by Crowe, Liz
Lori opened her eyes again and stared at the same ceiling, the same four walls of her bedroom and felt the same dull pain in her chest—the space Garrett would always occupy. That distinctly empty area hurt so badly it put her through periods of breathless dismay alternating with murky black bouts of pure fury. He had a fucking nerve, just … dying on her like that.
She put a hand on the hard bump that had developed under her shirt. A weird feathery sensation brushed against her hand. She gasped and sat. It happened again—a sort of eyelash like flutter, the bat of a butterfly’s wings, the whisper of leaves against a window.
“Oh.” She stood, hoping to dispel the thing. To make it stop. To ignore the inevitable. The nausea that had gripped her for weeks had released its chokehold. Her appetite had not returned. She was lucky to remember to eat. And did it lately mainly to feed the thing inside her. The baby, she forced herself to call it that. It. The one thing she had of Garrett, but she found herself hating It, resentful that It was here and he was not.
But, until this moment, she could think of It as just that. As nothing. As something that made her want to puke twenty four seven. As the thing that made her dizzy, made her trip and fall. Made Garrett rush to the airport. Made him fucking dead. The thing inside her had no form, function or purpose. It was just there and essentially not there. Like clouds. Or fog. Or poisonous gas.
But now. She gasped and gripped her stomach again acknowledging its new and not insubstantial heft under her palm. It had certainly sprung to life in the last thirty minutes.
She shut her eyes and let tears flow. How in the hell did she even have tears left? Could a person cry themselves dry?
She kept remembering Garrett’s house the day after the complete torture of the memorial service. The overwhelming memories had suffocated her as she drove up, parked, gripped the steering wheel. The pain coiled like a live thing, beating in her chest. How could she possibly walk up there? Go in that door? The “before and after Garrett” division in her brain had already cut a deep groove. She did not want to go near it.
She’d startled when someone knocked on her car window. A small girl with Garrett’s deep green eyes had stood there, hands on her hips. “Who are you?” She’d demanded. Lori had climbed out, made her apologizes, stumbled up to the front door, nearly gagging on the throat closing agony of need for him. She’d rushed through introductions refusing to commit his sisters’ names to memory, agreed to arrange for the piano to be removed, and wandered into the kitchen. When she saw the photo pinned under a magnet on the fridge she’d nearly fainted.
The sisters had sobbed a lot, laughed some, then sobbed again. A strange emotion resembling righteous jealousy had surged through her. Those women had known him for his nearly forty one years. She’d gritted her teeth at the totally inappropriate emotion and glared at the picture. Then had slumped against the counter and tried not to crumple the image of Garrett’s laughing face in her fist. God damn him to hell and back. What was he thinking? Since when did he text and drive? Christ.
Lori recalled the exact moment when the lights started to flicker at the edges of her vision. One of the sisters had handed her a glass of water. Lori had stared at like it had been a vial of arsenic. “I’m pregnant.” Her voice had cracked, broken, and she’d sobbed as the women gathered her in, soothed her, promised to stay in touch, to give her anything she wanted out of the house. As long as she got rid of that piano of course.
She’d wiped her eyes. “Garrett told me one of your daughters used it. Liked it.” The women had looked down, but one of them met her eyes. “Take it.” She mumbled. “I can’t. I just…can’t.”
She’d rushed out of his house, photo shoved in her pocket, nausea rising, making her sweat, needing fresh air. A hand gripped her arm as she reached for the front door. “Lori. Stop, please.”
She’d turned, her vision completely obscured by yet more fucking tears.
“Here,” the woman pressed a business card into her hand. “We loved him so much. We really want, I mean, we need to know his child, if that’s okay with you.” Lori had nodded at the unnamed sister, and jumped in her car without a word, like a coward. Some part of her knew they knew—that she had betrayed their brother her last days here in Michigan. She had hidden at home since.
