Chapter 19
NINETEEN
“I love you so much, but the thought of attending a baby shower makes me want to light myself on fire.”
What the fuck kind of thing is that to say to someone?
“Don’t be dramatic,” I tell Santana, rolling my eyes as she throws herself back on my bed. Oh, hell no. “And don’t sit on my bed with your outside clothes on, bitch!”
“What…” Quintin peers over at us from where he’s assembling what will eventually be my child’s crib.
I’m trying not to stare, trying not to think about how beautiful he is.
It will only lead to remembering how many times I came last night…
Holy shit. “Outside clothes?” The question snaps me out of my horny haze.
His confused stare ebbs into the task at hand as he glances down at the instructions. I didn’t know baby furniture could be so complicated. It was easier making the baby… Ew. Thinking about that is like poking the soft spot on an apple.
I mean, the baby isn’t even here yet, and everything has gotten so complicated.
Santana glares at me as she rolls over and pushes off the bed with a huff. “It’s an unwritten rule,” she provides. “You don’t lay in bed wearing the clothes you wore outside.”
You don’t wear your shoes in my apartment either, but that’s not something most people I know do.
“What if you want to take a quick nap?” Quintin murmurs, eyebrows drawn as he tries to sort the pieces so the assembly makes more sense. It all looks like chaos to me. How are there so many pieces? And how do all these pieces come together to safely hold a little baby?
“What are we, five?” I ask, stopping for a moment when I remember I napped every day this week. “Um, I nap on the couch or shower before I lay down in my bed.”
“That’s so much work,” he says with a quick shake of his head.
“It’s a dealbreaker,” I inform him, my mother’s rules engrained in me like some form of childhood trauma.
He gestures toward me with a screwdriver, his focus split between me and the manual. “Noted.”
“So is not having a baby shower put together by my mother.” I turn to Santana, pinning her with my stare. “She’s excited, and I don’t want to rain on her parade.”
“So rain on mine?” she whines, picking up the knickknacks on my dresser before moving on to my other things.
“What did you have in mind instead?”
“For one,” she starts, grabbing the newest sonogram and holding it up, “we’d find out the gender of my godchild.” I shake my head, and she continues. “Second, I’d enlist the help of several shirtless men to carry you around. Your feet would never touch the ground.”
“Um…” I gesture toward my body, not saying what I’m thinking in the presence of the man I’m perpetually naked in front of.
I’m a big bitch and I’m pregnant.
“She’s carrying precious cargo,” Quintin says, his quiet voice at odds with the intentionality of his words. They reverberate through me, and even as I try not to react, my pulse skips.
“That she is,” Santana quips, placing her hand on my stomach, her eyes wide as she smiles at his response.
“You know, typically, I hate being touched, but this is nice.” Strangers don’t touch me. I’m pretty sure my resting bitch face stops all desire.
“You hate being touched by people you don’t love,” Santana corrects me, a huge smile on her face, her eyes nearly closed. “And this baby is about to be all over you. Do you think you’ll breastfeed?”
Quite a jump from finally accepting people touching me to having another human being sucking the life out of me.
I love my boobs. I’m sure I’ll love the baby more, but…
I love my boobs. The question makes me wish I didn’t have to make these decisions.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know anything at all.
I’ve never done this before.
It’s then I decide I need to have a long conversation with the closest person I know who’s done this before. If she was able to raise me, she must have tons of knowledge.
I shrug in response to the breastfeeding question and try to avoid both their gazes as I step out of the room, mostly to hide from the possibility of more tough questions.
So many questions require answers soon, and it’s all so suffocating.
I’m stirring a mug of hot tea, standing in front of my window and watching people walk by outside when Quintin finds me. I hardly glance his way, hoping he can read me well enough to know I need comfort right now.
“You okay?” he asks as he slides his arms under mine.
When his hands rest on my belly, I close my eyes and lean back against him.
I’ve been more physical with him since Thanksgiving, loving how it felt when my family could see how we feel about one another.
It helps me feel more secure, more adored. Safer.
“I’m…scared.”
Hello, understatement.
“Can I teach you something my therapist taught me?” he murmurs against my ear, goosebumps skating across my skin.
I pop my eyes open and turn to gawk at him.
I knew it.
