The Man I Love (The Road Trip #2)

32. Chapter Thirty-two

September

Present Day

The next two weeks were a mixture of emotions and worries. They continued with birthing classes, where both acted as though the conversation in the parking lot had never taken place—but whenever he held her, whenever he even looked at her in class, her body remembered his promises. Tristan’s words pounded in her ear every time he held her, and the only thing that distracted her from her thoughts was the fact that the news about her moving back from New York had finally traveled through Los Angeles. Soon, friends she hadn’t talked to for years were calling or stopping by for a visit. Even Steven Mathers, her ex-boyfriend and best friend from childhood.

“I heard you were back,” he said when she’d opened the front door of her apartment. He stood on the stoop of her steps, wearing a three-piece suit, and the same goofy grin he’d had when he was twelve years old.

“Steven, oh my gosh!” She blinked, then opened the door wider, allowing him inside. “How have you been? It’s so good to see you.” She pulled him in for a quick hug, where he promptly produced a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

“These are for you,” he said shyly. They were a mixture of sunflowers and red roses. The same arrangement he’d bought from the grocery store endless times when they were a couple.

Despite herself, she blushed and turned toward the kitchen. “You shouldn’t have.”

He followed her, not waiting to be invited. “Are you kidding me?” He leaned against the counter as though he’d been there a million times. “I’m just upset it’s taken me this long to get over here. You’ve been on my mind since you called and asked if my uncle still owned this building.”

She opened a cabinet to pull out a vase, then paused before turning around. She’d been a mess when she called that day. He’d asked about Tristan, and she couldn’t even answer the question.

“There’s no need to explain, Samantha,” he said to her, as though he’d read her thoughts.

The conversation had been an embarrassment. She fumbled over words and was so close to tears thatshe could barely speak.

She arranged the flowers in the vase and turned to him, wanting to explain, after all these months, what had happened. She found his eyes on her belly, and his brows knitting together with a frown.

She could only imagine what he was thinking. That Tristan had abandoned her in this state. She opened her mouth to correct him, but the doorbell rang at the same time.

She paused to look over her shoulder.

“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked.

She was—Tristan was coming over with dinner and to help with the nursery, but not until this evening. “Will you excuse me,” she said, then set the flowers on the center of the table. She was honestly thankful for the interruption, because how did she even explain what was going on between her and Tristan when she didn’t understand it herself?

She opened the front door, then paused when only a large box rested at the top step. “Don’t you hate that?” Steven said from behind her. “They don’t even wait for a signature these days.”

She stared at the large box for a long time, knowing exactly what it was. The crib her and Tristan had ordered days earlier. She remembered the trials and headaches they suffered through to come to an agreement. She’d wanted something sleek and modern, while he wanted it to be feminine and ornate. They settled on a solid white crib with dainty carvings along the border.

“That looks heavy,” Steven said. “Let me help you get that inside.”

Before she even had time to respond, he was outside the door carrying the large box into the nursery. She’d expected him to leave after that, but he opened the box and somehow ended up with Tristan’s toolbox. Soon the pieces were all over the floor and he was putting the crib together.

The interaction made her feel uncomfortable, but a part of her was thankful to have another thing checked off her never-ending list. Nesting had been something she’d read about in every baby book on the market, but until a week ago, she hadn’t understood how powerful the need to have everything complete would be.

Back in the stairwell, she locked the door behind herself as they exited her apartment. “Thank you for helping me today,” she said to Steven, placing her keys back into her bag. “I hate to rush you out the door, but I have a doctor’s appointment in a half hour.”

“Think nothing of it.” Steven leaned against the wall, watching her with his feet crossed at the ankle. “I’m happy to help, Sam. You know that.”

Of course, he was. It was Steven. “Happy to help” Mathers. The one who worked on weekends when the office was closed, took on extra credit even when he maintained a 4.0, and earned brownie points whenever the opportunity presented itself. “I know,” she whispered, but something about the way he looked at her made her self-conscious. She wasn’t sure if it was pity or the fact that he’d done nothing but brag about his partnership for the past hour, but she was thankful for the excuse to end the visit.

“I’ll call you later this week,” he said before he went down the steps. “We’ll do lunch. I want to hear about what you’ve been up to.”

An hour later, Sam lay on the exam table, looking up at the ceiling as she tried to find cartoon animals in the textured tiles. She was now thirty-seven weeks pregnant, and her doctor was checking her cervix for the first time.

“Starting next week,” he said, pulling down the hem of the gown to her knees, “we won’t stop you if you go into labor.” He tossed his gloves into the trash, then helped her to sit.

Sam adjusted the paper blanket on her lap and nervously fiddled with the edge. “Does that mean everything is okay?”

