by Holly Rayner
Marissa placed a hand on her abdomen and leaned against the counter next to the sink. “I’ll be fine,” she said warily. “It’s just a little stomach upset. I’ve had it for a few days now. I just need to do some meditating or breathing or something.”
“That helps?” Justine asked.
Marissa nodded. “I think so. I was super nauseated yesterday morning, and I did a bit of meditating before work, and it got better. Must be stress.”
Justine crossed the room so she was closer to Marissa. “You were nauseous in the morning, and then it went away? You know what that sounds like, honey?”
Marissa’s eyes widened, just lightly, as she picked up on what Justine was saying.
Justine went on. “Sounds like morning sickness, that’s what it sounds like,” she said. “Morning sickness, due to pregnancy.”
Marissa’s breathing quickened. Could it be?
In her head, she did the math. It had been six weeks since she’d spent the night with Colt.
She gripped the counter harder.
It was possible.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
Justine spoke slowly, in that soft, gentle way that she usually used on the kids. “Honey, is there a chance you could be carrying a child? Have you been seeing someone?”
Marissa nodded.
Yes, there was a chance she could be carrying a child. She wasn’t seeing anyone—Colt was dead. But she didn’t voice this second part to Justine. Instead, she just continued to nod. She was so stunned by the revelation that she could be pregnant that she could barely think straight, let alone form sentences.
It’s Colt’s child, she thought, pressing her palm against the blouse that covered her abdomen. It’s his. There’s been no one else.
Justine approached Marissa, put a motherly arm around her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay, honey,” Justine said gently. “Your man doesn’t know, does he?”
Marissa thought of Colt’s plane crash. His body had never been located; it was likely that it was somewhere deep down on the ocean floor.
She shook her head.
“He doesn’t know,” she whispered. He doesn’t know, and he’ll never know, she thought.
Justine squeezed her again. “I can see it in your face,” she said. “Don’t worry, honey. Men can be mighty funny sometimes about children, but deep down, they all want ’em, just like us women. Your man is going to be over the moon with your news.”
Marissa bit her lip. “Maybe I’m not pregnant,” she said. “Maybe it’s just a stomach bug.”
Justine released Marissa and laughed, a deep, hearty belly laugh that lit up her whole face. “That’s right!” she said, shaking her head so that her silver braids swept against her back. “A stomach bug that only makes you nauseated in the morning for a few hours.” She grinned and then gave Marissa a soft look. “No, child, you’re carrying. I can see it, now. I’ve seen enough pregnant women to be able to tell.” She gave Marissa a wink.
Marissa heard the stampede of little feet in the hallway, just beyond the classroom. The pitter-patter of little shoes on carpeting grew louder, and then, children began spilling into the room.
“What should I do?” Marissa asked Justine, as the kids plopped down near the doorway and began removing their outside shoes and slipping their feet into slippers.
“Miss Garvin! Miss Garvin!” a little boy who was the first to put on his slippers shouted out as he tore across the room. He ran smack into her legs and hugged her. “We found a butterfly outside! Sadie and me did! We wanted to catch it, but Mr. Jeffreys told us to let it fly away, so we did!” He let her go before waiting for her response and tore back to the area where all of the children were. “Sadie, Sadie! Tell Miss Garvin about the butterfly!”
Before Sadie could continue the story, Marissa looked to Justine. “I think I can make it through the afternoon,” she said quietly. “I didn’t manage to eat lunch, and I feel a bit light-headed, but I’m sure that will pass if I just drink some water.” She glanced at the sink, and the thought of even taking as much as one sip of water made her nausea return.
Justine was watching her carefully. “No,” she said kindly. “Marissa, you need to go on home. You need to take care of yourself. I have a quiet afternoon ahead. I’ll let Mr. Russo know that I’ll be subbing for you. He’s going to understand. Just gather up your things. I’ll go talk to him, and I’ll be right back.”
Within twenty minutes, Marissa had gathered up her belongings and was driving home. After a quick stop at a drugstore to purchase a few pregnancy tests, she arrived home to her little apartment.
She procrastinated for an hour before closing herself in the bathroom to take one of the tests.
She set the prepared pink stick on the edge of the sink and then lowered herself down against the bathroom wall until she was sitting on the tile floor. The five minutes that she was supposed to wait seemed like five hours, but finally the timer on her phone rang, and she pulled herself up off of the floor and reached for the stick.
A bright pink plus sign was clearly visible in the little white window at the tip of the pregnancy test.
It must be a mistake, she thought. A false positive. That happens.
She took another test. Then another, and another. All three of them came up positive.
“I’m pregnant,” she said aloud to the empty bathroom. “With Colt’s child.”
In a daze, she exited the bathroom and made her way to the kitchen. Her nausea had finally passed, leaving her with a feeling of dehydration and hunger, thanks to the fact that she hadn’t eaten all morning.
She made a turkey sandwich, poured a tall glass of water, and then carried both to the kitchen table.
