by L. B. Dunbar
“Well, good night then.”
Bull nods, pushes off the wall, and spins to give me his retreating back. My forehead lowers for the trim, rolling back and forth against the wood. His back might be as incredible as his front with dips and cliffs of muscles. Suddenly, Bull turns on his bare feet, facing me once more and taking a few extra steps toward my door.
“Just putting it out there, that today’s a day ending in day, and if you needed me for something, I’m here for you.” His hand lightly pats his chest before coasting downward, forcing the coarse hairs to spring a little and then his abs flinch as he lowers his palm to the edge of that dangling towel.
“I’m good,” I lie, raising a hand as a little wave of good night. Stepping sideways, I knock my knee on the wood casing, bite my cheek to hold back a curse, and reach for the doorknob. Once inside the room, I collapse against the closed door, cursing from more than the ache at my knee, but the one in my heart.
Rita comes to the Busy Bean near the end of my shift the next day. Wishing I could enjoy an afternoon coffee, I sit with her instead as she sips a cold brew. The doctor has already warned me I need to cut back on caffeine products and I’ve already had my one cup this morning. Another irony of working at a coffee shop is how I must resist the temptation, just like I must resist Bull.
A full-body shiver occurs with the images in my head of Bull crowding me near the coffeepot in his kitchen or walking down the hallway in only that towel of his.
Rita and I have been discussing whether I should be looking for a new job or not.
“I’d just like to do something with more purpose.” My reference did not imply working at the coffee café was less than admirable. I simply meant any employment in general, I wanted to have purpose behind it in the future.
“It’s okay not to know what you want,” Rita tells me as we slouch on the comfy couch Rita claims as hers.
“I’m forty-two. Shouldn’t I have life all pulled together by now?”
“Your life was pulled together. It was wound tighter than a knitter’s knot. It’s okay to loosen the loops a little. You’re never too old, or too young, to start over,” Rita encourages.
“But I don’t want to start over.” I sound like a petulant child, but the truth is, I actually do want a fresh start. My hand coasts over the tiny bulge of nine weeks, or is it only eight, of pregnancy. I have an appointment this week to listen to Sprout’s heartbeat. It’s still a bit surreal that some tiny creature is growing inside me, let alone unbelievable at my advanced age, as the doctor lovingly called it during my first visit. When the doctor also told me this pregnancy was considered a geriatric pregnancy, I almost fell off the table. I wasn’t that old. It’s not improbable or even uncommon for a woman over forty to be pregnant, but it also comes with loads of potential risks. My own research on the topic taught me that while the average age of a pregnant woman is twenty-six, there is an increasing proportion of women who are in their thirties. And while that number has actually dipped in the last decade, pregnancies among women over forty is actually on the rise. It’s up only a few percentage points, but it’s still noteworthy.
The issues rest in the risks—heart concerns, skull abnormalities, developmental delays—and those were just concerns for the baby. Personally, I could develop high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, or pre-eclampsia. Even worse, though, is the possibility I could miscarry. I could lose the baby and all the trouble I’d been to Bull would be for nothing.
He’s been so good to me. Every night, we have dinner together like a real couple. No late-night dashes off to a local bar for a quick bite. No takeout ordered in for one while my other half works long hours. Bull and I sit at a table together, with a home-cooked meal before us, from either Carly or Bull himself. He’s an amazing cook, and I’ve felt guilty that I don’t offer more home engineering. I’m terrible at domestic deeds as I proved the other evening when I tried to make Bull chicken in a skillet and burned the outside while the inside was still raw.
He’s also been more than generous with his home. We’ve continued to dance around close calls in the hallway and finding too much comfort on his couch. I’m sleepier than I’ve ever been, and Bull is like a giant heating pad. Too often, I’ve found myself slumped over against his shoulder, snoozing in the early evenings when he physically works twice as hard as I do.