The doctor nodded. “You’re measuring right on track. Your cervix is one centimeter dilated, and fifty percent effaced. I’d say you’re well on your way to having this baby.” He winked. “Now all you have to do is wait, which for most first-time-moms can be the hardest part.”

Samantha laughed, not sure of his accuracy. She was about to push something the size of a cantaloupe out of the opening much smaller, and he thought waiting would be the hardest part.

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.

“Not that I can think of.”

But now, hours later, back in her apartment, she could think of about a million of them. How could she have read every piece of literature she could get her hands on about birth, and still feel like she had no idea what to expect?

Her pregnancy had once felt like a dream, but now everything was real—very real, and she was running out of time to get used to the idea. Panic had settled into her chest, seeming to take up permanent residency, and her days before the dreaded delivery were numbered.

She climbed the rungs of the ladder, reaching toward the corner of the nursery with her paintbrush. She’d started the mural weeks ago, but now that the crib was set up, finishing it had become her latest obsession.

Leaning back, she briefly eyed the pillows scattered across the floor as an extra precaution against a fall, then looked up at her work. The whimsical scene appeared to have been plucked straight from a picture book: the sky an ethereal blue, clouds as soothing as a lullaby, and baby animals suspended by helium balloons in every color of the rainbow.

A smudge of missing color caught her attention, and she dipped her brush into the organic water-based paint, just as a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in!” she called out.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Shit.” She cursed under her breath, remembering she’d locked the door when she got back from the doctor’s office.

She climbed down the ladder, wiped her hands on a cloth, then jogged to the door. “Sorry,” she said as she opened it. “I didn’t realize it was locked.”

Tristan stood on the stoop with food bags in each hand. “Don’t you always lock the door?” he asked as he came inside.

“No.”

“Well, you should.”

“The apartment is gated,” she said in her defense.

“Yet…” he paused and lifted his shoulders. “I got into the building just fine.”

She looked at him sideways, suddenly seeing his pointwhile simultaneously beingannoyed by the victorious grin on his face. “Touche,” she said as she walked toward the dining room, but then stopped, realizing to her own mortification that her house was a disaster.

In her urgency to get the mural finished, she’d left a million projects unfinished.

“Sorry.” She cringed. “I was working on the mural and lost track of time.”

She knew he was coming over to help, yet her suitcase was open on the table, its contents, including her new nursing bra, spilled over the edge. She tossed it into the bag, along with a heating pad, tennis ball, and a Ziplock full of toiletries. She then glanced toward the kitchen, where baby bottles and breast pump parts littered every inch of the counter. In her effort to clear it— CRASH —a glass bottle fell—exploding into a million shards on the floor. “Shit!” She stepped backward, and a piece jabbed into her foot. “Ouch!”

Tristan dropped his bags on the table and swooped her up off her feet. “Are you okay?”

She made a face. “Yeah—I’m fine.”

He carried her into the living room, shoved a pile of laundry to the side of the couch, and placed her on the edge. “Let’s take a look,” he said as he crouched down to his knees in front of her.

“It’s fine,” she argued, but just like every other time he was this close, her heart began to race.

His thumb ran over her skin, grazing the piece of glass that was stuck there. She jumped. “There it is,” he said, looking into her eyes. “It’s a big one.” He seemed so serious, and his brow was creased with concern. Like the tiny piece of glass in her foot was his number one priority.

In that moment she could picture him doing this same thing with their child. Taking care of her when she was injured. Treating her boo-boos when she fell––as though it were the most important thing he’d ever do.

“Where do you keep your tweezers and first-aid kit?” he asked.

“Tweezers are in my makeup bag I don’t––I don’t have a first-aid kit,” she stumbled over the wordsbecause she couldn’t quite believe she’d forgotten to get one. She’d read all the books. Thought she had everything for this baby’s first year of life, yet she’d failed at being prepared for a minor cut? The thought instantly filled her with inadequacy.

Tristan hopped up from the floor and proceeded to search the apartment, gathering the items he needed: tweezers, a washcloth, anda roll of paper towels. “No worries,” he said.I have a first-aid kit in my truck. I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, a minute later, he was jogging up the steps with a red zippered pouch and kneeling in front of her again.

Without speaking, he took an alcohol wipe from his kit and ran it along the bottom of her foot. His touch was so gentle she could hardly feel it, yet goosebumps covered her legs. He then plucked the glass with a steady hand, and every movement left her questioning her own abilities as a parent. So easily he took care of her—so easily he handled every situation as though he’d been doing it his whole life. Then he placed some antibiotic ointment on the cut and continued to wrap her foot with gauze and a brown adhesive bandage.

