The Arrival of You

by Cranford, B.

  Lucas slammed hard into me one last time, his biceps quivering and his eyes clenched closed as he bit down hard on his lower lip and groaned—a sound so unerringly masculine that another ripple flittered across my body.

  Almost immediately, I felt every muscle in my body melt, relaxing against the mattress, as I sighed and closed my eyes, smiling because I felt like everything was perfect.

  Until I felt the press of Lucas’ forehead against mine, and I opened my eyes to see him looking back at me, intense but warm in a way that told me it wasn’t just a feeling.

  In that moment, everything was perfect.

  * * *

  “So, I . . . um, I might’ve cut off what you were going to say before,” I confessed, trying to look remotely remorseful as I popped myself on my side, head resting in my elbow. We’d stayed locked together for several minutes as the rush of what had happened sank in. Now, with my breathing returned to normal, I felt like maybe I should’ve paused before I attacked the man. “After you nodded, I mean.”

  “Cut off implies you let me speak at all, pretty girl. You just went straight for it like you couldn’t wait, and I’m not complaining. Not. At. All.” He punctuated the last three words with small kisses to my forehead, my nose, and my lips, before pulling me in to rest my head on his shoulder. “But if I was going to say anything, it would have just been that I was fucking happy you were back.”

  Smoothing a hand over his chest, appreciating each little bump of his abs, the sprinkling of chest hair that was springy and a little rough to the touch, I smiled. “Me too. But . . . that’s all?”

  “Did you need me to say something else? Because I’ll say whatever you want if you promise to stay.”

  “No. God, no. I don’t want you to say something you don’t mean just to keep me here.”

  I was already starting to pull back when his arm tightened around me. “Shit, no. That’s not what I mean, babe. Not at all.” He turned his head to press a kiss to my hair. “Love this hair, I swear to god. Sexiest thing about you.”

  My grin was small but genuine. My hair hadn’t always been my favorite feature but the older I got, the more I loved it and was proud of it. “Yeah?” I asked, shamelessly wanting to bask in his compliment.

  “Oh yeah. I’ll show you in a bit. Just need a little time to recover.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Bianca?” he asked hesitantly, the touch of vulnerability and uncertainty I heard there making me stiffen—no pun intended—before I relaxed and waited for him to speak. “I didn’t go to my parents. Before, when I left. Well, I mean, I did, but not right away. And actually, I half wish I hadn’t gone there at all.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say my parents are still attracted to one another.”

  “Oh, making out in the kitchen? I’ve walked in on my parents doing that too.”

  “Yeah, nah. Not kissing.” He cleared his throat. “Going at it on the kitchen table.”

  My eyes widened as the shock sank in, and when the laughter hit, it hit hard. I had to sit up just to be able to breathe, my hand clawing first at the sheet, then at Lucas while I tried to get the droll way he’d spoken out of my head, along with the visual he’d planted there.

  “Is this going to be like on the plane when you laughed for so long, I thought maybe I’d broken you?”

  Nodding shakily in reply, I braced for more waves of laughter. A tidal wave of them, washing over me until I was no longer laughing about his parents having sex in the kitchen, but about the ridiculousness of my life.

  The beautiful ridiculousness that brought me to this moment.

  Up the duff—still one of my favorite Aussie expressions—and in the arms of the man who’d managed to forgive me for ghosting him because I panicked.

  “So, since it doesn’t seem like you’re going to stop laughing,” he began, shifting so he was sitting up in the bed beside me, the sheet pooled in his lap. The sight of it made me realize I was topless, my boobs jiggling as my laughter became increasingly hysterical—a realization that did exactly nothing to quell my giggling.

  “O-oh, myyyy G-g-god,” I stuttered out, grabbing my chest to cover myself as tears, actual honest-to-god tears formed in my eyes.

  “I’m actually kind of glad you covered them, because I’m pretty sure you could’ve hypnotized me otherwise. They’re mesmerizing.”

  I snorted, which made me pause for two milliseconds before I broke down once again.

  “I’m just going to talk, and if you need me to repeat something, let me know, okay? Okay. I didn’t go right to my parents’ place. I went to the beach, and I thought about it all. I thought about the fact that I want you and I care about you, and yeah, the baby complicates things, but I want to make something really, really clear.”

  His pause was weighty before he spoke, conviction underscoring every single word. “I want you and I want this baby, and I want us to be a family. But even if you’d come back here not pregnant, I’d still feel this way. I need you to know that.”

  And just like that, my laughter stopped. The seriousness of what he was saying, coupled with the undeniable honesty of it that was layered in his voice and his words and his posture and the look on his face, hit me like . . . something heavy and hard and very, very serious.

  My voice was a barely audible whisper. “Really?”

  “Really. You have to know that I didn’t want you to leave in the first place. And it was because, as fucking crazy as it sounds, I knew we were something real and something special. Just like you said.”

  A shot of adrenaline had me throwing my arms around his neck, practically tackling him back to the mattress. “Really?” I asked again, just as quiet, wanting to be sure. Needing to be sure.

  “Really,” he affirmed, his voice holding an edge that said that the “little bit of time” he needed to recover had been clocked already.