“I totally understand the desire for purpose,” Rita says, looking at me over her cup. She’s been struggling herself lately, as she’s been saying for years she plans to retire from her law practice in Montpelier. She hasn’t found that thing either—that passion—to push her forward on a new path, though. “But have you considered that where life leads, you can shift your priorities and motherhood might be the next great adventure for you? Maybe motherhood is your next great purpose.”
“I . . .” I actually hadn’t thought of it that way. I’d always been so career driven without a thought for children that I hadn’t considered being a mother could be a role in my life as well. Rita watches me as I wrestle with my thoughts, uncertain how to answer her. I’m stumped.
“Let’s talk about Bull,” Rita prompts, releasing me from trying to decipher motherhood and how I see myself fitting that future role. “How are things going with the hunky heifer king?” She wiggles her brows. As she knows all my secrets, I admit the truth to her.
“We’re waiting to find out who the father is before we do anything . . . between us. I have a doctor’s visit soon, and we’re going to discuss a paternity test then.”
Rita lowers her afternoon treat and stares at me across the couch. “You mean to tell me, you’re living with that hunk of cowhide and not riding him?”
I snort. “Rita, I swear . . .” She says the damnedest things.
“Well?” Her voice rises.
“No, I am not sleeping with him.” We cuddle on the couch sometimes, but that’s not what Rita means. Even that is more than we should be doing because each night I settle in next to Bull, I don’t want to separate from him when it’s time for bed. I never liked sleeping pressed up against Shelton. We actually didn’t curl into each other like we once did when we were young, keeping to our own sides of the king-sized bed we used to share in our marriage. The experience would be different with Bull. I’d want to be touching him. I’d want to be near his heat, pressed against his skin. I’d want to hear his heartbeat.
“Is that paternity test safe?”
“Considering I’m at high risk because of my age, I’m not sure. I’m not even certain how it works exactly, although I looked it up.” Somehow a sample is taken from both Bull and the baby. I’m not convinced it’s entirely risk-free and I’d like to discuss options with the doctor. “Either way, Bull’s attending my next doctor’s visit with me.”
“So, things are going well, even if you aren’t heating the sheets with a hot man,” Rita teases as her eyes narrow in on me. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Of course, I like him. He’s a great guy.”
Rita snorts herself. “Great guy? That’s like saying someone has a nice personality.”
“What do you want me to say? When he looks at me, I feel like he wants to devour me. Or how I can’t take my eyes off his body even when it’s as simple as him walking across a room. Or how I miss the way we were together that one night, putting us into this possibility of being connected forever.” I glance down at my lower belly again.
“It’s crazy. It all seems like too much too soon.” I huff. I’m not even officially divorced yet. If all goes as planned, Shelton and I only have another six weeks.
“Everything happens for a reason,” Rita says, and my head pops up to look over at her. It’s a phrase she lives by. I’d argue against it if I didn’t suddenly believe that this unplanned pregnancy at such a late-in-life age meant something. Even if I don’t know what the reason for such a life shift could be, I can’t deny I’m happy with this directional detour.
“What do you know about Bull and all those proposals?�
�� It’s something he still hasn’t explained to me.
“I think you should ask Bull. It’s always best to go to the source rather than believe all the hearsay.” Rita tips a brow at me, hinting at my past profession. I’m just curios as Roderick said something to me the other day as well. He was sweet in his warning, telling me not to believe all the gossip in the community, but he was equally concerned that I protect myself.
“He’s been called the perpetual proposer and there’s something behind the fact he’s been engaged a few times.” Roderick was not speaking ill of Bull or even trying to perpetuate the rumors but looking out for me. He knows my condition. He knows my position, and he knows Bull and I are living together, platonically.
“Let me know how that works out for you,” he teased as he fell for his roommate and they’ve been together ever since.
“So, back to the original matter at hand. Are you really thinking of looking for a new job in entertainment news?”
