ROMAN (Lane Brothers Book 5) (89 page)

My stomach is a ball of knots by the time dinner rolls around. I’ve cooked fish and chips and made-from scratch-his favourite desert, hoping that he’ll take pity on me and at least try it before all my hard work goes into the bin.

The table is set and the music is on. Day and Ryan are out for the night and have agreed to give us till tomorrow morning and I even went against the grain and bought a cute little dress from the maternity boutique for the occasion.

It’s black and tight without being obscene and it looks better on my massive bump than I’d imagined it could. I’m no Giselle but even I have to admit I don’t look atrocious.

I’m ready and hoping and praying and so nervous I’ve been chewing antacids since the clock hit seven with no sign of him.

I wait, putting my swollen feet up and listening for the door. The first hour I am jumpy and anxious and pathetically giddy, thinking that if God’s listening and watching he’ll cut me some slack and give me a little something to work with.

The second hour sees me reheating the food, convinced that he’ll walk in any minute and be apologetic for his tardiness-I had called him and left a voicemail after all.

By twelve the candles are burned down to nubs and my nose is red and raw from constantly wiping it on my sleeve. By twelve fifteen I feel my insides harden to that numbness I’d walked around with for weeks after Logan had left and refused to talk to me.

I feel just as, if not more bereft now than I did then because just as I had then I have to accept this defeat and swallow my protests. This isn’t going to work. I’ve fucked it all up.

The candles eventually sputter and sizzle before going out and plunging the room into darkness and still I sit there, my skin cold and hard despite the heat of the late summer air.

The front door opens and closes and I hear him mutter a curse and for some reason I lose all the lonely, depressing feelings that have taken hold, just happy that he’s here so I can finally say what I need to.

I’ve written it all down in case I get too choked up to finish, sort of like my gift to him silly as that may seem. It’s my heart poured out and open, me at my rawest and I just hope it makes the difference.

I spring to my feet, no easy feat with my burden, and scuttle to the hall, a bright smile plastered on my face.

“Oh hey, there you are I-”

I freeze and stop talking when I hear a feminine giggle and a muttered curse before the light flares on to reveal Devon and a very blonde, lean bombshell hanging all over him, her red lipstick plastered on his face, neck and the stubble at his chin.

They’re…I can’t speak as his eyes come down to rest on me, taking in my dress and upswept hair. The makeup I’d painstakingly applied. My swollen ankles and the perfume he loves so much as it swirls in the air around us.

“Oh Devon baby, who’s the girl. My God, are you carrying triplets?  How do you fit through a door honey?” The blonde laughs, draping herself all over him.

Devon I noticed isn’t too affected by the insults thrown my way, or by the fact that he’s being pawed by the ditzy whore as I stand there in silent mortification, battling tears that I swear I won’t shed.

“Rebecca. What are you doing up?” he asks slowly, his eyes drilling into me with a frown that’s even worse than the scowl lining MissHooker's face.

She’s obviously not too impressed by the interruption if the downward curve of her mouth is any indication. But I really don’t give a shit right now. Right now I feel like the worst of fools and…

“Nothing. I, uh got in late.” I lie, my voice a choked rasp in the room. “Don’t let me interrupt; I’m off to bed as soon as I get a drink.”

More like outta here as soon as you leave so that you don’t see me crying like a sap, I think, smiling brightly despite the knife twisting in my gut.

He nods and grabs the blonde by the ass, his hands hoisting her up as he strides to the stairs and takes three steps before turning back to look at me over his shoulder.

God, I really wish he would just go so that I don’t have to compare the ease with which he lifts her skinny ass of the way she’s sucking on his neck or the way he’s looking at me as if the hurt he knows I feel doesn’t matter at all.

“We’ll try to keep it down.”

I ignore him and turn away, doing my best to keep myself from sobbing as I hear him take the stairs before his door slams shut and locks and a squeal echoes down.

This is it then.