Her face must have clearly expressed her thoughts because when he glanced up again, he frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it too tight?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

She thought about denying it a second time, but she knew Tristan too well. He would hound her until she told him the truth. Deciding to continue the trend of total honesty, she met his eyes. But the sincere regard for her well being wasn’t something she was prepared for.

Her brows scrunched together, and the doubts she’d kept inside came bubbling to the surface. “I’m going to be a horrible mother.” The tears came out of nowhere, like a water balloon bursting on hot concrete.

“What are you talking about?” He rose to his knees and moved closer.

“It’s true.” She nodded, “I suck at this.”

He placed her foot on the ground and shook his head. “Where is this coming from, Sam?”

She glanced around the room, at all the projects left unfinished. She was always like this. All ideas, and no follow through. “Isn’t it obvious? The baby is almost here, and my house is a wreck. I don’t even own a first-aid kit.”

He smiled a little and pushed the hair back from her cheek. “Who cares? We got it taken care of, didn’t we?”

“I do!” she said urgently. “Nothing is ready, and I’m already fifty percent effaced, which I’m pretty sure means the baby could come right now .”

“Okay …,” he soothed.

“And then everyone will know.”

“Who will know?”

“The doctors. The nurses. Everybody! They’ll know I can’t do this. They’ll see it the second they place our baby in my arms that I’m going to suck at this.” Even to her own ears, she sounded ridiculous.

He grabbed both of her hands, making them feel small in his large ones. “You’re going to be a great mother,” he said firmly. He was no longer smiling, and he looked completely serious.

Her lips quivered as she looked into his eyes. “Kids follow you everywhere you go,” she said. “You have first-aid kits in your truck, but I”—her voice cracked—“I have a messy apartment and glass all over my kitchen floor.”

“Oh, Samantha.” He hugged her to his chest. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

She pulled away from him. “How do you know?” she asked. “I need you to tell me. I’m serious.”

His eyes met hers, and he braced his hand on either side of the couch cushions. His mouth softened, and his expression became somber. “This apartment may look like a mess to you, but to me, it looks like a home. The sink is full of bottles you’ve sanitized, because our baby’s health is important to you. The couch is full of clothes you've washed—with the detergent I’m pretty sure you spent your entire pregnancy researching.” He turned toward the coffee table and waved his hand over all the books. “You’ve thoroughly read all the parenting books that cover this table.”

“Because I don’t know what I’m doing,” she interrupted.

He gripped her face and looked into our eyes. “No one knows what they’re doing.”

“You do.”

“Because I have a first-aid kit?”

“Because you don’t panic. Because you take care of things without falling apart.”

He tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear. “You’re going to be a great mother, Samantha.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

She closed her eyes, feeling him wipe away the tear that ran down her cheek.

“There isn’t much in this world I’m sure about,” he continued, “but I’ve never questioned your ability to take care of our child.”

Her lips quivered, because there couldn’t have been a more perfect thing to say in that moment. Tristan always had faith in her when she couldn’t find it herself. He had faith in her three years ago after her first gallery failure, and today—he had faith that she would be a good mom.

He didn’t say the words ‘I love you’, but she felt it in every fiber of her soul. Brick after brick she’d tried to shut him out, building up walls to protect herself, but he was always there, taking each one down even faster, letting her know who he was, and she couldn’t hide from it anymore. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted to.

“I’m so scared,” she said, sliding off the couch to kneel in front of him—but she wasn’t talking just about motherhood anymore. It was this, it was them. It was the fact that she couldn’t seem to keep herself away from him any longer.

“I know,” he whispered back. Then he anchored his feet to the ground and rose from the floor, pulling her up along with him.

Despite being nine months pregnant, her body fit with his like it was meant to be there. In his arms. With him holding her, just like this. She stared into his eyes. Then her focus drifted to his mouth, to his lips, and her heart picked up speed. Even with a growing child between them, his closeness awakened something primal inside her.

His hand moved to the small of her back, urging her closer until his lips were upon hers. Softly at first, as though if she took a breath, he would leave.

A moan escaped her, from somewhere deep in her throat, and he pulled her closer, the kiss fueled by all the desire they’d kept bottled inside for weeks.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, not allowing him to let her go. “You’re right,” she said into his mouth. “I want this so bad. I’ve wanted you since you walked into my apartment wearing those damned glasses.”

He lifted her into his arms, laughing into her neck. “I wanted you the day that fan was stuck in your hair.”

She glanced toward the hallway, making her intentions known. “I wanted you when you were playing Duck Duck Goose with all those kids.”

He carried her into the hallway, where he promptly placed her on her feet outside of her bedroom door.

