by Cranford, B.
“Emails?”
“Replies to Mason. I never did work out what to say to him. So I decided on nothing.”
Nodding, he lifted a hand as if to take the phone from me, then stopped. “Can I see?”
I handed the phone over to him immediately, sensing he needed to see them, to understand. Despite talking things through, there was still a little tension bubbling below the surface. If this would put it to rest once and for all, then I was all for it. Gesturing at him to read the three unsent emails, I said, “Be honest. What do you think?”
He was quiet as he read them. I don’t know what I’d expected—maybe for him to laugh at some of my more aggressive suggestions. The quilting needle was probably my favorite, and yet his face remained impassive.
Blinking because I was unsure and a little afraid of what he might have read into my reactions, I waited. And waited.
And waited.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and graveled. Thick, it seemed, with emotion.
“I was really angry at you, you know.” He shifted, a subtle bunching of his shoulders, his face no longer impassive but uncomfortable. “I tried hard to be understanding and see things from your perspective. I wanted to yell, like really yell, at you. When I talked to my dad about the fact you’d basically disappeared—when he sent you that text message—half of me wanted to, I don’t know, email you and let you know exactly how pissed off I was.”
Not really following, I made a noise that was part “okay” and part “uh oh,” hoping he’d keep talking. Wondering if I still had apologies to make.
He did.
“Even so, I can’t imagine ever being angry or annoyed enough to send you something that would warrant these responses. I mean, a pickax with no lube? I’m clenching.”
Relief probably contributed to the violent burst of laughter that rushed out of me. Swiping a hand at him, I resisted the urge to shove him off the bed. “I was so worried. Oh my god.”
“Sorry,” he replied, a contrite smile on his face. “I was angry. Dad asked how angry, and I tried to explain that it was a combination of no anger and complete, unforgivable anger. It wasn’t until you came back and I talked to both of my parents that I realized it wasn’t anger so much as fear.”
“Fear? What were you afraid of?” I asked, the answer in the periphery of my mind.
“That you’d do it again. That you’d go and never come back, and I’d never know what happened or why. I don’t want to trap you here, if that’s not what you want. Though, for the record, if you want to do some kind of tying-you-up-not-letting-you-leave roleplay thing, I’m for it. With caveats, but mostly down for it.”
“Good to know.”
“Can I ask one thing? Please?” He waited for my nod, then continued, “Always talk to me. Send me emails as rightfully and righteously pissed off as these”—he pointed at my now-abandoned phone—“if you want. Just don’t shut me out, okay?”
Moving closer and cupping his face, I guided his lips to mine. Our kiss was soft and brief, because I needed to reassure him. “I promise. I will always come back. And if I can’t come back, I won’t leave you in the dark.” I kissed him again, savoring the way his mouth felt when joined with mine, thinking about the first time we kissed on that airplane, and how shaken I’d been by it. By the intensity of it, and the rightness of it.
“Thank you.” He trailed kisses across my cheek to my ear. “Thank you, Bianca.”
My name was whisper quiet, sending a shudder through me. I wanted to shove him down and climb over him—the earnest, necessary moment forgotten as the zing of us whipped through me.
“Lucas.”
“We have to call your mom, right? Or else we’ll miss her.” He pulled back and adjusted himself. “And as for the emails, I’m quite partial to the first one.”
I rolled my eyes at him, scooping up the forgotten phone and scanning the drafts again. “Nah. Not that one.” I tapped and swiped at the screen until all three emails were gone, deleted forever. Then, I tapped out a new one.
“What do you think of this?” I asked, holding out my phone to Lucas again, once I’d finished.
He read it, nodding as his eyes scanned the text. “Better than he deserves.”
“The ‘fuck you’ was implied.”
“He’s probably not smart enough to realize it. You don’t think it’s too late to reply?”
“Nah, wait. Maybe.” Turning the phone back to myself, I added a line and flipped it back around. “How ’bout that? I’m going for subliminal get bent meets indifferent maturity.”
“Not quite as effective in conveying the first part of your message as the rusted quilting needle, but very mature.” His eyes turned calculating. “Here’s an idea: instead of sending this, I scramble, wheedle, convince my way to more holiday time, go find him and beat the shit out of him. In the name of your honor, of course.”
I batted my eyelashes at him, fluttered a hand over my heart. “Of course. My hero. Should I send it?”
His arm came around my shoulders, the heat from his body relaxing muscles I didn’t realize had tensed. “I can’t answer that for you.”
Narrowing my eyes at that copout of an answer, I hovered my finger over the send button. Ultimately, knowing that I could block Mason immediately after, ensuring I got the last word on my terms, I decided to do it. Finger landing heavily on the screen, I listened for the whoosh of my reply being sent, accessed my settings and created a rule that meant I was free from Mason forever. Then, turned into Lucas’ hold.
We’d planned to call my mom to tell her our news—me talking to her first, then introducing Lucas—and we would. But first I wanted to just enjoy his arms around me and add a silent promise to the verbal one I’d just given.
That I’d keep holding on for as long as he did.
