by Kristy Marie
“Maybe.” I lie back and get comfortable again with one of the baby books we purchased today.
McKinley closes her book and flops back on the bed.
“Do you not like the book?”
I know she’s in some form of denial about the pregnancy. She may want to take care of herself and the baby physically, but emotionally, she’s not connecting, and I want to know why.
I thought maybe the baby books would help. Seeing a hand-drawn image would feel less scary than the one on the ultrasound.
“Mac?” I glance over when she doesn’t answer me. “Are you okay?”
She sucks in her bottom lip, her gaze focused on the ceiling. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”
Closing my own book, I set it on the nightstand and roll to face her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the top. “I think some would call you a saint for the sole fact that you’re best friends with Pops.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
Finally, she pulls her eyes from above and fixes them on me. “What if I told you that I’ve considered giving this baby up for adoption?”
Every muscle in my body clenches. “I’d think you were selfless for putting the baby’s needs above your wants.”
A tear falls down her cheek. “But what if you knew that I’m too selfish to give it up? Even though he or she deserves a mom so much better than me.”
“I’d say you’re mistaken.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. Through this whole pregnancy, I’ve been selfish, thinking only about what I wanted. I didn’t think about how the father would react or even his desire to have children. All I thought is I finally have my own family.”
“And now?” I press another kiss to her hand.
“And now, living with you and Pops, I know this baby deserves more than just me.”
McKinley
He left a napkin on the table, with his nearly unreadable handwriting, claiming:
We’ll go sledding every winter.
How did he know about the box?
“Where’s Cooper?” I ask Pops, while he sips on his third cup of coffee this morning.
“At a workout or an ass-kissing. Maybe both. I can’t remember.”
Not my husband. He would never abandon his morals or self-respect by kissing anyone’s ass.
“Don’t tell me you’re starting to get all girly on me and miss your husband when he’s away now.”
This ridiculous man and his passive-aggressive jealousy.
“Don’t make me leave you at a fire station, you old coot. I simply asked a question—I didn’t break down in tears and track his phone.”
Pops chuckles, never taking his eyes off the morning news. “There’s my girl.” He motions to the whiteboard in the kitchen. “Cooper always writes down where he is in case of an emergency.”
I don’t know that my wanting to interrogate him as to why he left me a note on a napkin like the very ones I keep in a shoebox qualifies as an emergency but… oh no.
I sprint for the closet in the bedroom, ignoring Pops’s questioning stare as I toss the mounds of clothes off the shelf and onto the floor.
“Please tell me he didn’t look,” I mumble to myself, finding the shoebox in the back, and slowly lifting the lid, seeing the dozens of napkins scattered about.
I take one out, reading it quietly to myself.
We’ll get snow cones every Friday during the summer.
Smiling, I put the napkin back and pluck out another.
We’ll celebrate our birthday week instead of just one day.
The notes all seem to be there. If Cooper read them, he left no evidence of his crime. Nothing is bent, nothing seems to be missing. Just the crazy promises I started writing when I found out I was going to be a mom and have a family of my own.
Brenda, my foster mom, said every family should have traditions, and since all I had to go on were Brenda’s traditions with me, Griffin, and Chris, I figured I’d start some of my own. Though the whole thing has gotten out of hand.
As of now, there are probably two hundred napkins in this box. No way will I remember them all. Besides, some of them are just plain unrealistic. At the rate I’m going, I won’t be able to afford birthday weeks or even a snow cone every Friday. I’ll be lucky if I can find a job by the time this kid is old enough to eat a snow cone.
But it’s still a possibility.
Brenda would say one can always hope. I didn’t love when she used the phrase because, generally, she only said it when we wanted to do something and it was looking like we weren’t going to have the money for it.
I thought it was her cop-out.
But now, carrying a child of my own, I understand the phrase a little more. It wasn’t that Brenda didn’t want to give us everything—she just couldn’t at that time. But she always hoped one day she would be able to.
And that’s what happened to me while I was watching the baseball game that one evening as it poured down rain, leaving only a handful of fans left in the stand. I knew I didn’t have what it took right now to be a great mom to this baby. I couldn’t take care of myself, much less a little one, but eventually, I would.
One day, I’d be able to give him or her everything I ever wanted in a family.
A swing.
A snow cone.
A birthday party.
I had hoped we would be a family and have a picturesque life.
But then he didn’t want the baby. He didn’t want to be a family with us.
He wanted to travel and see everything alone. He didn’t want to spend his money providing for me or a little one. He wanted to live free—and we weren’t in that plan of his.
So even though I still add more traditions to the box on occasion, my heart isn’t in it like it was before.
Maybe he was right, maybe we weren’t meant to be parents.
I put the lid back on the shoebox. Even if Cooper looked at the notes, I doubt he understood them. For all he knows, it’s just crazy ramblings. Which they are. Because what kind of mother can’t look at the image of her baby on an ultrasound?
Not a good one.
I tried. I really thought I could be a good mother, but maybe sometimes people just aren’t wired the same. I don’t deserve this child. This child deserves someone who can do all those traditions I placed in the box. Someone that won’t have to work double shifts just so she can pay the rent and groceries.
