2. Nothing Kills Romance Like an Air Mattress
2
Nothing Kills Romance Like an Air Mattress
Bre
D ecember had always been her favourite month – until she was pregnant. Now, her ankles swelled before she even slid them from the bed, and scalding hot lines of pain, like heated needles, stabbed the soles of her feet as she carefully stepped over Billy’s hulking frame on the floor. She felt heavier and slower than ever before, though the woman in the mirror often didn’t look as horrid as she felt.
The woman in the mirror had a tight little baby bump, but when Bre looked down … that swollen gut seemed infinitely larger. And right now, that belly was pushing its entire weight onto her bladder.
Stumbling to the bathroom, she looked longingly at Billy’s silhouette. Nothing killed the romance like an air mattress being blown up … after a surprise pregnancy announcement to your best-friend-with-benefits … in his parents’ house. She’d imagined December first, over and over in her mind. She had planned and prepared for how and when she’d tell Billy about the baby, but nothing could have prepared her for last night.
They hadn’t fought, exactly, but she knew Billy wanted answers – and deserved explanations – but she’d refused to discuss it further. The bottom line wasn’t the pregnancy, per se, but the fact that she didn’t see why anything had to change between them. She was just six months pregnant now, that was all. Sex was completely doable, she’d even read up on it in that What to Expect book, just to be sure. No, the only thing that could have changed between them was a level of expectation – she expected that he would fall on his metaphorical sword and sacrifice his future to save her from this strange, unplanned present.
Billy Carmichael was the most upstanding man she’d ever known, and she knew that once she told him about the baby, he’d get down on his knee and make promises he’d actually keep. He’d try to secure a future for her that didn’t involve being that horrible small town social outcast – a single, unwed mother. A slut. A hussy.
All their lives, and especially at the tavern, when the locals became loose-lipped, they’d heard those horrid terms slung around town. Women had sex just as much as men, unfairly labelled for their behaviour, especially if it resulted in a baby. Her towering best friend, she knew, would be so full of pity that he’d sacrifice himself by marrying her to save Bre from that judgement. And that was not what she wanted.
She’d had months to figure this out now, and amidst the uncertainties, there was one thing she knew for sure – Bre refused to trap Billy, especially because of his own damn chivalry. She refused to let hm act on that innate quality all Carmichaels seemed born with – to protect her, simply because she’d been born with a vagina.
As children, she’d cleared it up, this notion that she was something less because she was a girl. She’d stood on her own two feet and been such a tomboy they’d named her Bruce, her straight up and down figure and oil-covered overalls confirming that she was ‘one of the boys.’ Unfortunately, nothing screamed ‘vulnerable femininity’ like her new beachball belly and swollen mammaries.
Bre didn’t want to be seen differently, and she certainly didn’t need well-meaning sympathy. She – and her baby – were never going to be someone’s chore. She didn’t want the pity or the questions or the too-good intentions of her best friend. That was exactly why she hadn’t wanted anyone to know about the unexpected, yet not unwelcome, pregnancy.
She didn’t need help. Or a man. She would admit, however, that when they’d tiptoed around the question of whether their traditional festivities were still on the table, Bre had certainly wanted Billy.
Her body ached for him, desire coursing through her like she had taken some kind of aphrodisiac. She’d never been hornier in her life than when she was pregnant and naked before him, eyeing Le Grinch and those ridiculous Mr Happy jocks that covered less of him than his tattoos. She’d forced herself to stay still, rooted to the spot, and watch as his dark eyebrows clashed together, thinking a million questions he didn’t ask.
Usually, she had zero reservations. Christmas wasn’t for being shy or hesitant, it was their once-a-year no-holds-barred clothes-completely-optional festive fuckfest. But how could she stick to their plans now? Without even meaning to, Billy would treat her differently, and she couldn’t bear it.
Over the years, he’d seen her naked plenty of times, and she’d been hopeful that nothing would change, but last night … it hadn’t been the same. Despite the pounding in her chest, and the equally strong beat much lower down, exhaustion had dragged Breanna to Billy’s bed, alone.
He’d sat for a long time, staring at the gifted mistletoe she’d hot-glued eyes onto, before setting up camp on the floor. For a quiet man, Billy’s thoughts had been extraordinarily loud.