* * *
March 16, 2019
From: Bianca Evers ([email protected])
To: Mason Taylor ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Pls. Read
Mason,
Just found this in my spam folder—can’t imagine why. I’m sorry that you’re so insecure that you felt the need to send this email. I’m sorry too, that I didn’t see sooner how toxic and hateful you’d become over the past few years. I will always regret that I missed you changing—and that I couldn’t help you as you became a man I no longer recognized as the one I loved, first as my friend, then as my husband.
I hope you’re as happy with your new wife and your child as you say you will be.
Please don’t contact me again. Like you, I have a new life and a new future, and it no longer involves you.
Bianca
* * *
“Hi, Mom!” My legs jiggled with nervousness as I propped myself against the headboard of Lucas’ bed the next morning.
My mom was standing in her kitchen, and behind her I could see the familiar sight of the crockpot on the counter. Since we’d woken up extra early to call, I knew it was close to dinner time for her. “There’s my girl.”
“Whatcha cooking? I bet it smells good.”
“You know it does. When have I ever cooked anything that doesn’t smell good?” she retorted, giving me a quelling look.
Laughing at her sass—she wasn’t wrong though—I started to pepper her with questions about what was happening and where Dad was. I’d called her because I knew the time had come to share my news, and because I needed my momma. It had been a month since I’d found out about the baby and I’d managed to bluff my way into thinking I didn’t need to share this with her.
But I did. Only, now that the time had come, I was practically crippled with nerves and obviously not hiding them well.
“Bianca, baby, whatever you need to tell me, just tell me. Okay? You and me, we can figure it out.”
I sighed at the comfort those words brought me—it wasn’t the first time I’d heard them from her, my mother who’d always given me, and my brothers, the very best of herself. She was smart and strong, and I missed
her so damn much, I thought I might cry.
“You’re cryin’? That’s how I know it’s bad.” Her hand reached out and I imagined her touching my face on her screen, exactly like she would’ve done had I been sitting right in front of her. “Out with it already. I’m growing old here.”
The well-used refrain amused me out of my tears, and I decided to take the band-aid approach to my news. “I’m pregnant. My friend I told you about in my emails, Lucas, he’s the father. I really like him, like, so much, Mom. And we’re having a baby.”
For half a minute I thought my phone might have frozen, so still my mom was after I stopped talking. And then, in a voice of complete calm, she said, “Bianca, you need to write me longer emails.”
I shook my head in confusion. “ I what?”
“I’m good at reading between the lines. But there weren’t enough lines in all of the very few”—she hit a certain emphasis on those words that made me feel six years old again—“emails you sent me to have guessed that’s what you called to talk to me about.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As well you should be. I wouldn’t have bothered answering all your avoidance questions if I’d known.”
“Sorry,” I repeated, at a total loss for what to say next.
She smiled for the first time since I’d blurted out about the baby. “I know, baby. How are you feeling?”
“Uh, good? Wait, you’re not mad?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question because I’d been so sure that my mom was going to yell. Or maybe hang up.
But I should’ve known better. Tamika Evers was not known for piques of anger or for yelling. If she was mad, you got dead silence and a look of disappointment—and oh, you felt it to the marrow of your bones—but she didn’t do dramatics. She had no time for that shit ← her words, not mine.
“Why would I be mad? You’re an adult and you’ve been one for a long time. Do I have questions, sure? But all that really matters right now is that you’re feeling okay, that you’re healthy, and that you’re happy. Can you tell me that you’re all of those three things?”
My tears returned, my head already bouncing up and down. “Yeah, Mom. I feel good, I’m healthy. And I’m really, really happy.”
“Well, then, you said I could meet this boy, didn’t you?”
My watery laugh drew Lucas’s attention. He’d been sitting next to me the whole time, but not where my mom could see him—a silent supporter and a man ready to meet his girlfriend’s mother for the first time. “Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that,” I joked. “I think we got our wires crossed.”
“I will go to my email right now and read the one you sent a couple of days ago aloud if that’s what it takes.”
Lucas leaned toward me, shouldering me slightly so that he was visible to my mom. “Hi, Mrs. Evers. I’m Lucas, it’s nice to meet you.”
She looked at me, the full, sassy force of her behind her next words. “I pray that this boy is better than the last one turned out to be.”
Beside me, Lucas snickered, while I made sure the truth was evident on my face and in my voice. “He is. He most definitely is.”
* * *
I shuffled down the bed and curled onto my side after hanging up with my mom, having talked through with her how Lucas and I met and the fact that we had no solid plans for the future to share yet. Within moments, Lucas was settling in behind me, the big spoon to my little. “I like her.”
“Mom? Yeah, she’s the best.” I laid my hand on top of his where it rested on my stomach. “I hope I’m as good a mom as she was. She is.”
“You will be.” He kissed the back of my neck, sending a tumble of good feeling down my spine. “Where was your dad though?”
“Huh? Oh, he works nights at the hospital. He’s a nurse.”
“And your mum?”
“She’s a psychologist. She’d have had a field day with me if I’d given her any more to go on in my emails to her.”
Lucas’ laugh was whisper quiet. “That’s what she meant when she talked about reading between the lines?”