  Nestling my face in the crook of his neck, I took my cue from his tone, and started peppering him with kisses, letting my tongue flick out for a taste of his skin, the action earning me a guttural groan.

  Which I echoed right after . . . as a wave of morning sickness hit me out of nowhere and sent me scrambling for the bathroom.

  22

  Lucas

  “Better?” I asked as Bianca walked back out of the bathroom, a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. At her nod, I rose from the bed and walked over to wrap my arms around her. “Need anything?”

  I had a feeling I was going to be asking that question a lot over the coming months.

  She popped the toothbrush from her mouth. “Nope, just needed to get rid of the vomit taste.”

  She shuddered and got back to scrubbing her teeth, so I decided to leave her to it. “I’m going to go hunt out food, okay? Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done.”

  I already had a bowl of Coco Pops poured for her by the time she walked in, her face looking fresh and a little flushed. “Okay?” I asked, gesturing for her to sit at the table and tuck into her requested cereal while I stood with my back to the bench, my own bowl of cereal already empty.

  “Looks so good. I think we can call this my first official craving.” She scooped up a spoonful and shoveled it into her mouth, a blissful little sigh making itself heard over the crunching. “Probably should’ve waited for the toothpaste taste to go away,” she added, grimacing.

  At least, I think that’s what she said. She spoke through a mouthful and it sounded more like gobble-de-gook. I laughed anyway, because she was cute, and she was here, and I was happy. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, pretty girl.”

  She swallowed. “You sound like my mom.”

  “Better than sounding like my mum, do we think?”

  “I don’t know. Did you hear any sex moans this morning?” Her smile was pure evil, her comment designed to throw me back into the middle of that mortifying moment.

  “I hate you,” I joked, watching her giggle and help herself to another mouthful of cereal.
>
  “No, you don’t,” she countered, again through a mouthful of food.

  “No,” I agreed, “I don’t.” I love you, I thought instead of saying. Wanting to tell her but wondering if the moment was right, if it was even true. We’d been through so much and so little, Bianca and I, and so I held back.

  But that didn’t stop me from bending down to plant a kiss on her forehead, because I wanted to, and I could. Which I told her when she asked, “What was that for?” My answer earned me a look that made those three words pop back into my mind, but I pushed them aside when Bianca started tapping her fingers on the tabletop.

  She looked anxious, and I felt it, my stomach dipping as I wondered what had made the air around us change so bloody quick.

  “Lucas, can I ask you something? Without you thinking I’m comparing you to him?” Her teeth sank into her full lower lip, her eyes looking straight at me, even though I could’ve sworn she didn’t see me.

  “Yes,” I answered quickly, determined to hear what she had to say or ask, and to try to understand where it was coming from.

  “Do you worry that the baby won’t look like you?”

  If I’d had something in front of me that I could’ve safely punched, I would have. Hell, as it was, I was tempted to turn and slam a fist into the fridge. That motherfucker. Mason, that is. Not the fridge.

  Bianca looked down at her lap, to where her hands were twisting and turning, the worry she must’ve felt inside at both my answer and her own need to ask the question making her fidgety. I fisted my hands and squeezed, putting as much of my anger into that gesture as I could, before I grabbed the chair next to her and sat down. And waited.

  It took several minutes before she looked up at me, but when she did, I reached out to grab one of her hands. “No.” I didn’t elaborate or go into any detail. I just wanted her to know it never even crossed my mind to think of something so . . . fucking stupid.

  “He said that he was glad his baby would look like him. Or he was excited about it, or what-the-hell-ever it was.” She kept her eyes on me and I watched as tears formed there.

  The ball of anger glowing in my gut felt tangible. I fucking hated her ex.

  “He’s a dickhead, I think we’ve established that. If I thought anything at all about how our baby will look”—and man, did it still feel weird, but good, to say that—“it was probably me hoping they looked like you. With your hair and your smile and your . . . everything.”

  “Really?” Her eyebrows rose in question, her spine steeling as if she was clawing back from that moment of vulnerability. “I hate that he can still make me wonder these things. It never really came up when we were together. Kids were such an abstract for so long. But early on, not long after we were married, his mom implied that she didn’t like the idea of a baby that looked like me.”

  I had no idea how to reply, so I sat silently, waiting for her to continue. Which she did.

  “He didn’t say anything about it—not to agree with her and not to tell her off either. At the time, I was mad, but I also convinced myself that it was just a mistake. That she hadn’t meant it the way I took it, you know? I wish I’d said something. I wish I’d been braver then but I was still so unsure of myself. We’d been together for a while but not that long, you know? In the grand scheme of things. I stayed quiet. But I wouldn’t stay quiet now, I know that. I’ve learned that about myself.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” I said it aloud because I sensed that—knew that—about her.

  “People have said shit like that to me my whole life. Worse stuff. Even more insidious, seemingly harmless stuff. Sometimes I spoke up, but sometimes I just took it and ignored it. I knew I hated it and it was wrong, but it was easier, you know? To just pretend like it wasn’t happening. Because sometimes I was scared it would get worse—and, Lucas, it can get so much worse. And sometimes, it-it wasn’t a fight worth having.”