For a loud little person, she had been awfully quiet, mentally working down the lists in her mind:
Come home for Christmas.
Resume the ‘benefits’ part of friendship with Billy (see addendum in planner – Bre’s Sexy Bucket List).
Explain everything.
She hated a list she couldn’t complete, and at this rate, her carefully curated Sexy Bucket List was going to end up screwed into a tiny ball and thrown in the bin – much like her love life in general. That last point? For the first time in her life, Bre’s tongue was tied, and explanations, while needed, would change everything between them … forever.
As usual, Billy was patient with her, waiting quietly for her to elaborate. But very few details came, stilted and forced, and the awkwardness between them became a pressing weight that pinned her down. Her lips clamped shut while her mind whirled, writing then re-writing the list of ‘right words’ to say in this awkward as hell situation.
Eventually they’d fallen asleep, separated by all the things that weren’t being said and the cavernous valley of spine-prickling tension between their respective mattresses.
Now, as she watched his broad frame rise and fall, the increasing light of dawn offered new hope for a new day. Shadows still clung to every surface, despite the morning call of the currawongs beyond the curtains, but with time the darkness would. Time healed all wounds, too. How much time might Billy need? She absently searched for a clock, unsurprised to find it didn’t exist.
Clocks weren’t required in Billy’s world. He’d never known a time that wasn’t ‘beer o’clock’ at The Pope, or ‘up at sunrise’ and ‘bed at sundown’ here on the farm. The timelessness of it, the natural ebbs and flows of their world – it felt right . Like there was no beginning or end – just up and down, natural, and rhythmic, a relentless pounding that would never end; that she never wanted to end. Aaaaand there she went, getting all horny again. Pushing hair from her face, she sighed. Maybe all her plans, and their traditions, would have to go out the window this year.
Coming back here each December, helping his family with the business and the festivities, it felt like home. She’d never doubted she’d end up here again this December, but she’d desperately hoped nothing would change between her and Billy, despite their somewhat strained last few months. Bre knew she’d been distant. Billy deserved a better friend.
Where once they’d clear the bar then head upstairs for a private drink and an old film, she’d decline, saying she had an early morning the next day. Their midday coffee dates at Friday’s Café had fallen by the wayside – not that she was supposed to drink Friday Evan’s jet-fuel strength caffeine while pregnant. She’d told him she was too busy, which she was, but in reality, Bre could never be too busy for Billy Carmichael. The idea of saving up her time with him, of hoarding it until now, had been a mistake. Now, it was too late.
Every small moment of retreat had drawn a line in the sand, and last night that line had cracked into a chasm. Clearly, nothing was the same, and it was her fault.
Carefully, Bre tiptoed across his room, opening then closing the door to the ensuite she’d helped build all those years ago, when Billy’s parents, Nick and Holly, decreed their four teenaged boys were too unmanageable to share the one family bathroom. To stop the morning fights, Nick ordered each son to address their issues in a productive manner. With Bre’s new lodgings completed by then, the boys turned their attention towards home renovations, under the watchful eye of their father. Literally building the changes they desired in the world had been a revelation to Breanna. Her own mother would have never let her pick up a hammer, let alone the air-compressed nail gun the Carmichaels shoved in her hands.
“They were some hard years,” she told the white tiles, noting how clean the bathroom was, and how nice it would be to vomit into this sparkling toilet bowl, rather than the ones at The Pope. Billy’s tavern was impeccably clean (for a pub) but pregnancy-induced vomiting in a public restroom was not Bre’s idea of fun.
She’d always had an aversion to public toilets, the precise reason Billy ran a tight ship with frequent cleaning schedules. Still, every time she gripped a toilet seat, heaving, she was never sure if it was the baby or the idea of someone else’s arse germs that made her feel so ill.
The slightly minty bathroom air filled her lungs as she relieved her pressurized bladder. Looking down, she whispered “good morning” to the beachball that had taken up residence in her stomach. Six months of growth and change, of hiding under loose clothing, and shitty posture, and now she’d finally revealed herself. Revealed the truth – the foetus the ultrasound technician had unceremoniously joked about looking like a turd.
A sudden wave of sickness rolled through her. “I need breakfast, little one, or I’ll barf till midday.” It was yet another new, not-so-fun addition to her daily rituals. Luckily, the Carmichaels’ kitchen cupboards were used to raiders. “I think we should have vegemite toast, little shit.”