“Yeah. She has a way of knowing that drove me and my brothers insane when we were growing up. I don’t know, now I kind of like it, because it means I don’t have to admit as much to her. She knows.”
“Maybe it’s a combination of her being a psychologist and a trait that all mums acquire when they become mums?”
“I hope so. Then I’ll be able to use it against our baby like my mom used it against us.”
“Will you call your brothers now too? I know you told your mom not to tell them yet, but . . .” He trailed off, leaving me to explain.
“I will, but not today. In a few days I’ll be officially into the second trimester, and then I’ll tell them.” I didn’t add that I thought they might be less accepting than my mom, and that I wanted to put it off when Lucas and I were just getting back on solid ground.
Not even back on solid ground. On solid ground for the first time.
“Hey,” he said after a few moments of quiet, the both of us relaxing into each other and the bed. “Did I ask if you know when you’re due?”
“The doctor said September seventeenth, if I was sure of the conception date. Which, I mean, I’m pretty sure it had to be then, but if I learned anything from Ross and Rachel, it’s that condoms don’t always work.”
“Ross and Rachel?”
“Friends?”
“I should’ve known that.” He said it so dryly that I was suddenly parched.
Okay, not really, but you know what I’m saying, right? I giggled at his comment, and turned to look at him over my shoulder, giving him a sly smile. Which he responded to right away.
“What are you thinking, pretty girl? Because if it’s anything like what I’m thinking, you’re about to be very, very naked.”
I winked at him, biting my lip, intentionally giving him the wrong idea. “Am I just? That sounds . . . fun.”
“Fun isn’t even close,” he replied, pressing himself tighter to me so I could feel the hardness of his cock against my ass, “to what we’re going to have. It’s going to be out of this world.”
“Oh, really? And what if that’s not what I was thinking?” I asked, blinking innocently. What if I was thinking that you survived the phone call with my mom in one piece.”
Wariness replaced desire. “And?”
“And you’ve already talked to Ashton twice,” I added, laying down the foundation for my request.
“This is definitely not what I was thinking. Care to lay it out for me?”
“I need to call Ash to let her know that I’m okay. And that you’re okay too. She was worried about you.”
“Can it wait?” he asked, pushing his cock against me again. “I feel like Ashton might be worried if I tried to FaceTime her with blue balls.”
I snorted. “How would she even know that?”
“I’d fucking tell her, pretty girl.”
I challenged him with a raised eyebrow. “You would not. Come on.”
“Want to find out?” he asked, pushing up on his elbow and leaning over me a little to grab the phone I’d dropped beside me on the bed. “I’ll call her now.”
“No!”
“It was your idea. I don’t want Ashton to worry.” It was his turn to blink innocently, but while I thought it probably looked adorable and winning and convincing on me, on him it was . . . well, it was stupidly hot and very distracting.
Which probably explains why I didn’t speak to Ashton until later that day.
24
Lucas
Lucas: It’s a . . .
Rose: A what? OMG, don’t leave me hanging!
Rose: Is this an April Fool’s Day joke?
Rose: Lucas, FFS. Boy? Girl? Aunty Rose has shopping to do!
Lucas: Sorry, was driving. April Fool’s was yesterday.
Rose: It’s still April 1st here. Barely, but still. And why did you text me if you were driving?
Lucas: I sent the me
ssage then thought you might be asleep because of the time difference.
Rose: Whatever. Will I be having a niece or a nephew?
Lucas: Nephew.
Lucas: Gonna email you the pics they gave us today. He looks like a real baby.
Rose: He is a real baby.
Rose: HE. HE IS A REAL BABY!
Lucas: I could practically hear you yelling from here.
Rose: Liam was asleep next to me and I squeal/yelled so loud he jerked awake and is now looking at me like I’m an idiot.
Lucas: You are an idiot.
Rose: I know you are, I said you are, but what am I?
Lucas: An idiot, we just talked about this.
Rose: Pfft, takes one to know one. Going to sleep now I know I’m shopping for a little man tomorrow.
Rose: Congrats, bro. I’m so excited for you!!!
* * *
The package arrived on our doorstep—yep, you read that right—almost exactly two weeks after Bianca and I found out that we were having a boy. It was from my sister and was full to bursting with little outfits and toys and all kinds of adorable baby things I didn’t have a clue what they were.
Listening to the rustling on the other end of the phone, which was comically accompanied by my sister swearing and saying, “Hold on, dropped the phone,” I waved Bianca closer. “Better?”
Smiling sleepily, she nestled in under the arm I held up for her, tilting her head back so I could give her a kiss on the forehead. It was her favorite spot for kisses that *probably* wouldn’t turn into sex, and mine too.
“Rose?” she asked quietly, gesturing to the phone I had sitting on the kitchen bench in front of me.
“Yeah, she dropped her phone apparently,” I replied, just as Rose finally said, “Hi! I’m here! Sorry!”
“What the hell? Did you drop me down a well?”
“No, back into my bag, so I had to hunt for the phone all over again. So, did the package arrive? I thought it was never going to. The post office said six to ten days for international delivery, and they really use every last minute of that, huh?”