by Kristy Marie
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” I tell her, taking her hand as she hiccups.
“One day, after Brenda decided to stop treatments, Griffin called. I cried and begged him to come home. He never told me where he was, just promised he would come. And two days later, he showed up on Brenda’s doorstep with a duffle bag in hand. He helped me with Brenda, staying at the house and working with a landscape company during the day.”
I look over at Pops and notice him wringing his hands as McKinley continues.
“I dropped out of school after that. Brenda was conscious only a few hours a day. Had she known, she would have made Griffin drive me back to school and sit there so I didn’t leave. But she never found out. Because she died a few days later with no one but me at her side.”
McKinley chuckles, swiping at a tear. “I went crazy after that. I got the job at the stadium and spent every dime I had as Brenda’s house was foreclosed on, forcing Griffin and me into an apartment until he was able to save enough money to buy a house. That’s when he brought home Psalms. He said the palm tree is known for its fibrous root system. When some die, new ones grow in their place to keep the tree strong. He told me I would grow new roots after Brenda and stand tall in the storm, bending but not ever breaking—just like Psalms.” She squeezes my hand, tears welling in her eyes. “I want you to know that I never meant to ruin his life. I was so sad after Brenda, I guilted him into staying in Nevada instead of going back to his adventures.”
“I’m sure he wanted to take care of his friend,” I say.
“He did. At least at first, but then he started partying, popping pills, and drinking. Initially, I thought he just needed a break from the pain of losing Brenda, since I was still spending every dime I had shopping and racking up debt. We were devastated by her loss.”
She bites her lip, her hand trembling in mine. “And then one night, we both had a few too many drinks and I…”
“Asked him to pork you until the sun came up,” Pops supplies, making McKinley snort.
“Essentially.”
“And you got pregnant.”
She nods, her bottom lip red and swollen under her teeth. “He didn’t want the baby.”
“But you did?”
“Yes. I felt like something truly wonderful had come out of our pain.”
“And he didn’t agree.”
Her breath hitches and she begins to cry, her words so full of agony that it tears through my chest. “He said I should have never begged him to come back. He said—” She heaves, a vicious sob erupting. “He said I’d ruin his life if I had this baby.”
Standing, I pull her from the chair, wrapping my arms around her as she cries into my chest. “I thought he was just upset—that he would come around eventually.”
Another set of arms wrap around us as Pops adds, “Sounds to me like he deserved a wrench to the ass.”
Mac lets out this cry-chuckle. “He struggled with an abusive father growing up. I knew that he never wanted children, yet I didn’t take his fears into consideration.”
“He didn’t have to parent this child if he didn’t want to.” I don’t know Griffin, but I do know that one good parent can enrich a child’s life more than two bad ones. Take me and Pops. I achieved everything I ever wanted in life with my grandfather. Not my father or mother, but my Pops. I know for a fact, families can thrive with one parent.
“I know,” she says, “but to him, he was only perpetuating a cycle of bad genes.”
“So you killed him?”
I pull back and level Pops with an exasperated look. “Could you stop?”
“What? I want to know if we need to bury a body or leave the country before the baby is born.”
I hadn’t thought about that. What if Mac is running from the law?
Mac sniffles, pulling her head up to flash Pops a sad smile. “I found Griffin on the couch one evening when he wouldn’t answer my calls. He looked so peaceful…”
I tighten my grip around her as she slumps in my arms.
“There were pills on the coffee table and an empty bottle of alcohol in his hand. I was too late to help him. The doctors said it was an anaphylactic reaction to one of the medicines.”
I hold her tightly. “You didn’t cause this, sweetheart.”
“But I did. If I could have just handled being alone with Brenda…if I hadn’t asked him to come back. If only I wouldn’t have gone to his house that night.”
She snakes a hand through our bodies and palms her stomach. “If I hadn’t been so selfish and wanted to have this baby, Griffin would still be alive. I chose one life over another.”
“No, your choice had nothing to do with what happened to Griffin.”
Mac shakes her head. “I made a promise that I would never accept help from anyone again. I would handle anything. My choices would never affect someone again. And then…” Her cries turn hoarse.
“And then I made you get in the car on the interstate.”
She nods. “But then I heard Pops and thought I could just use a friend. Chris was selling Griffin’s house, and I needed to get Psalms out of there before he banned me from the property. And now my decisions have affected both of you.”
Her knees give out and Pops steps back, letting me take her to the ground and pull her into my lap. “Unlike Griffin, we wanted to be part of those choices, McKinley. We love you.”
“I love you both too. I really tried not to, but you both were just so damn persistent.”
Pops scoffs, and Mac reaches out for his hand. “You were one of those new roots, old man. You made my awful job bearable, and when you left me your number on that napkin when Ear Hair left me crying… You gave me hope for the first time in a very long time.”
So that’s where she started the whole napkin thing.
“And you,” she turns back to me, “you snooped in my closet and found my box.”
“It fell when I was looking for your dress on our wedding day,” I admit. “It was an accident.”
“An accident that turned into you creating your own box.” She dares me to deny it.