“Sorry kid. I think we’re gonna have to call this one.” I whisper, waiting a minute to make sure he’s occupied before grabbing my purse and keys and tiptoeing out of the house and to my car.

I won’t be coming back.

“Would you stop pushing the food around on your plate and say something sugarplum. Please? For daddy?”

“Dad, look-”

“No you look. You’ve been running yourself ragged all week getting stuff for the baby and making sure the house is spotless. Now I know you’re just anxious and that you feel a little down Beck, but you gotta snap out of it and start returning that boy’s phone calls.” He snaps, slamming a hand down on the table.

I grimace and push my plate away, my appetite as lacking as it has been since I’d turned up on their doorstep and begged for some time to get myself sorted while I think about the poor savings still left in my account and the huge amount of stuff I need to buy for the baby.

I hadn’t once thought about it since I’d foolishly assumed Devon would come around and take me back and now I have nothing-well till yesterday when mama had taken me shopping and gone full hog on the baby store.

“I can’t.” I whisper, feeling the ever-present tears fill my eyes. “I just need some time so I can hold my head high when I talk to him. Please daddy.”

Of course he’s not too compassionate about my plight because I haven’t told anyone about my humiliation and the fact that I’ve become nothing more than dead weight. An incubator for the next generation of Baxter’s.

“Aw honey, you know this isn’t doing anyone any good. You’re about to have that baby Beck and no matter what’s going on with you and Devon you know you can’t avoid him forever. He has a right to be involved with his baby.”

I know that, I just can’t face him right now. I’d spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling while junior rolled around, pummelling my ribs and I’d come up with a few very unpalatable truths.

I’m not meant to be with my dream guy. I messed up my one chance. And I left that pathetic damn letter on the dining room table.

Shit.

“He knows what’s going on dad. I called Day yesterday and spoke to him about what Doc Brewer said. I also told him to call Devon and let him know that I might give birth early.”

Day had tried to talk about Devon and about my leaving but I’d cut him off and made him promise to text me the date and times for his practice days and the upcoming game.

That’s coming in four weeks and he’s promising to come and get me on a day Devon’s not around so I can watch him practice.

So yeah, we’re doing the divorced parent thing now.

“Sugar-”

“Daaaad. I’m not running or hiding or anything that you’re thinking. I promise. I just need a few more days to get over the loss and then I’ll go see him and give him those papers my lawyer drew up.”

Thank God for Logan and his support. He’d taken one look at my veiny eyes-something that happens when I refuse to cry-and given me a hug and the promise that he’d help me with whatever I need.

My first need had been a lawyer to draw up visitation agreements and some parental rights things that I don’t understand but am willing to go with. I don’t want to deprive him of his kid after all.

“That’s bullshit getting sharks involved. You’re the kid’s parents, you should be adult enough to sit down and hash things out over a cup of coffee. Or something.”

Have I mentioned that dad and Devon have spoken and are right back to being buddies and that since they no longer want to deck each other dad has taken Devon’s corner and tries to set us up all the time.

Thank God for mama and her bra burning stance on my rights for privacy. She’d tipped me off twice and helped me sneak out before Devon turned up.

“I tried that remember? He’s the one who insistedon making things legal like. Now stop harassing me and eat your vegetables old man.”

“Beck.”

“Nope, not listening. I’m done feeling like shit because I made a mistake and ran away. I came back. I tried to apologize and explain. It’s done dad.”

“Brandon. Leave my daughter alone before I go get you an extra helping of greens and shove it down your goddamned throat. She’s hurt and needs your love, not a freaking matchmaker!”

I smile and wink at mama when dad shuts his mouth and goes back to hiding his vegetables under his potato.

***

“You’re going to have to push Becky.”

“I am goddammit!” I yell, screeching through the pain and baring down with a fight.

I’ve been in labour for close on thirteen hours now and despite the fact that I’d threatened the hospital staff with death and or disembowelment I’m currently drug free and attempting to squeeze a giant out of my vagina.

It hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt in my life and if excruciating were a number that’s what I’d say when asked what my pain scale is. Mama has been a rock through it all and I will never be able to repay her for the way she’d ordered everyone to sit in the waiting room and shut up.

She’d ensured that I didn’t have to spend my labour reassuring people-my family is acting as if I’m at death’s door-and that Devon only got in to see me for ten minutes before he’d been booted out with the rest of them.

I sound cruel I know but I hadn’t been in a place to let him hold my hand and coach me through this, not now. Maybe when I see the baby and feel more like…not crying myself to death, I’ll be able to look at him and smile.

“Come on honey, come on now. Push my darling.” Mama says sternly, her face as cherry red as mine as she holds her breath and pushes right along with me through every contraction.

“I see the head Becky dear. Push as hard as you can when I say sweetheart. One, two, three. Push!”

“This isn’t right. A bowling ball can’t fit through an opening the size of a grape!” I screech, pushing so hard it feels like my head will explode.

“If that’s what you think, you should wait a while before looking at your vagina again.” The nurse chuckles, dipping her head when I glare at her through the aneurism I’m about to have.

“I. Will. Cut. You.”

I push harder when I feel the pressure increase, my voice coming out in a thin wail that blasts through the room like a gunshot.

I keep pushing, ignoring the commotion at the door and focus on staying conscious, my entire lower body feeling like one big geyser about to erupt.

The pressure suddenly releases with a whoosh and I slump back, exhausted and ready to sleep when I hear a mewling wail a moment before the doctor rises from between my legs and plops a bloody, writhing-

“Oh my God.” I choke, looking down at the little miracle wriggling on my chest.

“You’ve got a beautiful, perfect little girl. Congratulations mama, you did good.”

I can’t stop the tears that slip out and pour down my cheeks or the hysterical sobbing cry that leaves me when my daughter opens her eyes and stares blearily up at me, her mouth pulling into a slash as she lets out a cry of indignation.

To say that I’m surprised to be looking down at a little girl, well, I’m mighty glad mama has a thing for white and yellow or I’d be raising a little hoydenish tomboy.

I feel a gentle kiss on my forehead and look up, ready to let mama see the baby and all the joy I feel in that moment but it’s not her I see when the tears finally clear, it’s Devon and he’s looking at me with so much pride I can’t help but smile back and release my grip on the baby.

“You did so good imp.” He chokes and I chuckle through a sob.

“Yeah. You ready to meet your daughter?”

We may never be together and a part of us may never learn to get over the hurdles and distrust that we’ve sown through our tumultuous relationship, but this I know as he takes the squirming bundle from me an kisses her bloody cheek as if she’s the most precious thing he’s ever beheld; Devon is going to be a great dad and I couldn’t have chosen better for my kid.

There is no better. He’s it.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I think the wind is picking up. I’ll ask coach if I can pull the car onto the entrance at the field and you and Immie can watch from there.”

“Day, calm down okay. She’s a baby not a piece of glass and it’s not windy at all. Go do your thing and we’ll be here, just fine, till you’re done.” I laugh, giving the kid a small shove before leaning down to adjust the blanket over Imogen’s chin.

She’s a month old and already so spoilt I don’t stand a hope in hell with her unless I buy a whip and some sort of kiddie leash. The kid is huge, really huge, my vagina can attest to that fact and the apple of her dad’s eye.

And apparently any eye that lands on her cute little face.

Her little tufts of downy hair are golden blonde just like her father’s and her eyes, while still that murky baby blue, are promising to be the same pale grey that make up the Baxter clan.

Go figure his genetics would overrun the game and go freaking figure that my little gem would look exactly like the man I’m trying my darnedest not to think about every second of the day.

I can just see myself years from now, crying into my cereal when that smile lights up her face and reminds me of everything I’ve lost.

