyes.
“No, goof,” he continues. “I felt inspired. Here you are, your life is in chaos ...”
“Thanks for noticing,” I joke again.
“No!” he exclaims. “I’m serious. You have so much going on right now, yet you managed to find the courage to do what you love. You’re writing that book.”
“It’s not that big a deal, and I wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t encourage me,” I say.
“Well, I think it’s a huge deal,” he chimes. “And I ended up creating a new brew because of it. That night after we kissed, I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t get you off my mind so I got up and went out to my brew shed.”
“Please, don’t continue this story if you did inappropriate things in a shed.” Damn it, Annabelle. Shut up already; you’re not funny.
He pauses, flashing me a surprised stare, and then tripping over a few words continues. “Uh, no ... I ... I went out and brewed a new batch of beer that was inspired by you.”
“What?”
He steps to one side, revealing a keg that was hiding behind him. On the top of it is a sticker that reads, the luckiest brown ale.
I lunge forward, shoving him hard. "Shut up!" I exclaim in excitement. "You did not."
“I did. Now, I know you can’t try it until after the baby comes. But I wanted you to see what you do to the people around you.”
I place a hand over my mouth. Damn it! Am I going to cry? The man brewed some damn beer, and I think it’s going to make me cry. It must be the baby. Don’t cry, Annabelle!
There’s a sharp kick inside my stomach. I clutch at my belly, expelling all my air.
“Are you all right?” he asks, stepping forward and grabbing my arm. His excitement bleeds away into worry.
I laugh. “Yeah, the little bugger just likes to remind me she’s here.” Without thinking, I take his other hand and place his open palm on the curve of my stomach. I watch his face, waiting for the baby to make her presence—
There she is. This time it isn’t sharp. It’s the smooth glide of her heel across my skin. His eyes double in size. “Oh my God,” he breathes the words.
“I know.” I nod. “I know.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I’m sitting at the bar, flipping through the pages of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It was a gift from Bea, and I’ve been obsessing over the information since I received it. I’ve come to the conclusion that this is probably information women shouldn’t know before they give birth. I’m perfectly ready to refuse to go through with the entire ordeal at this point.
I’m thirty-four weeks along, but that isn’t the chapter that scares me. What’s terrifying me is the end of the book. The actual birth process doesn’t sound like a positive experience whatsoever. What I can’t figure out for the life of me is why, after women have one child, would they ever go and get pregnant again?
“What’s it say is happening with the kid right now?” Holden asks, leaning on his forearms, twisting his neck so he can better see the pictures.
I flip the pages, finding the correct section and read out loud. “Your baby is weighing in somewhere around five pounds and could be as tall as twenty inches. The vernix, or white coating protecting your baby’s skin, is getting thicker.”
“Yum,” he groans.
“Hey, you’re the one who asked.” I laugh, skimming my fingers across the page, trying to find where I left off. “Some baby-related developments include, tiny fingernails, and for boys, the testicles are dropping into the scrotum.”
“Aw, if it’s a boy, he is becoming a man this week.” Holden laughs.
I close the book and stare into nothingness. “Don’t
tell Bea, but I think this might be the worst gift I’ve ever received.” Then I join him in his laughter. A minute passes, and I fall silent. The words from the birth chapter keep going through my mind.
Knowing that in six weeks this life is going to be here is starting to freak me out. I can feel myself slipping into a panic attack every time it crosses my mind. As I read through the birthing section, it explains that I should be making a birth plan, managing my labor pain, and lays out all the things one needs to know about C-sections. C-section? The thought of this has never crossed my mind ... until now. A blade slicing through my abdomen while I’m awake.
Without a word, I shove my book to the side of the bar and walk over to the supply closet. I step inside and close the door behind me. The last thing I want is for the patrons to see me starting to hyperventilate. I desperately need a moment away in a cool and calm environment. I lower myself onto one of the crates, inhaling deep and then pushing all the air from my lungs.
I hear the door open. Holden is standing, looking at me. I glance up and then quickly back down at the ground. “Really?” he taunts.
“What?” I reply, shrugging my shoulders innocently.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The closet feels very small all of the sudden. “You walk away from me without a word, and then come sit in a closet? What’s going on with you?”
I stand up and straighten out the maxi skirt I’m wearing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about; I only wanted a quiet minute to collect my thoughts, but clearly that’s too much to ask for.” I make the snark extra obvious so he knows I’m only having some fun.
He takes a step closer. I’m beginning to feel uneasy about the distance—or lack thereof—between us. “Just needed to collect your thoughts, huh? I’m having a few thoughts of my own.”
I snicker. “Oh yeah?”
He closes the space even more, so there are now mere inches dividing us. “Yeah.”
“Like what?” I ask in a soft voice. I can feel his breath in the air around me. I think I have a pretty good idea what his thoughts are, but I can’t help asking. I want to hear him say it for some reason.
“I can’t quit thinking about kissing you,” he confesses.
I know I should make an excuse and duck out of the room before things go too far, but it’s like my feet are set in concrete. My cheeks are hot, and I’m smiling before I can stop myself. “Is that right?” I tease.
“I won’t do it unless you tell me I can, though,” he begins. He is now only centimeters from my mouth. My eyes can’t look anywhere but into his. “Can I kiss you, Belle?”
I swallow hard. There’s a battle in my head. The cautious me, the soon-to-be-mother is saying no, but there’s a lustful side though, a side that is telling me to leap on him and show him why I’m the most amazing thing that will ever happen to him. I choose not to say a word in response. Instead I nod. It’s a nod I know I can’t take back.