She emerged only to go to the doctor, to listen to the eerie swoosh-swoosh of a heartbeat, to watch as the doctor’s lips moved saying words about eating, exercise, water, Lamaze classes, all sorts of shit Lori refused to accept. Then she’d go home, gulp down some tea and collapse, letting her tangled dreams of Garrett, Eli, babies, hop vines, breweries, tumble around in her head until thirst forced her up into the kitchen again.
The wild movements under her hand continued, followed by a rush of painful, ravenous hunger so intense she moaned. She rose and stumbled into the kitchen the exact moment a gloved hand punched through her back door fumbling around for the lock and pushing the door open. She frowned at the sight of Eli, the one who still lived, standing in her messy kitchen, judging her.
She watched him breathe in, breathe out taking in what he saw. Her kitchen looked like the aftermath of a bad college party. Her wild, dirty hair lay in snarls around her face. She floated in sweats, the hard bump under her hand hidden by folds of fleece. Her voice was creaky from disuse.
“Get out.” She muttered, making for the fridge. “Now.”
“No.” He stood, arms crossed over his chest. “Let’s get this cleaned up. Time to get it together.”
“Fuck you. Go away.” She pulled out a suspicious looking container of yogurt, then tossed it in the bin. Her stomach growled so loud the dog whined at the sound. She grabbed one of the many containers of food people had brought her, tossed it in the microwave and poured a huge glass of milk. The thought of milk made her salivate so hard she was concerned that spit might leak out of her mouth. She gulped it down. Poured another glass. “Why are you still here,” she muttered, facing away from him. “I don’t need you.”
“Tough shit.” He pushed her aside, and started piling dishes in the washer, using his phone to call for a large pepperoni pizza and salad at the same time. She gripped the counter, let the glass slip from her fingers, as sobs ripped from her, surprising them both. He caught the glass, held her, ran hands down her hair and back.
Finally she pulled away, embarrassed. He stood, looking forlorn. The dog wound around their legs making worried noises. “I miss him, too, Lori. Not as much as you, but I do. Now, let’s get on with this, shall we?” He turned away and kept cleaning leaving her to her thoughts, anger, fear, and the continual whispery movements inside her.
Chapter Two
Eli leaned back in his chair and watched her. The extreme tight feeling in his chest had not dissipated even after he’d convinced her to shower while they waited for the food to arrive; not even after she’d devoured nearly half the pizza and salad in minutes. If anything he felt even more stressed. The sum total of his experience with a pregnant woman was less than zero, and the sight of how her body had already changed in only a few weeks had startled him. He gulped as the too-large man’s oxford cloth shirt kept gapping, revealing the curve of a full breast and the incredible new reality of her stomach.
He shifted, mentally berating himself for getting a hard-on over a pregnant woman who was his boss and looked like three miles of bad road to hell. He put a hand over hers, clamping down on the urge to hold her close. A chill ran down his spine when she looked at him. Her gaze held nothing but rage, and it packed a wallop. He sat back, rubbing his jaw, clawing fingers through his beard.
“Sorry.” She muttered, looking down, settling her hand on her stomach again. “Thanks for the food and…,” she stood, her gaze blank again. “You can go now.”
Eli let his temper get the best of him. “Listen, Princess, you have to stop the wallowing. It is not good for you. If you don’t give a shit about yourself, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got someone else to think about now.”
She
scoffed, and waved him away. “It’s not your concern.”
Eli stayed seated, shocked at her reaction. He thought she’d be happy to have something of Garrett, something that would always be theirs, but obviously his female-decoding skills remained lame. Besides, the kid could easily be his.
He gulped at that thought, and watched as the dog followed Lori out of the room. “Your dad needs you back.” He called out, unwilling to go to her, afraid he’d slap her silly, or kiss her, which would undoubtedly be worse. He gripped the soda can, furious at her lack of reply. “Does he matter?” She leaned in the doorway, staring at him, silent. “Huh, Lori? Have you forgotten that you have other people who need you?” She glared at him. He stood, whistled for the dog and turned away. “Forget it.”
“I can’t go there, Eli. I just can’t.”