After flushing the toilet, it took her three attempts to stand up. She imagined the baby, sloshing around beneath her skin, an olive in a martini glass, sliding side to side as she gathered her legs under her.
“Finding the centre of balance when you’re a whale on land is rather difficult,” she mumbled to her reflection, a thinner, less green version of the person she felt right now. Flicking off the light, she allowed her eyes to adjust before opening the door and surveying Billy in the slowly growing light. He hadn’t moved. The mountain of a man lay on his side, his back an expansive art-covered canvas, atop a rapidly deflating … no, deflated … air mattress. Well, that explained the hissing she’d heard all night.
Bre had dreamed it was a tortured snake, slowly wheezing its last breath from somewhere outside, but the mattress beneath Billy’s bulk was probably equally as anguished. Her heart gave a low, heavy throb. Billy Carmichael was a good guy. The best, in fact. She’d known it since they were kids.
Unlike everyone else in her life, Billy never imposed. Her never tried to make her apologise for who she was. He’d just … been there. Often quietly reading and always a solid presence. He’d been a pseudo-brother, and she was one of ‘the boys’ until, one night, years ago, when Bre’s to-do list required a date.
“It’s just a wedding! Please, Billy, I can’t go alone. Not again. Everyone is getting married so early, but I haven’t had a boyfriend since tenth grade when Alex McKenzie slipped his fingers up my skirt and … it’s not important. You know the story, anyway. He told everyone at school. Point is, the eligible men of Moonshine are either all dating, married, pining a lost love, or so far up themselves I’d have to hold a mirror all night to catch their attention! But you, my best friend in the whole world, you are like me. Single by choice and happy to ignore the pressure to live on a big block of land with five dogs and a dozen kids! Those were our parents’ dreams, but we have independence, and our own business aspirations. We’re our own people. We can help each other out!”
Poor William Carmichael never stood a chance.
“I see that eyebrow raise, Billy. Okay, how about I sweeten the deal?” she’d said, all those years ago. “I’ll give you anything you want. Anything . Hell, at this point I’d exchange sexual favours for this wedding – oh, you’ll come? REALLY? THANK YOU!”
He’d assumed she’d been joking, of course. Been shocked when she drove him home, followed him to his apartment above his beloved tavern, placed a soft, melodic record on his vinyl player and oh so slowly removed her clothes.
She still remembered the surprise in his eyes, the tremble of his big, square-fingered hand against the soft underside of her barely-there breast, and how his brilliant blue eyes had darkened with desire. His hand had slid into her hair, tugging her head back, forcing Bre to look up at him. Words rumbled through his chest, reverberating through the hands she’d planted there: “Are you certain, Bruce?”
“Never been surer.” Honesty, plain and simple. “If you’ll have me …”
Billy had kissed her then – their first kiss, aside from the barely-there peck that Spin the Bottle forced on them as idiot teens. This kiss had been hot and hard, lighting a fire within her she hadn’t known existed, and she’d swallowed all hesitation.
Bre swore fireworks had burst within her body that night. They’d spent many nights curled into each other on the couch, or side-by-side in a bed, but they’d never spent a night together, before then, naked, and willing to explore.
Come morning, that fire in his eyes was tempered. Bre, unusually awkward, had joked about “friends with benefits” and “maybe again at the next wedding, if you’re lucky” and “how about a festive fuck every Christmas?” She’d hated how callous the words sounded, even as they spewed from her mouth. But Billy had nodded, sealing the deal with a swift, hot kiss.
Casual sex with Billy had never been awkward. In fact, the familiarity of her best friend’s huge, solid body wound around hers had provided more comfort, enjoyment and orgasms than the few official boyfriends she’d had over the years. Fucking Billy was fun in a way regular relationships weren’t, probably because he approached her body like she approached broken vehicles – something challenging and fun, a new hobby that needed to be learned and tested, examined part by part.
More weddings, anniversaries, and events requiring dates flooded their calendars. Christmases and a few official boyfriends came and went. Then, she’d found out she was pregnant, and things didn’t seem so fun and carefree anymore.
Her plans with Billy were built around a lack of responsibilities, with no second guessing. With a baby growing in her belly, all she did these days was feel guilty and doubt everything.