I can only see the corners of his mouth as he grins. My heart is racing. Closing my eyes, I decide I can’t watch. My whole body is aching in anticipation, and I can’t figure out for the life of me what I’m doing. I know better than to allow this to happen, but I just want it so much. In a moment when I’m terrified about what’s ahead of me with the birth, I want to feel something so perfect that it makes me forget about everything else.
He’s moving so slowly; the first thing I feel is the tickle on my cheek. When we kissed last he had only been equipped with a short stubble, which has now filled into a full and luxurious beard. That slight dent in his bottom lip met me next, and I think to myself: if he goes any slower I might actual burst into a million pieces. I can’t wait, letting the promise of pleasure linger anymore. I push up on my toes, pressing our lips together, and in a second, his hand is entangled in my hair.
I’m not thinking that I haven’t washed it in four days. I’m not thinking about the child in my stomach. I’m not thinking that this is completely impractical and probably borderline inappropriate. No, what I’m thinking is in this moment the burning I feel, the little explosion; it must be a small piece of what heaven feels like. I reach one hand up to his shoulder. The muscle is hard and tense. I lean into him as my legs begin to wobble.
Our lips part, and I take a step back. That crooked, one-sided smile is staring at me. “Thank you,” he whispers.
I feel my eyes grow wet.
“Belle? What’s wrong?” he questions, but I don’t answer him. “Was it the kiss? It doesn’t have to mean anything. It can be a nice kiss, if that’s all you have right now.”
I shake my head, turn around, and sit back down on the crate. “That’s not it.”
He moves closer and places a hand on my shoulder. “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” I insist.
He doesn’t believe me; he’s down on his knees, staring in my eyes. It’s so hard to say no to those eyes. “You can tell me.”
“I’m scared.” I surprise myself with my words.
His brow furrows. “Because of us?”
“That’s definitely scary, but no.”
“Then what?”
“I’m scared about the birth. All I can think is that I want my mom. Which makes no sense since she is a cold and unfeeling woman.”
“She’s your mom, Belle.”
“She never acted like it.”
“I’m sure she loves you. Maybe she just doesn’t know how to show you.”
I sigh heavily. “That woman never wanted to be a part of anything, and this baby isn’t going to be any different.”
“Don’t you think you should at least give her the opportunity?”
“Are you kidding me? I haven’t even told her I’m pregnant. She’s going to be so pissed at me when she finds out. That’s one conversation I don’t need to have,” I ramble, the idea completely panicking me.
“Would it be better for her to find out after the baby is here?”
“No, but—” I can’t say anything. He’s right. The longer I wait the worse this is going to be. I’ve been avoiding their calls for the past six weeks, and every week I wait will only make my mother angrier.
Holden stands up, and as he does, he presses his lips against my forehead. When he pulls away he walks to the door, and over his shoulder says, “It’s your choice, beautiful, but I think you should call her.”
The anxiety inside of me is building each time the phone rings. My entire body feels like it’s vibrating. This is the conversation I’ve been dreading since I was in Greece. This is going to be the moment I tell my parents that not only have I quit my job, left my fiancé, but I’m also having a baby ... on my own. “Annabelle?” It’s my father’s. I hear the worry. This I regret. He’s a sweet man; the only fault I ever found in him was that he never stood up to my mother on my behalf. Let’s be real—he never stood up to anyone about anything.
“Dad.” My voice is shaking.
“Are you okay?” he asks with a panicked tone.
“Dad, calm down, I’m fine.”
“You’re mom has been going out of her mind with worry.”
“I bet,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hang on, let me get her.” I hear static against the phone as he muffles it and shouts for my mother. “She’s coming, wait just a minute.” “I’m not going anywhere, it’s fine. Have you been getting my texts, Dad?” I ask while we wait.
“It’s Annabelle, she’s on the phone.” He ignores me as he speaks to my mother. I hear the phone click, and I know they’re on speaker when her voice comes across as well.
“Annabelle, is that you?” she questions.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Oh, thank God,” she moans. I’m surprised by her response. She actually seems to have been concerned about my well-being.
“Mom, didn’t you guys get my texts?”
“You mean those vague messages that told us nothing? Yeah, thanks.” And there she is again, the woman I know so well
.
“Look, I know this has been hard on everyone, but I’ve had some things I needed to work out.”
“Where are you?” my father asks. He still sounds just as panicked as when he initially answered.
“I’m fine.”
“He didn’t ask how you are, he asked where you are.” Mother snapped. I wanted to scream. This type of behavior was what made me move out immediately the summer after graduation.
“I’m in England,” I answer, regretting it the moment the words leave my mouth.
“England?” she exclaims.
“Look, I’m fine, I got a job here.”
“What are you talking about? How do you have a job there? None of this is making sense,” my mother is rambling. I’ve been out from under her roof for seven years, yet she still insists on treating me like a child.
“Yes, look, it’s hard to explain. I’m working at an inn in Hampshire.”
“An inn? What on Earth are you doing at an inn? Annabelle, you need to come home. Jack is sick with worry.”
It’s like all the oxygen has been sucked out of my lungs—a sucker punch to the gut. My mother is still talking, but I can’t hear or say anything. A white noise consumes me. I see spots, and I feel light headed. Jack, she said his name. My parents have spoken to him. The first sound to return is my heartbeat, pumping in my ears. The next is my mother shouting.
“Anna! How could you not tell us? Annabelle? Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“How could you not tell us about the baby, Anna? It’s like we don’t even know you anymore.”
“Mom, please, you have to promise me you won’t tell Jack where I am,” I plead. I’m frantic now.
“He deserves to be a part of this child’s life, Anna, no matter what he’s done.”
I hate the way she says my name over and over again in a conversation. It’s how she has established control in our relationship since I was a child.
“Mom!” I’m shouting now. It’s the only way to get her attention. “Listen to me! Jack threatened to take this baby from me if I didn’t take him back.”