“Don’t you think I should?” I question, as I don’t want to keep taking advantage of Bull. I need to plan as if this child isn’t his, because if it isn’t, he’s going to want me to leave. He’ll want as much separation from me as he can possibly get.
“I think purpose and passion are what you make of it. And there’s nothing wrong with being a mother and pouring coffee for a little longer,” Rita says, reaching out to pat my knee. “It certainly gives me purpose that you work here. I get to see you more often.”
I’ve really missed my friend and decide a little more time at the Busy Bean Café is just fine with me as well. Besides, I have her to thank for bringing me to Vermont and introducing me to Bull.
10
Heartbeats
Bull
At night, Scarlett and I assume our normal position on my couch. A hockey play-off game is on, and Scarlett’s been reading from a baby book. We typically start in opposite corners, but eventually her legs stretch, as if her toes are seeking me, and I tug her feet into my lap, massaging her ankles. Sometimes, we sit closer, more in the middle, and she’ll inevitably flop toward me, as if her head is too heavy. I’ll tuck her under my arm, leaning her against my chest, and breathing in the comfort of all things. It’s been torture.
Tonight, I’m tired myself. We’ve had to make decisions on a few heifers not producing and I had to round them up for slaughter. It’s never an easy decision, but it’s a part of the farm process. When Scarlett’s feet slide across the couch to my thigh, I don’t shift them to my lap like I normally do but slip my whole self behind her. With her back nestled into my chest with each of us on our sides, and we face the television set.
“This okay, sweetheart?” I ask too late as I’m already in position to hold her and not interested in giving it up.
“This is good, Bull.” My arm slips over her waist as we each stare at the hockey game, but I’m hardly hearing the announcer.
“Can I ask you something?” Her quiet voice has me nervous.
“Anything, darlin’.”
“What’s the deal with the rumors about you as the perpetual proposer?”
My forehead lowers for the top of her head, and I close my eyes. This is a conversation I’ve dreaded having. Marriage talk is always an issue for me. However, Scarlett and I are in a different predicament, and we aren’t discussing our marriage, just my relationship history.
Taking a deep breath, I begin my explanation.
“First, there was Jennifer, who you already know was my wife. We were married young and divorced early. Then there was Sabrina.” I take another deep breath as Scarlett’s fingertips stroke over my forearm. “That’s a bit more complicated, but let’s just say she left me at the altar.”
Sensing Scarlett’s shift under my arm, I tighten my hold around her. She attempts to look at me over her shoulder, but I won’t be able to face her until I get this story out.
“Not much more embarrassing than standing at the altar, waiting on your bride to walk down the aisle. Church filled with people who’d been calling you a match made in heaven. Then her father approaches me and leans forward, telling me Sabrina needs to speak with me.”
The memory rushes back to me. Sabrina Carrera was different from anyone I’d ever met before. First, she was ten years younger than me in my thirties. In contrast to Jen’s acorn brunette coloring, Sabrina had midnight black hair and looked sleek in business suits and fitted skirts. She had dreams and ambitions of being something bigger than our small community, but her energy never bothered me. In fact, she was refreshing after Jennifer, who was a little too complacent at times and often gave in to my whims instead of following her own desires. If I liked pepperoni on pizza, Jen liked pepperoni. If I wanted to wear jeans and be casual, Jen wore jeans to be casual. If I wanted to watch a ballgame, then Jen watched a ballgame. Jen only had one focus all her own—a child.
“Sabrina wanted bright lights and big city, so it never made sense for us to be together. She should have gone to New York, but instead, she worked in a bank in Montpelier. I could never quite explain it, but Sabrina was just vibrant. She was also superficial.”
She loved gifts, and the fool that I was, I showered her with them. I gave her whatever she wanted, and in return, I had a young, beautiful woman on my arm, reviving my sexuality.
“After the breakup with Jen, I just needed different, and Sabrina was it. It felt good to be wanted for more than my sperm donation.”