This baby deserves a mom who can look at him.
I shove the shoebox onto the shelf, but it won’t push back.
What the heck?
I move more clothes (that I don’t wear) and spot another shoebox.
Oh no.
My hands shake as my fingers graze the edge of a shoebox with a sports logo for cleats. Easing the box down, I take a few deep breaths as I slide to the floor, placing the box on my lap. A note is attached to the top: For when you’re ready.
I can guess what’s inside—the ultrasound images of my baby. The very ones I couldn’t look at in the office.
Am I ready to look now? Can I look at the image of our baby and not cry about what could have been?
The image of the last time I saw him flashes through my mind. The look of relief on his face…
I shake my head.
No, I can’t. Not yet. I’ll try again another day when the guilt isn’t so raw.
Standing up, I put the box back, pushing it gently into place when I notice something white sticking out of the side.
It can’t be.
A boyish smile comes to mind as I picture my husband, thinking he’s cute putting this box up here. I snatch the napkin through the small opening, immediately frowning when I open it up and read the note.
We’ll always have huge jars of pickles for when your mom gets hangry.
Oh no.
I toss the napkin and flick open the top of the box grabbing a handful, reading each one aloud until I get through them all. That’s when the tears fa
ll.
We’ll catch fireflies in our hands.
We’ll blame all farts on Pops.
We’ll always kiss your mom goodnight.
We’ll tickle your mom when she’s moody.
I’ll always be here for both of you.
“I’m not going in there.”
Hitching a shoulder, I push up my sleeves. “You will or the people in this parking lot will witness me dragging you.” After the cry-fest of the century, my husband came home with a smile and a new jar of pickles.
The smile was his first mistake. His second mistake… refusing to read my note, which would clearly show I was right and that he needed glasses.
Cooper lifts a brow, a tiny hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he leans over the hood. “You couldn’t possibly drag me. I’m way too heavy.”
And way too argumentative. “We wouldn’t be here if you’d just read my note.”
He narrows his eyes. “I did read it. I don’t see why I failed your stupid test just because I wouldn’t read it aloud.”
Because if he would have read it aloud, he would have read you can’t see for shit. Clever, right?
Striding around the car, my steps purposeful and sure, I reach the driver’s side, where Cooper is standing, and smother a smile when Cooper holds up his hands. “Don’t play, Kin.”
Kin.
It feels… warm—like that ratty old electric blanket I used to sleep with every night until it caught fire.
“I still have the note in my pocket. All you have to do is read it to me, and we can play sword and hoot before Pops’s activity is over.” I take another step closer to the car where my husband appears to be all-casual, like he isn’t nervous. All I need to do is reach out and just—
Cooper sidesteps me, avoiding my grab easily. “Stop making up names for my dick and your pussy.” The smile he flashes me is boyish and absolutely adorable. One would even say it’s panty-melting. The way it puffs up his cheeks, hiding the strong jaw that lies underneath… completely charming.
“You’re going in that office, Number Fifty-Four. One way or another.” I’m not allowing a cute grin to distract me. “You need your eyes checked.”
Seriously, who does he think he’s fooling?
“You can’t see. Anyone around you for more than five minutes can tell.”
His arms fold across his chest, his smile disappearing with the clenching of his jaw. “I’m a Major League pitcher.”
“You are.” I nod slowly, as if now we need a psych consult too. “A professional pitcher who can’t see up close.” I smirk as I watch his nostrils flare with my last retort.
I take a step closer, but this time, he doesn’t move back. “There’s no shame in wearing glasses, Cooper. Lots of players do.”
“I’m not ashamed,” he snaps. “I don’t need glasses.”
We agree he’s lying, right?
“Then you won’t mind proving me wrong by having the ophthalmologist check out that amazing twenty-twenty vision of yours.”
His lips flatten and it’s seriously cute. “You’re not funny.”
“Actually—”
“Why is this so important to you?”
His voice is laced with concern. Whether it’s from me butting into his personal life or for fear of me telling someone about his secret vision troubles, I don’t know. Either way, he needs to know the truth. “You work so hard.” I step close enough that I could grab him if I wanted to. But I don’t. He needs to do this on his own. “You wouldn’t read my note in front of me because you’d have to hold it out to see it.”
He flinches, and I move my hand to his cheek. “You take care of everyone else but yourself. Have your eyes checked, Coop. Make life just a little bit easier.” Swallowing, he looks over my head at the door to the ophthalmologist’s office.
“It’ll only take a minute,” I add. “Isn’t it worth it to check?”
I take little gratification when he tips his chin, agreeing. “Fine. But when you’re wrong—” his eyebrows arch in a challenge, “—because you will be wrong—you’ll owe me a hoot and sword marathon.”
He steps around me and I grin—I’m so not going to be wrong. I’ve never been more sure about something in my entire life. “Deal,” I say with far too much enthusiasm, skipping to catch up and swatting that firm booty of his just like I’ve seen his teammates do on the field.