“You’re in therapy? You’re like a walking green flag. What the fuck?” I set my mug on a nearby shelf and face him again.
He grins, shaking his head a little before he presses his thumb to my lips to silence me.
He strokes my lip as he speaks, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Of all the things you’re worried about, what can you control?
Whatever you can’t, put out of your mind.
What you can, place in order of importance and tackle the issues as best you can.
” He removes his thumb, replacing it with his lips for a quick kiss.
“And, as always, if I can help, please let me know.”
So much easier said than done, but I’m sure things are about to get much harder. I may as well tackle the me stuff while it’s still just me.
“I’m not used to leaning on anyone else,” I tell him, cracking open part of the problem.
“Well, get used to it,” he says.
“Yes, Chef,” I joke as I straighten.
He smirks, and I’m reminded of an idea I had the other night.
“Wait right here,” I mumble before scurrying toward my front door where my purse hangs, reaching in to find what I’m looking for. He doesn’t listen, following me until he’s standing right behind me. “We need to work on your listening skills.”
He only offers a smirk in response, watching as I rifle through my things before feeling the cold metal in my palm.
I stand in front of my apartment door, my heart racing like it’s preparing for a marathon. Quintin is beside me, looking calm and collected, as fucking usual. All I have to do is hand him the spare key to my place. Should be easy enough, except my mind is spiraling into its usual frenzy.
“So, um, here’s the key to my apartment,” I mumble, holding it out in my sweaty palm. I made a copy of it a few days ago in preparation for this momentous occasion. I’ve never offered another person anything as important as this, not even Santana.
This is me inviting him into my life and my space.
Into our lives and our space.
Quintin’s eyes crinkle in a smile as he takes it, his fingers brushing against mine. “Thank you, Daniela.”
There’s a solemness in his tone. His brows, which usually look a little intense when he’s serious, seem softer somehow. The closest emotion I can relate him to in this moment is relief.
And I feel it, too.
I nod, my smile feeling like it’s been stapled to my face. “Yeah, no problem. You know, just in case you ever need to...get in or something.”
He chuckles, his laugh making my heart flutter. “I appreciate it, though I promise not to use them for any covert operations.”
I let out a nervous laugh, my cheeks heating. “Right, of course. No covert operations.”
Why hadn’t I been worried about that until right this very moment? And why do I always manage to turn simple conversations into awkward stand-up comedy routines? It’s like my brain has a hotline to the nearest embarrassing scenario.
Quintin’s fingers gently brush mine again, his touch sending a jolt of pleasure through me. “This doesn’t have to be a big deal. I’m just glad you trust me enough to give me a key.” He talks me down with an ease that mystifies me.
I blink at him, feeling like he’s just read my thoughts. Maybe he’s telepathic? Maybe that’s his superpower, and he’s using it to decipher my inner monologue.
“I do trust you,” I blurt out, my words a little too eager. “I know you aren’t going to use the key to sneak in and kill me.”
As we share another laugh, I notice how well he fits. I don’t have to quiet myself or mold and contort to fit him. He finds a place in the spaces I never knew needed filling.
This is my home, my haven, and now, Quintin is part of it, too. I can’t ask him to promise he’ll never leave us. I can’t demand he shackle himself to me to make sure he doesn’t break our hearts. I can only offer him pieces and hope he takes good care of them.
“So, here we are,” I say, spreading my arms out before letting him take my hand in both of his. It’s a recent discovery of mine—I never liked people touching me because they weren’t Quintin. I can’t get enough of his hands on me, always reaching for me, always soothing the worry from my body.
He smiles, tracing patterns with his thumbs on the back of my hand. “Here we are.”
The awkwardness of earlier seems to have melted away, replaced by a comfortable silence. Maybe it’s not such a big deal, handing him the key. Maybe it’s just another step in this unexpected journey.
Unorthodox, but it makes perfect sense in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
“You know,” Quintin starts, his gaze as steady, “I love how at ease I feel. I can’t wait until you’re used to seeing me here.”
“You think you won’t change your mind when there’s a screaming baby here and you have to be up early for work?
” I look down at my belly, my words quiet enough that I can hear Santana’s snoring from my room.
I’m sure she popped one of those edibles and hit the end of her high, landing on my bed in those damn clothes she wore outside.