In a state of numbness, she ate the entire sandwich and guzzled down the drink.
It wasn’t until half an hour later that the reality of her situation hit her.
She was sitting on the couch, flipping through the channels on the television when her chest suddenly became tight, her throat constricted, and then tears burst out from deep within her.
It seemed that the sobs would never abate. Her tears seemed to be never-ending. She was not crying because she was single, pregnant, and soon-to-be unemployed. She’d always been smart and capable, and she knew that she could handle all of that.
She was crying because she missed Colt.
If he was still alive, she would contact him immediately and do as Justine suggested: tell him about the baby. But as it was, she didn’t have that option.
He’s gone, she thought. He died before knowing about this little life inside of me—this life that we created together.
Tears wracked her body, and her shoulders shook up and down. Memories of Colt, which she’d brought up time and time again, filled her mind like clips from a movie. She closed her eyes and reached for the necklace she had not taken off since March. The metal that formed the little tulip charm felt slightly cool against her skin. She rubbed her thumb against the chipping pink paint and recalled vividly the way it had felt when Colt placed the necklace around her neck.
If only he was here, she thought.
He’d tell me everything is going to be okay.
Finally the intense wave of sadness passed, and her tears dried. She leaned back against the couch cushions, still with the little tulip charm between her fingers.
I’m going to have a child, she thought.
A small, fluttering sensation of happiness stirred within her heart, warming her like the sun coming out after a torrential rainstorm. She had always wanted to have children. She imagined what it might feel like to hold an infant in her arms. Maybe her eyes will be sky blue, just like Colt’s, she thought.
She closed her eyes and spoke in her mind to the man she’d thought of endlessly since leaving Austin, months before. Colt—wherever you may be—I hope you know that I’m going to give your child a good life. It’s not going to be easy, without you, but I promise you that I’m going to do
everything I can.
She slipped into a meditative silence and hoped that in some miraculous way, Colt would receive her message.
Chapter 10
Colt
Colt awoke from his nap with a start. Marissa was on his mind.
He’d been dreaming of her.
He had the strange sensation that she was trying to tell him something.
He sat up in the queen-sized hotel bed and scratched the back of his head.
It wasn’t like him to nap, but the streets outside of his hotel room were so loud at night, thanks to the bar right across the street. The bar served the locals alcohol and provided live music for dancing until dawn on most nights. Though Colt had purchased earplugs to dim the noise, he still usually lay awake into the wee hours of the morning listening to the revelry.
At least they were having fun—something that he was most definitely not doing.
His “temporary” stay in Argentina had stretched on longer than he’d banked on. It had been six weeks since he’d arrived in the small city off of the coast.
Far too long, thought Colt, as he groggily got out of bed. He shuffled to the bathroom and put on one of the white T-shirts that lay folded on a shelf near the linen closet. He was already wearing his jeans. There was no need to dress in button-up tops like he did back at home. He’d been living in casual T-shirts for weeks now. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He’d grown tanner and leaner over the course of his stay, thanks to the long walks on the beach that he took every day.
He rubbed a hand across his chin and heard the scratch of stubble against his fingers. Briefly, he considered shaving, but then decided against it.
It’s not like I’m going to a meeting or something, he thought. I’ll do it tomorrow.
He exited the bathroom and swiped his wallet from the nightstand by his bed. He stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans and then placed his Stetson on top of his head. Grabbing a pair of mirrored aviators, he put them on, despite the fact that it was late afternoon and the sun would soon be fading. His security team insisted that he wear a cap and glasses every time he was out in public, and he did his best to be compliant.
He stepped out into the hallway and closed his door behind him. Once outside, he wandered down the street, glancing at the familiar restaurants and bars, all of which he’d frequented many times since arriving in town in late March.
His stomach grumbled, and he thought longingly of his favorite steakhouse back in Texas.
What I’d give for a chicken-fried steak and a big, fluffy bowl of mashed potatoes with melting butter on top, he thought.
Unfortunately, Texan cuisine was niche, and nonexistent in Argentina, so he ducked into the place that had become his local favorite.
“Señor!” A waiter greeted him with a broad smile. Colt had been to the restaurant many times, and the staff liked him. “Por aquí, señor!” the waiter called out, gesturing for Colt to follow him toward the back of the restaurant. As Colt settled into a quiet booth, he attempted to converse with the man.
Colt’s Spanish was rudimentary. He’d only taken Spanish in high school. He’d focused on business classes in college instead, and over the years that had passed since he was in high school, he had forgotten most of what he learned.
Using choppy sentences, Colt asked after the waiter’s son, who he knew was ill.
The man smiled and seemed pleased as he answered quickly. Colt barely caught a few words, including “hospital” and “good,” and since the man was smiling, Colt smiled, too. He placed an order for Milanesa—like an Argentinian schnitzel, which was the closest he was going to get to chicken-fried steak—as well as a beer. The man rushed off to fulfill Colt’s order, and Colt was left in silence.
He fiddled with a plastic-coated menu and tried to replay some of what the waiter had said about his son. Was his son still sick, or was he well?