“Yeah, well, lucky you, I suppose, that you don’t have to.” He watched her face work its way through a myriad of emotion, ending with outrage. Good. I can cope with anger. “You need to get your ass back to work. The longer you wait, the harder it will….”
“You don’t know anything about this. You have no idea what I’m going through.” Her voice broke. More tears trickled down her face. Against everything in him advising “better judgment” he stood in front of her and brushed the tears with his lips wishing he could take it away.
“No, guess I don’t.” He started to move away. She grabbed his arm but he shook it off. If he stayed in her presence another minute not only would his cock explode, he’d hate himself forever for what he would have to do, what he wanted to do so badly his teeth ached. “I have to go.”
“Wait.”
He didn’t. The newly windowless door made a satisfying slam. By the time he’d gotten in his truck he realized he’d left the damn dog inside.
“Shit.” He looked up to the back porch. Lori stood, hand on Hopster’s head. The big stupid animal sat at her side, tongue lolling out, and Eli would swear the damn thing was laughing at him. He leaned over and popped the passenger door open, whistling. The dog jumped in, and Lori made her way down the steps and stood, hand on the door.
“Is my dad okay?” Her voice sounded so small, so unlike her. It made him furious and terrified all at once.
“Guess you could call him and ask.” He stared ahead and turned the key. “Anything else?”
“No.” She shut the door. He screeched out onto the street, cursing himself, his life, and the whole fucking mess. Not only did he miss his friend enough to keep him up nights, he wanted the woman his friend had loved, to erase that look of agony on her face, to run his hands all over her newly lush, ripe body. What was wrong with him? Jesus H. Christ. He sat in his own driveway, pounded the steering wheel a few times. Then ran inside for a cold shower, a quick jack off, anything to get her out of his head. To force away the feeling of useless fury he got when he thought about the baby—the one that could possibly be his.
Lori watched him peel out into the street, hand to her throat. Images of Garrett ghosted over her vision for the millionth time. She never thought she’d miss another human being so much even after her mother’s death. She had to get out, away from this house. Taking a deep breath, she stuck her feet into the first pair of boots she found, tugged on a coat and hat, and started walking. First around the block, then over to a nearby park, shuffling through a new snowfall, her breath coming in gasps, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Why had that dream been so clear, the feel of Garrett’s lips and body against and inside hers so real? She had been well on her way to being back in love with him. Why the exquisite torture of a dream in which the men in her life morphed into one? And then to awake to this—the numb sensation of complete, irredeemable loss that left her scraped raw.
Tears fell, froze, thawed. Finally after about an hour of random forward movement, she found herself facing the original Brockton Brewing building that now housed the Pub and a few offices. The new, more modern facility was tucked behind it, hidden by a small grove of trees her mother had ordered planted about a week before she found the lump in her breast.
Lori leaned against one of them and stared at her family’s brewery. Even on a Sunday it was busy, steam billowing from the exhaust stacks, several cars she recognized as warehouse workers and brewers tucked up against its side like kittens to a mama cat. She turned and observed the hustle and bustle of the pub, doing its usual late Sunday lunch crowd. Her knees shook, and the fluttery movement started under her coat again.
“Hey.” She yelped and whipped around at the sound of a voice. Her dad—no, some small reduced version of the huge, robust man she’d loved and fought with her whole life—stood there, bundled against the cold, hands in his pockets. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be,” he pointed helplessly at the general vicinity of her stomach.
Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck, the bulkiness of their coats and her body coming between them. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” He patted her back. She let go of him. He’d never been one for physical displays of affection except with her mother. She touched his bearded face. “I’m okay. I needed fresh air. Needed to come here.”
Ron Brockton stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Listen to me, Lorelei.” He gripped her arms, startling her. “You have to get a grip now. This is a horrible, terrible thing that has happened, but you are alive, just like I was after your mother died.” Lori gulped back tears. She remembered that, too. How her father never cried once, not in the hospital, not at the funeral, not later at home, as he bustled around and made sure she got fed, bathed, to school—lather, rinse, repeat—daily.