Why did she have to do this? Insist on upholding these Christmas traditions when – he had been right last night – everything had changed. She was changing. She couldn’t deny him for trying to back out, but she needed him more than ever. Not just for sex but also for comfort and reassurance, the continuation of their lifelong friendship. Things had always been so easy between them, and she wanted – no, needed – that to continue.
A sob rose within her, a sad little bubble that slid from her gut to her throat, plucking at her tear ducts.
Blinking at the google-eyed Def Leppard poster, Bre tried to slow her heartbeat and her breathing. This hormonal thing was a trip. She never cried. Never . But now? She was a wrecked car leaking engine oil, threatening more damage with every drop and every memory that refused to stay locked away. She needed food in her system, or she was going to vomit on the giant man lying on the floor.
“God, pregnancy is a bitch,” she quietly told some old, too small clothes in the tallboy drawer Billy kept for her. Dressing quickly, she sighed at herself in the mirror. Even in the near-light of dawn, she could see that the red t-shirt, stretched too tight over her stomach, made her look like a Christmas bauble. Huffing a very bad word that Billy would have described as “bawdy”, she peeled the shirt off and threw it to the floor.
Her appearance was rarely a consideration for Bre, but there was definitely a time and a place for new clothes – and that was about two months ago. Called a tomboy and a beanpole all her life, she had no idea what to do with herself now that she had curves.
Not just curves, but breasts. Hips. Thighs. Places she’d never noticed before now swelled and filled her clothes in all sorts of strange ways. It was like she’d finally hit puberty … just twenty years too late. Now, because of those damned curves, her pants refused to zip up, the buttons on her overalls remained open at her hips, and her t-shirts had shrunk into halter-tops. Opening the drawer beside hers, she quietly rifled through the familiar fabrics of Billy’s clothes.
William Carmichael had always been big, broad-shouldered, and towering. His shirts hung to her knees, comfortable and airy – exactly what she needed right now. Even with a belly, his old Mighty Ducks jersey was sure to fit her.
Twisting her hair into a bun, she wound the old hair tie from her wrist round it in three quick loops and grabbed her favourite hat from the hook on the door. SHIT SHOW SUPERVISOR it proudly proclaimed in white embroidered letters. Years ago, the Carmichaels had gifted her the cap that told everyone on the farm who the real boss was. She adored it. Sweat-stained and sun-faded, the old hat was easily her favourite possession, aside from her car, Edsel.
Tiptoeing to the stairs, she descended from Billy’s bedroom and straight into the huge Carmichael family kitchen.
To describe it as the ‘heart of the home’ wouldn’t have done the cavernous space justice. It was warm and earthy, full of light and eclectic bright colours. The sweet air perpetually smelled of freshly baked biscuits. Herbs from the garden dangled in posies between iron pots and pans from vaulted, exposed wooden beams, and arched windows drew the Christmas tree farm and bushland beyond into the room itself.
It had long reminded Bre of a good witch’s kitchen, or at the very least some kind of earthen fairy, because there was almost certainly a magic that Holly Carmichael kneaded, basted and baked here.
Where was Holly? Billy’s mother couldn’t be too far. Amidst her festive content creation, Holly found joy in ensuring everyone who set foot on Carmichael lands was welcomed and fed.
The kitchen opened into an equally impressive dining room, both serving a huge volume of traffic throughout the day. Bre had rarely seen the long wooden table or benchtop without a selection of food and drink, made available to the family, farm hands, and seasonal workers who made the pilgrimage each year to the Carmichael Christmas Tree Farm.
Stomach grumbling, Bre spied a plate of oat biscuits. Stuffing one into her mouth, Bre’s eyes rolled skyward, praising whichever god was responsible for Holly’s cooking prowess. “There’s an orgasm in my mouth ... about time, too.” Mouth watering, she munched.
From its hiding place, tucked into the band of her underwear, her phone vibrated.
“Oh, shit.” Her palms were sweating. “Jesus freaking Christ in a manger.” Biscuit crumbs fell on the screen as she read the name splashed across the screen: Revv Ryder.
Hey Breanna baby! ETA= 2hours.
Can’t wait!
Are you as excited as I am?
AND I’m bringing a surprise!
You have a surprise, she thought ruefully, one hand on her belly as the other brought another biscuit into her mouth.
“Shit, shit, shit!”