“I did.” I smooth her hair back. “It seemed like a really cool idea that I wanted to be part of, but I was scared it would freak you out.”
“Oh, it definitely would have.”
“That’s why I waited until…” I need to choose my words carefully, but McKinley beats me to it.
“Until you made me fall in love with you.”
I hold back a grin, fighting the urge to just carry her back into the house and make love to her until her tears dry. “I don’t know if that was exactly my intention, but yeah, I guess so.”
“I don’t know what y’all are talking about.”
McKinley looks at me, then at Pops. “I’d like to look at my baby now,” she says. “With both of you.”
I lean in, planting a kiss on her lips. “We’d be honored to share this moment with you.”
Letting go of McKinley’s hand, Pops grabs both boxes and hands them to me. I put the one McKinley put all her notes in on the ground next to me, handing her the one containing my notes and the images of the baby from the ultrasound.
She lifts the lid, sifting around the many napkins I grabbed from all over the country when I was away at games, writing on them all the things I wanted to do with her and the baby she’s carrying.
“Do you want me to open it?”
McKinley’s fingers tremble at the sealed envelope.
“I’m scared,” she finally admits. “I’m scared he or she will hate me for what I did to their father.”
I place my hands over hers. “What you did to this baby’s father was love him so much that you carried a weight that wasn’t yours to carry. Keep his memory alive, Mac. Tell this baby of their father’s adventures and the passion he had for the outdoors. Tell them about his failures and successes, but don’t forget to tell them about their mother, who sacrificed everything just to bring them into this world happy and healthy.”
A tear streaks down her face.
“Promise me, Mac. Promise me that you’ll love their mother like they will.”
She nods her head, and I slide open the envelope, pulling out the picture, my gaze noticing the rounded cheeks, the small fingers, and the typed words above it.
With the picture clasped between my fingers, I watch as my wife takes the image with trembling fingers, giving it one look before raising her head, her gaze locked on mine before she bursts into tears.
“It’s a boy.”
McKinley
Cooper’s baseball season ended in early October, with the Tides not making the playoffs.
You would think that would have my husband moping around the house in a crappy mood. But nope, he’s channeled all his energy into something far worse.
Me.
“What did I do for you to hate me so much?”
Cooper rolls his eyes, the shiny new tattoo on his left forearm catching my eye for the millionth time this afternoon.
Ugh. Could he have not tattooed a mermaid or a baseball or something less captivating?
Of course not. My husband likes to be cryptic and ink Give Me A Sign down his arm—another phrase to keep me up at night.
What does it even mean?
Give him a sign for what?
A pitch? A life choice? His marriage to me?
Surely, that’s just my hormones talking.
Ever since I fell apart in Cooper’s arms and Pops grumbled that all my crying was giving him indigestion, things changed between all of us.
You could say there was less tension at home, but I don’t know if tension was ever a real problem. Secrets and stubbornness were the problems in the Lexington household. Once the secret was out about Griffin and me, as well as the purge of the guilt, my heart seemed to ease up—at least on me. That’s not to say all my heartbreak and guilt went up in a cloud of rainbows, though. It didn’t. I still cry when I think of this baby never meeting Griffin, or when I’m grieving the lost opportunity Griffin could have had to change his thoughts on becoming a father. It’s all still terribly raw and tragic.
But instead of allowing my pain to manifest into denial, my husband gathers me in his arms, handing me a stack of napkins and two pens. We write all the things we think Griffin would have wanted to do with his son once he saw him. Crazy things like climb Mt. Rushmore. But then we get realistic and scale it back, writing something like watching Hocus Pocus on every Halloween. The napkin promises help—even though now we have three shoeboxes instead of two.
“Stop being dramatic.”
At some point, I decided to grab that flashy new tattooed arm and grip it with all of my strength. “You can’t open that door.”
My stupid-sexy husband’s lips twitch like this is all seriously amusing—which it isn’t.
“Come on, Kin. It’s not that bad.”
Says the man who never gets nauseated when he pitches in front of thousands of fans.
“How would you know how bad it is? Have you had a baby before?”
He takes my hand, prying it off of his as if it were as simple as peeling off a sticker. “Have you ever had a baby before?”
I narrow my gaze. “I’m thinking you should ask the coach if there are more practices you can do at the field. All this time together has made you snarkier—and not in a hot way.”
I’ve rubbed off on the man, and it’s not charming at all. How does he put up with me being thirty-five weeks pregnant?
“We’re going in.”
I throw myself in front of the door. “How ‘bout this? We go home…” I slip my hand under his t-shirt, feeling his abs. “We get naked, and you can read the book to me instead.”
The man that really is a pain in the ass, leans in and presses a kiss to my lips. “That sounds absolutely delightful.”
Finally. Why didn’t I just suggest nakedness before?
“And we’ll do it just as soon as this class is over.”
Whoever said marriages consisted of compromise, clearly needs to give Mr. Lexington here a recap.
“Cooper,” I sigh, “be serious. I was caught up in the moment when the doctor suggested this class. I was all excited about seeing the baby in 4D, but now that the excitement has died down, I think the doctor was just trying to weasel more money out of you. I mean, really, women have been birthing babies for centuries. It can’t be that complicated. More than likely, it’s like having a stomach virus—my body will naturally push the baby out as soon as he’s overstayed his welcome.”