His eyes raked over her from head to toe, as though trying to figure out his next move. With anyone else she would have been self-conscious, but she wasn’t with Tristan. She wore a pair of boxer shorts, and an oversized T-shirt splattered with rainbow paint, but the way he looked at her made her feel like she was his entire universe.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life, Samantha.”

She took a breath, because to him, she knew it was true. She was beautiful to Tristan when she was messy and un-showered, pregnant and swollen. It didn’t matter—to him she was like the sunrise after a storm, chaotic yet breathtaking, perfect in her imperfection.

He backed her up against the wall, where his arms caged her in. “Are you still scared of me?” he asked. His voice wasrough and serious.

She went silent, remembering how much her words had affected him. She’d thought about them often and finally came up with an answer to explain them properly. “I’m scared of this,” she clarified. “I’m scared of making mistakes, but I’m not scared of you, Tristan. I’ve never been.”

His sigh of relief was audible, but then he held his breath. “If we do this”—he paused—“there’s no going back. I can’t take it again.”

He lifted his head higher, but something must have caught his attention because he turned in the direction of the nursery. The empty box was leaning against the far wall outside of the door. “What’s that?” he asked, stepping away from her.

She turned toward the nursery and stepped to the side. “Oh—” she suddenly felt sick, “––the crib came this afternoon.”

He walked toward the room, then flicked on the overhead light as she followed. The ladder was still in front of the mural, the pillows on the floor, and the crib perfectly assembled in the center of the room.

“You put it together without me?” he asked quizzically.

She swallowed hard, because she could see the doubt in his expression. The crib was too heavy. It was obvious she couldn’t handle it on her own. “Steven came by this morning. He helped me put it together.”

There was a long pause, then his expression changed. “Steven? As in Steven Mathers?” he asked.

But he was no longer confused. He was hurt. He was angry.

Her gut twisted. “Yes.”

“How did he even know you were back?” he asked, gripping the back of his neck as he stared at the crib.

“His uncle owns this apartment building. I called him when …” She didn’t finish the sentence. Telling him she’d called her ex-boyfriend when she needed a new place to live in Los Angeles didn’t seem like the right way to start this conversation.

She walked into the living room, the mood between them gone, and Tristan followed her. “I really don’t like him coming around here,” he said.

“Oh God!” she almost groaned. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. I don’t like the guy, and I never have.”

“He’s my friend .” She gathered the first-aid supplies off the table and began putting them away into the pouch.

“He’s not your friend, Samantha. He has never been your friend .”

She laughed. “Sure. I’ve only known him since junior high.”

“If he were your friend ,” he began again, “don’t you think he would have come over at least once when we lived together? Don’t you find it odd that now you're alone in this apartment he’s sniffing around and offering ‘Help?’”

“Sniffing around?” She was horrified by the analogy. “Besides,” she placed the bag on the couch, “it’s none of your business who comes over here.”

“Like hell it’s not!” He scoffed.

Her blood was boiling. “You should go.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Sam…” His anger deflated, and he came to put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s talk about this.”

“I’m tired, Tristan,” she whispered. “So tired.”

“Of what?”

“Of fighting!” she yelled. “Of constantly ending up here, where you don’t trust me.”

He stepped backward and leaned against the wall.

“When you touch me, I forget about everything––and then...”

“Fuck!” he yelled, not letting her finish. “I love you! Can’t you see that? My anger has nothing to do with not trusting you.” He pulled in a deep breath and pointed at the nursery. “ I should have been the one to put that crib together.” He held out his hands in front of her. “With these hands. Not his.” His guttural tone almost killed her.

Hot tears sprung into her eyes, and she stepped forward, but he turned away from her. She hadn’t even thought of him at that moment. When Steven put the crib together, she’d only been focused on getting things checked off her list. She hadn’t even questioned that Tristan may be the one who wanted to build the crib for his child.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t even think.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but his phone buzzed in his pocket at that exact moment.

He paused for a second, then took his phone from his pocket to read the message. “Shit!” His eyes closed.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“It’s Penny.” He shook his head. “A client’s new system is malfunctioning, and I have to go fix it.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.” He looked conflicted. Broken.

She knew it wasn’t an excuse. He had to work. He was the only one who could do the job. “You should go.” She nodded, forcing a subdued expression onto her face. “I have a million things to do, anyway. Renee and Phin will be here tomorrow afternoon, and I need to get things ready for them.”

He looked at her for a long time, then slowly walked closer, laying his hands along her neck. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he promised. “We’ll get everything ready.”

She wanted to cry, but instead she nodded and forced a smile. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, Samantha.” He kissed her forehead, then picked up his first-aid kit as he exited the apartment.