A memory from about a month after her mother’s funeral shot through her, dredged up from some forgotten corner of mourning in her psyche. She’d come to the old building after school where she was required to meet him and do her homework every day. It had been quiet, just a few secretaries sitting around filing their nails. She’d moved past them, grabbed a cola from the machine, and walked back to his large office. The door had been closed, which was odd. She’d hesitated, unsure what to do.
And then she heard it. A loud, gut wrenching sob. A hoarse voice calling her mother’s name. She’d put a hand on the doorknob, then turned away and bolted down the hallway, blinded by her own tears. Her father breaking down was absolutely not something she’d been prepared to handle. He was the rock, the center around which her small universe orbited. And, he never, ever cried.
She stared at him now. “Daddy, you have to let me have this. I have to get through it. If I don’t I’ll….” He tightened his grip on her arms.
“Stop.” In his anger, he’d switched to German. The sound of it made her shudder, remembering the strange language coming from Garrett’s lips in the dream that would not let her go. She shut her eyes. “Open your eyes Lorelei. I mean it. It is time to get on with your life and pay attention to the needs of those around you and the new life. How do you think Garrett would want you to act? Like a child? Pouting? Always feeling sorry for yourself?”
She wrenched out of his grasp and stumbled away. Leave it to her father to make her feel guilty for mourning the one man she’d loved and who was dead because of her. But something had settled in her chest at the sound of his practical, bossy German. A sudden whisper of movement against the back of her skin made her gasp as she yanked the brewery door open and stepped inside. The smells permeated her pores, lifted her up, made her smile. But she frowned at the sight that met her eyes. The place was a damn wreck.
She picked her way around the piles of tools, drywall, plumbing. Still numb with cold but warming from the inside out, she called for the brewery staff. She heard the harshness in her voice, but couldn’t stop it. A young man she recognized as Jace, the newest hire, and one Eli had bitched about to high heaven before she’d left for Germany. His long face was earnest and eager. He snapped his fingers and two assistants appeared, wiping hands or pulling off rubber gloves. “What the hell is all this mess?” She pointed to the stacks of constru
ction crap, and her lagering tanks, the new ones Garrett had talked them into buying sitting unconnected and useless. She shut her eyes. Shut him out. Shut it all out. She reopened them to face the chaos again. “Why are my tanks sitting here wasting space? Why isn’t there work going on today?”
“Uh, the construction guys don’t work on Sunday, Mrs. Hunter.” She glared at him. Was he an idiot or just baiting her. One of the young assistants elbowed him hard. “Oh, I mean, Ms. Brockton.” The sound of the back brewery door slamming shut made them all look up. Eli stared at their little tableau a minute, his eyes wide.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He looked at Lori. “And, why does it smell like something fucking died in my brewery?” The young brewer shifted from foot to foot. “You first.” He looked at Lori. She took a step back at the odd intensity of his gaze. Then crossed her arms.
“I’m wondering what the hell you’ve been doing in here. This place is a God-damned wreck.”
He frowned. “Yeah, well welcome the fuck to my world. Between keeping up with the new sales girls’ orders and trying to stay out of the way of the construction workers this place is bloody pandemonium.” He tossed his keys down. “Why do you think I’m in here on a Sunday?”
Lori’s chest constricted, visions of Garrett nearly bringing her to her already wobbly knees, but she straightened up. No. I’m done with that now. I have work to do. He’s gone. I can’t bring him back. Gulping down the urge to throw herself into Eli’s arms and cry like a baby, she frowned at him. “Well, lucky for me I stopped by too. Now, show me what’s happening. Give me the general contractor’s name and number. I’m calling him. He’s going to have to deal with me from now on.”
The ghost of a smile crossed Eli’s lips, then vanished as he turned to his staff, reaming them out collectively, leaving her to stare at his broad back. Stranding her with memories that suffocated, made her breathless, but that she forced under a fresh layer of resolve.