I’m doing okay though. After a huge argument and a lot of yelling I’d convinced my folks that I am not an invalid just because my little girl tried to rip me in half and that I can do things by myself.

And then I’d whammied them with the little house I’d let Grey buy me-I’m paying him back in full when I get a job-and ignored their arguments and put them to work.

I am now a single mom, living in a very cute little single cottage, exhausted but content to let the hordesin at all hours of the day to see the precious little cherub.

“His form is better.”

I look up to see Devon standing beside me, his hands crammed into the pockets of his light coat.

“Yup. He’s got the speed and the build to make it.”

This is the first time we’ve been alone in almost two months, not since the night I’d left and while it’s awkward I can handle it. So what if my heart is trying to pound its way through my chest cavity and so freaking what if my stomachs fluttering?

“May I?”

“Sure, just don’t try to pick her up please, the little hellion just fell asleep and she can shatter glass when she gets woken from her nap.” I warn, shifting over to make room for his broader frame.

“I won’t. I learned that lesson the hard way last weekend when Davy picked her up to cuddle.” He chuckles, sitting way too close. “You look exhausted imp.”

Well gee, thanks.

“Aw and here I was so sure I looked like a super model after giving birth to a child the size of a small person.” I say sarcastically, my ego stinging at the put down.

“No.” he sighs and sits back, his hands ruffling through his hair. “I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t beautiful.”

I snort and pull a face, keeping my eyes glued to the drills out on the field because looking at him is not a good idea. Damned post pregnancy hormones.

They say that you’ll get better after the birth but that’s total bullshit. I’m a walking bag of emotions right now. I’d cried during a chocolate ad for goodness sake, not sure if I was crazy or just Jonesing for chocolate I can’t have till I lose at least some weight.

“Imp, I, can we talk?”

“About?” I ask, pretending to fiddle with a blanket as he turns towards me and rests a hand on the back of my seat.

I can smell his cologne and take a quick silent sniff that almost has my eyeballs rolling to the back of my head with need. I miss that smell and the steady comfort it had represented. I want it so badly some nights when Immie is keeping me awake and I’m dead on my feet.

If I had that smell I wouldn’t be up by myself or obsessing with terror about my ability to care for Immie or the fact that I feel gross and totally inept most of the time.

If I had the smell I wouldn’t be alone and right now that is something I want more than my next breath.

“Us, I-”

“There is no us Devon.” I say tonelessly, sitting up to meet his eyes with what I hope is a clear, trouble free expression.

I see him blanch and resist the urge to take it back and offer him…I don’t know what but I want to ease the tension I see bracketing his lips and smooth the guilt from his eyes.

“I didn’t sleep with her imp. I swear. I kicked her out as soon as I heard you leave and I…”

“It doesn’t matter. I had no right to do or say anything at that stage. You made that very clear. I tried to force something on you that you told me you didn’t want. You made sure I understood that and you helped me see that I was making an ass of myself. End of story. I should actually just say thank you.”

“Imp.”

“Er, look, I think I should go. Day was right it is a little too windy for Immie to be here. Tell him I’m sorry for cutting out early and that I’ll call him later.”

I pick up the chair holding my daughter and wait for him to kiss her goodbye before bolting back to my car and making my way home.

When I get there I lay Immie down in her cot and flop down on the sofa, my heart and body a mess of contradictory emotions.

Does it matter that he didn’t sleep with the blonde bimbo who’d made me feel like an unattractive wildebeest? Yeah, it so totally does. It matters so much that I feel a weight I hadn’t known was still there ease off my tired shoulders.

The problem with that is that it shouldn’t. We’re done. Finished. I shouldn’t feel like smiling and doing a jig in celebration, something I’d been perilously close to doing before my reasoning had kicked in and I’d made a hasty escape.

Dammit. I am way too happy that all he’d had left over from that night was a face full of lipstick and a hard on, and that does not bode well for me.