  She brought her free hand down on the tabletop, the power and conviction behind the move clear. “But I’m not going to do that anymore. Ignore it or pretend. Not ever.”

  I nodded, not because she needed my permission, but so she knew I was listening to her and hearing her.

  “Fuck him for saying that. I don’t think I realized how much that affected me until now. But fuck him.” She sucked in a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “I thought about what our baby will be like. But I don’t care—it could have your accent or my nose or your weird big toe—”

  “What’s wrong with my big toe?!”

  “—but I don’t care. I just want him or her to be healthy.”

  “That’s all I want too, pretty girl.” I paused, pushing back my chair and staring at my bare feet. “But seriously, what’s wrong with my big toe?”

  She laughed and raised her hands skyward. A casual shrug like she hadn’t just ridiculed a part of my anatomy.

  “No, you can’t just drop that on me and not explain.” I lifted one foot, then the other. “Which foot? Both feet? Just my big toe, or all my toes?”

  Standing, she looked down at me, laughter still on her lips and in her words. “Your left foot. It overlaps the second toe. How have you never noticed?”

  I stood too, flattening my feet on the ground and taking great pains to make sure all my toes were looking their best. “It does not.”

  “Faker. Stand normally.” She half-shoved me so I lost my hold on my stance, and my big toe popped a little. “See, look at it now.”

  I followed the line of her finger and stared intently at my big toe on my left foot. I knew that it was a little out of whack. I’d dislocated my toe, then broken it, within the span of a few weeks when I was in year seven, and it hadn’t ever really set back properly. But messing with Bianca was fun, particularly when we’d had so much deep, meaningful, and weighted talk since she’d arrived on my doorstep that morning.

  “Oh, that. Yeah, the baby’s definitely going to have that. Might have to have it circumcised.”

  “They don’t circumcise toes, Luc.”

  “That’s what you think. You’re in Australia now, pretty girl.” I reached out for her, pulling her into my arms. Unable to resist, I leaned in to kiss her, long and leisurely, before swaying her around the kitchen table.

  Dancing. Just like my parents. Well, maybe not just like my parents . . .

  But it felt so right and so natural and so good.

  And I couldn’t help thinking we were going to be okay.

  23

  Bianca

  Bianca Evers (bianca.evers@at-mail.com)

  DRAFTS FOLDER

  (3)—

  To: Mason Taylor (m.taylor@at-mail.com)

  Subject: Re: Pls. Read

  Mason,

  Go fuck yourself. Several times, preferably with a pickax and without lubrication.

  No, seriously, I hope you burn in the fiery, fiery flames of hell, you disgusting motherfucker. Where the hell do you get off talking to me like that? I mean, I know I’ve made some questionable choices—specifically marrying YOU—but still, fuck you.

  Go dip your balls in lava,

  Bianca

  * * *

  To: Mason Taylor (m.taylor@at-mail.com)

  Subject: Re: Pls. Read

  Dear Asshole,

  I read your email, and I have only this to say: congratulations on landing a woman who is as stupid naïve as you are racist. But who am I to judge? I’m the fool who wasted actual YEARS on your dumbass. I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but given how in love with yourself you are, you’d probably enjoy it. Instead, I’ll just remind you that you are a pathetic douchecanoe, a total wanker, a fucking jackhole, and honestly, just about the worst human being alive. (Okay, maybe not the worst, but it’s a near thing. If I found out you kicked puppies I wouldn’t be shocked, is what I’m saying.)

  Please don’t bother letting me know about future developments in your life. I’d rather poke myself between the toes with a rusted quilting needle.

  Bianca
>
  * * *

  To: Mason Taylor (m.taylor@at-mail.com)

  Subject: Re: Pls. Read

  Mason,

  I’ll never understand why you felt it necessary to share this information with me, unless it was to make me feel as small as possible. If so, congrats, you succeeded! But only not for long. You see, my little “finding myself” journey has been eye-opening in a lot of ways. For example, my eyes are now—finally—open to the fact that you’re a racist-ass, pathetic, in-desperate-need-of-validation, tiny-pricked asshole.

  I tried to take the high road and not respond. But it didn’t feel right not to let you know that you are, as my new Australian friends so charmingly say as often as possible, a cunt.

  Best of luck with your new wife and baby. I hope that you find it in yourself to treat them better than you did me these last few years. If not, I wish for them the strength to see what I didn’t for so long: you are a sad, whiny loser and not worth a hair on their heads.

  Hugs!

  Bianca

  * * *

  I looked over the emails saved in my drafts folder and spared a small sigh for the woman who’d written them in varying stages of anger and grief over the past few weeks.

  My better self, the one who knew that wasting more time on my jerk of an ex was useless and would accomplish nothing, had prevented me from sending them. But my petty, bitter, angry self—well, she had things to say and didn’t like being reined in.

  “Pretty girl?” Lucas came to sit beside me on the bed, looking over my shoulder quizzically. “What are you doing? I thought we were getting ready to call your mom?”

  “I was just deciding what to do with these emails.”