Cooper stops abruptly, and I plow into him with my excited momentum.
“Did you just spank me?” His eyes are wide and he tries to school his expression into something more shocked.
Spoiler alert: he doesn’t fool anyone with that fake aghast look.
Instead, he fights off a wicked grin and attempts to narrow his eyes.
He looks ridiculous.
Scowling, I ignore the adorableness that is Cooper and pull back just enough so that I can rub my poor boob which took the majority of the impact. “Please,” I scoff. “If I’d spanked you, you’d know it. That was merely a juicy high five.”
His lips tip at the corner. See? What did I tell you? He wasn’t shocked. “Is that right?”
I nod. “I like to keep our marriage interesting.”
“You definitely do that.”
I can’t tell if he means that in a good way or not.
I’m going to go with good.
“Come on, Professional Pitcher, we’re going to be late.” Taking him by the elbow, I lead him toward the door. We get halfway when he stops. “What n—” I stop mid-question when he removes my hand from his elbow, preferring to hold my hand instead, our zip-tie rings on full display.
Cooper
“I think it’s tacky you’re still holding a grudge two weeks later. I told you the glasses look hot on you.”
Running my hands through my hair, I glance at my wife, hanging on to the seatbelt like a life vest.
“This is your normal twenty-week appointment. In no way did I have anything to do with the timing, just because you forced me to go to the ophthalmologist.”
She narrows her eyes. “Seems an awful bit like retaliation.”
“McKinley.”
“Cooper.”
“You’re being ridiculous. We’re going inside and getting the ultrasound.” At the word ultrasound, her eyes turn glassy. “I promise, I’ll go next week.”
I lean over and unbuckle her seatbelt, easing it off her shoulder. “We aren’t rescheduling, nor are we going to cry.”
She shakes her head, panicked. “I can’t promise the tear thing. Last night, Pops and I were watching wrestling and that toilet paper commercial came on—Don’t look at me like I’m crazy, Cooper! It was the one with the bears.” She smacks me on the arm as I fight a grin. “It was sad!”
I highly doubt it was that sad, but since her smack was pretty hard for a pregnant woman, I’ll drop it. “I believe you. Bears always choke me up too.”
The green of her eyes sparkles in the sunlight. “You’re a smartass is what you are, Cooper Lexington.” She opens her car door, seemingly less nervous than a few minutes ago. “Scary Closer my ass…”
Never have I enjoyed picking on someone as much as I do McKinley. And yes, the crying at the commercial bit is, for the most part, incredibly funny, but I’d be crazy not to admit that some nights she’s sobbed so hard, I was scared something was definitely wrong. I had to hide in the bathroom just so I could call my sister-in-law for advice—which went as well as you could have expected. She burst out into heaving laughter and handed the phone to my brother, who assured me that it’s perfectly normal and that Ainsley likes to cry at street signs—especially the ones that say deaf kid in the area. He said she has a complete meltdown and wants to get out and personally stop cars in the neighborhood that go faster than the posted twenty-five miles per hour.
Anyway, a woman’s hormones are no joke. They go from a sobbing mess to a wrench-wielding psychopath who threatens if you leave the toilet seat up one more time, you won’t need to stand anymore to pee. Needless to
say, lesson learned.
I’ve also learned that when she asks me to help her with the dishes, she means now. Not when I finish film. She means I better hit pause instantly and get my ass up to help her. Even Pops has suffered. Let that old man leave another napkin on top of his plate. We’ve been told we don’t have a maid or a busboy that enjoys separating the trash from dishes.
No shit, the last few weeks have changed my and Pops’s entire outlook on pregnant women.
“Come on, Cooper. Let’s get this over with.”
Locking the car, I slip on my hat and meet her at the front of the car. “You gonna look this time?”
“Maybe.”
I tug her lip free of her teeth. “Just consider it. If you can’t, maybe tomorrow?”
I’ve never pushed her on this issue, and she’s never volunteered the information about what troubles her. Although most days we seem like a normal couple, other days, she reminds me that we have a deal. I think it’s her way of validating that she doesn’t need any rescuing or even a shoulder to cry on—unless it’s a toilet paper commercial.
McKinley nods, and I take her hand. “If you start to feel like you can’t handle things,” I pull out my earbuds and sleep mask from my back pocket, “you can use these.” I shrug. “They help when I need to rest on the plane.”
Something like relief flashes across her face right before she throws her arms around my middle. “I love the shit out of you and your insomnia, Cooper Lexington!”
She tenses. “I’m sorry. I meant I love you like I love pickles and air conditioning.”
“I don’t keep the house that hot.” I pull her beside me, letting the love comment go. I’m sure she didn’t mean it. “The units outside are going to frost over if you keep the thermostat at sixty degrees.”
She side-eyes me. “It’s not me. It’s this little heater inside me.” She lets out a little whine. “It’s cooking me from the inside out.”
I shake my head at her ridiculousness. She can’t be that hot, but I don’t dare verbalize it for fear she might shank me with a pen inside her purse. The wrench is finally too heavy and it, too, causes her to overheat with its weight.