I might never know, thought Colt. Man, I can’t wait to have conversations in my native language again. It will be good to be able to communicate with people.
He was once again filled with an intense longing to go home.
With this in mind, he pulled out his cell phone and checked his signal. He rarely had good service in the small town, thanks to the high population of cell phone users and the relatively low number of cell towers.
He was pleasantly surprised to see that his phone indicated good coverage. He dialed Bradley.
“Colt, my man!” Bradley said when he answered. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m jonesing for a good steak,” Colt said, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t want to burden Bradley with his troubles. He tried to only call once a week and to keep conversations relatively short when he called. “But other than that, the usual. The sun’s hot, the water’s warm, and I’m missing Texas.”
“We’re doing everything we can on this end to get you back home, buddy,” Bradley assured him, as he did every week. “The FBI is getting closer. I had a call from Agent Barns this morning. He wants me to come in and testify about the funds that were stolen from Thorpe Oil. They say they’re real close to getting Vance locked up for good. Just need to get a few more pieces in place.”
“They’ve been really close for weeks now,” Colt said, unable to hide the frustration in his tone.
Bradley was silent.
“I’m sorry,” Colt said. “I’m not trying to take this out on you, Brad. I’m just frustrated, here; that’s all. I wish they could work faster.”
“They want to do it right,” Brad said. “And that takes time.”
Colt accepted this silently. Brad was right. He looked around the restaurant, taking in the foreign atmosphere. Paintings of saints he didn’t recognize hung on the walls; the scent of a spice he couldn’t name hung in the air.
“I need to be somewhere familiar again,” he said after a long pause. “I want to come home.” His mind turned to Marissa, as it often did. Even more than he longed for familiar surroundings, he longed to see her.
He hadn’t brought this up with Brad over the last month and a half, but he couldn’t keep his heartache to himself any longer.
“Listen, man,” Colt said quietly. “It’s not just that I want to be back in Texas. It’s—there’s a woman, see? And I’ve been thinking about her a lot.”
“You mean the woman that was with you when the car bomb went off?” Bradley asked.
Colt blew out a breath of hot air. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to voice the feelings that had been brewing inside of him for more than a month. The long nights of lying in his bed, being unable to sleep, gave him plenty to time to stew on his feelings—not to mention his daily ten-mile walks on the beach.
He’d been trapped in his mind for weeks, and now he was finally going to voice the conclusion that kept staring him in the face, time and time again.
“I think I have real feelings for her, man,” he said. “I want to be in a long-term relationship with her.”
Bradley hesitated. Then he said, “Colt, I’ve never heard you say that before.”
Colt nodded, and then he switched the phone to his other ear and sat up a bit straighter. Talking about Marissa gave him energy. “That’s because I’ve never felt it before,” he said. “But listen—I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“That might just be because you went through a traumatic experience with her,” Bradley said. “Science says that big traumas like that can bond people together.”
“Can you stop being so logical for just a minute, Brad?” Colt asked. “I’m trying to talk to you about my feelings. I…” He bit his lip, trying to put the ache in his chest into his words. “I really miss her, you know? I have this feeling in my heart, like it’s got a hole in it that’s not going to be filled until I see her again.”
“Why are you in the oil business?” Bradley asked with a chuckle. “You should write poetry. A whole book of the stuff—it might be a bestseller.”
“Quit joking around, Brad,” Colt
said, lifting a corner of his mouth into a slight grin. Leave it to Bradley to try to make light of the situation. “I’m confessing something to you.”
“You sure are,” Bradley said. “A confession of love.”
“I didn’t say love,” Colt said. He’d battled with that particular word long and hard in his mind. He usually entered the ring with it around three in the morning, or around mile eight of his walks.
The L-word usually won the sparring matches, leaving him with the aching knowing that he loved a woman he barely knew.
He wasn’t quite ready to put that knowing into words yet, so he stayed silent as Bradley continued. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really care about this woman.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Colt said. “I know it sounds crazy, seeing as I only knew her for twenty-four hours… but there’s this quality about her that I just can’t shake.”
“She’s a beauty, definitely, from what I remember,” Bradley said.
“She’s pretty, but that’s not it, Brad. There’s something else about her—there’s a depth. It’s hard to explain. With so many women, I look into their eyes and I see only my own reflection. But with Marissa, I looked into her eyes and I saw a whole universe.”
Brad scoffed. “What’d I say? Poetry—you’re going to be the next poet laureate of the United States.”
Colt waited until Brad was done laughing at his own joke. Then he said, “Can you do me a favor? It shouldn’t take too long.”
“What’s that?” Brad asked.
“Just find her and check up on her. I’d like to know that she’s okay. I think that would help.”
“You want me to get a message to her?” Bradley asked.
Colt thought about how it had felt to sit with Marissa on his couch and look into her fearful eyes. She’d experienced a shock that day in late March. The explosion was violent and loud and could have taken her life. She might still be recovering from that.