Scarlett stills her fingertips on my forearm, and I mumble an apology. It isn’t like that with Scarlett. Jen and I had become so perfunctory in our relationship, and her ability to adapt to whatever I wanted that it eventually pissed me off. I wanted a woman with a mind of her own. High spirited and definitely spoiled, Sabrina had been the opposite of my first wife.
“I don’t know how we’d gotten to the wedding ceremony itself. It was like one minute we were discussing marriage, and the next thing I know, we are making an announcement. Sabrina was in love with the idea of a wedding. I wanted her to be happy, and I also wanted her to stick around. I didn’t want her to run off to New York.” I’d wanted the farm to be enough for her, but I should have seen the signs. We spent a lot of time at her place in Montpelier. As I partially blamed living on the farm for the breakup of my marriage at the time, as Jen and I never had any privacy, being away from it for a while was refreshing. With Sabrina, we had a ton of separation from the farm while doing the costly things Sabrina wanted to do.
“I never had a hint she was unhappy, or maybe I just wasn’t listening. When an ex-boyfriend came into town a week before the wedding, I wasn’t even concerned. But he’d apparently been making her promises of more, and he was her ticket out of this area. She’d never mentioned to anyone that she didn’t want to be a farmer’s wife.”
I close my eyes, recalling the awkward moment I walked into the bridal room at the church. Her veil removed. Her dress wrinkled. What could be worse than her father walking in on another man up her skirt before the wedding? The thought of it made me sick to my stomach. In order to save his pride, Giuseppe Carrera demanded his daughter face me. I’d paid for most of the wedding when he couldn’t afford all the things his daughter wanted.
“His name was Brett.” Not that that means anything, but I share it anyway.
“We hate people named Brett,” Scarlett whispers in a show of solidarity with me, and I smile as the tension of Sabrina’s memory dissolves.
“It was a blessing in disguise.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Scarlett’s low voice expresses her sincerity, and after her cheating husband, I know she understands.
“Next came Gisela.” I decide to skip over the fine details of Gisela’s wild sexual tendencies. The things she wanted me to do with her could have been criminal, but I loved them. She was very in touch with who she was and what she wanted in the bedroom, and I was happy to oblige. “Gisela was an artist. Painting was her medium, and she felt she’d found her inspiration at the farm.”
Again
, Scarlett bristles under my arm, and I press a quick kiss to her shoulder. Her stroking fingertips continue as if coaxing the remainder of my story out of me.
“Gisela was a bit of a Bohemian. Wanderlust mixed with her creativity, and she said the farm fed her spirit but apparently, only temporarily.” Gisela’s blond hair in lengthy dreadlocks gave her an earthy appearance. She made her own clothing of flowing skirts and loose tops out of natural fabrics. She also wore tons of bracelets and necklaces. “Gisela actually lived in Colebury for a while but spent many days out here, feeding her soul as she said. She told people I was her spirit animal, and we would get married one day.”
Scarlett starts out with a soft chuckle, but her body continues to quake, struggling to contain more.
“Don’t laugh,” I teasingly warn, as my tone gives away my own chuckle. My head lowers for the back of hers once again, and Scarlett loses the fight against her laughter.
“We didn’t know she was actually stealing from people in the community. Little things, but items of value all the same, slowly went missing over time.”
The memory of confronting her when I saw her wearing my grandmother’s ring made acid boil in my stomach. When I confronted her about it, she accused me of not trusting her, saying I didn’t love her enough, and if I did love her, I should have given her that ring anyway.
“The breakup with her was public as she threw my grandmother’s ring, which I hadn’t given her, back at me, stating I was reserved and standoffish and didn’t give her what she needed.” Whether she meant sexually, spiritually, or otherwise, I would never know. Gisela ran off one night without another word to anyone in the area. We later learned she’d stolen my mother’s china serving platter and a silver gravy boat for whatever reason.
I quiet, recalling a nasty headline once reported about me.
“Mr. Not Quite Right, an article read,” I whisper, and Scarlett’s fingertips pause.