Cooper tries—and fails—not to laugh. “While your birthing description sounds absolutely horrible, I agree. I’m sure your body will know exactly what to do to birth this baby. But I don’t think it’s a terrible idea for you to learn a few techniques to improve your pain management and overall experience, do you?”
Why is he ridiculous? “Isn’t that what the good insurance is for?” I pop a hand on my hip. “So they can give me the good pain meds?”
“What happens if forty women go into labor at the same time and you have to wait on those good pain meds? Wouldn’t you want to know some tips to help ease your pain?”
Never marry someone who makes sense. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“This isn’t funny, Cooper. Stop smiling. You’re a celebrity, not the knocked-up, broke girl sitting in a class with a bunch of women who lick their husband’s toes after hot yoga with their besties.”
He chokes, and honestly, I don’t move to help him. I think we can all agree a little fear is good for this man. “Why would they lick their husband’s toes?” He finally manages to get out between coughs. “Is that like a new thing I’ve been missing out on?”
Ugh. He’s insufferable. “All I’m saying is I’m not like those women in there.” So I’ve still not mastered the whole ‘married to a celebrity’ thing. Especially since I’m due in about a month, and Cooper hasn’t mentioned long-term arrangements or permanent rings—which is okay. I don’t want him to stay with me just because he feels sorry for me. Just because I love his ridiculous ass doesn’t mean he’s ready to spend forever with me. Sure, we write future plans on the napkins, but I think we can all attest that Cooper Lexington will do anything to take care of the people he loves or the people his Pops loves. So I’m not getting my hopes up in case some twenty-pound, non-pregnant Barbie catches his eye, and he decides to move on. I mean, I’d hate to kill her and live a life on the run with my newborn, but it is what it is.
“Look, Coop. I might have an uppity doctor, but I’m still a fraud. Maybe we could just reschedule for a different class? Maybe one in my old neighborhood?” Hello, insecurity. It’s nice to see you again.
Cooper’s jaw clenches.
“You’re going to chip a molar, and I’m not going to lie, I will film any crazy thing you say under anesthesia when you have it fixed.” It would be the best Christmas gift for Pops.
“McKinley…”
Uh oh. His sense of humor has left for the day.
“You are one of ‘those’ women. You belong in this class just as much as they do.” He grasps my chin between his fingers, tilting my head up so I can’t look away when he grins. “You may not lick my toes when I get home, but you are just as uppity as they are.”
This man… “Psh.”
I try pulling away, but Cooper holds me still. “You belong with me. For all these women know, we fucked every day for hours until I put a baby inside you. You are my wife, and more of a woman than anyone in there.”
And this is why I don’t let him shower alone anymore. He needs naked hugs. Lots of them.
“Now, we’re going into this damn Lamaze class, and then we’ll stop for ice cream.”
Seriously? “You could have just mentioned ice cream at the beginning.” I press a kiss to his lips. “If you get me two scoops, I might even give you one of those fancy toe licks—” I act like I’m actually considering such a thing before adding, “Or we could just have some pregnancy sex.”
&nb
sp; Cooper shakes his head, a hint of a grin playing on his lips before he turns me in his unyielding grip and opens the door.
I go stiff in his arms, which earns me a swat to the backside, right before he guides me inside. “See?” I whisper, taking in the hardwood floors, yoga mats, and far too much crepe paper for grown-ass women. “Yoga and toe kink.”
Cooper masks his laugh with a cough as a woman—who is not pregnant—approaches us. “You must be Mr. Lexington. We’re so honored you could join us.”
Because clearly, she’s here for the eye candy and not all those helpful tips Cooper was lying about. I knew this was a bad idea. It reeks of money and stature in here—except for the crepe paper, which seems cheap and way out of character for a place like this.
“My wife—” Cooper tugs me out in front of him, his arms wrapping around my waist, his hands spanning flat against my belly. The traitor child inside me kicks; clearly, he’s another Closer fan, “—and I are really happy to be here.”
The woman, who I suppose is the instructor, glances at my finger where the black zip tie sits. Yeah, lady, we like to slum it with plastic rings. Gasp! “Well,” she clears her throat, attempting to smile but failing, “please have some refreshments and acquaint yourself with the others. We’ll start soon.”
She shuffles away, and I immediately pinch Cooper’s arm. “Just because I was right, you can lick my toe after this hot yoga class.” Lamaze class my butt… Celebrities don’t need Lamaze class. They have scheduled C-sections with added tummy tucks.
Okay, that was ugly of me. Some celebrities may need Lamaze, but not this class. I haven’t seen this many toned bodies in one place since I went inside the gym to use their bathroom last week.
“Come on, let’s see if they have pickles,” Cooper suggests, knowing good and damn well I’ll go along with anything if there is a possibility of pickles. Who knows, since celebrities love low-calorie snacks and pickles have zero fat, they may have some.
Cooper pulls us to the table of refreshments, where there are several husbands and wives, but no pickles.
“Do you know any of these people?” I whisper.