Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
brONWYN
Iglance down at Trip as a rusty croak, his version of a laugh, comes out of his mouth again. He’s engrossed in a cartoon playing on the television mounted on the wall of Short’s room.
After Short had left, I’d put it on just to amuse him. The first time that unused sound had come from his mouth, he’d glanced at me in concern. But when I’d laughed along with him, the sound had come time and time again.
My father is dead, and I’m starting to wish my mother could join him in hell, as I slowly put together the pieces of all she’d put Trip through.
The picture they make up is ugly. Hating myself for not having realised earlier the treatment he’d suffered at her hands, I make a vow, I’ll never neglect him again.
It’s time to look forward and not back. However much we examine the past, it can’t be changed, only lessons to be learned and mistakes never repeated.
If my dad had never touched me, I wouldn’t have been forced to go through a pregnancy. But then Trip wouldn’t be here, and I could never wish for that.
I feel a weight’s been lifted off me at my father’s death.
I can now move forward. I don’t even care that Short had a hand in killing him.
That others saw he deserved to die for what he did to me, somehow starts a healing process within myself, and the desire to build a better future for my son and me.
I no longer have to fear my dad.
As Trip watches the cartoon, thoughts keep circling my head. I went into nursing just because my father had pushed me, the idiot daughter who wasn’t good enough to be a doctor like him. I’d always thought I was a failure, yet I've received good assessments on all my rotations.
Yet, do I want to be a nurse? It was never my choice. I’ve no idea what direction my career would have taken if other courses were available to me. After a lot of heart searching, I decide to complete my final year, if only to repay the enormous debt I owe the Kings for setting me and Trip free.
What I’d prefer to do is be a full-time mother to Trip, at least until he’s older. To make up for all those early years when my PTSD made me ignore him.
The cartoon rambles on, Trip’s attempts at chuckles become less and less, and I feel him relax against me. As his breathing deepens, I close my eyes and soon find myself drifting into sleep.
I have no idea what time it is when there’s a creak from the door, and my eyes snap open. Shit, I’ve failed again. I haven’t put Trip to bed. He’s not in his pajamas, and he certainly hasn’t brushed his teeth.
But Short simply stands in the doorway, the light I’ve not bothered to switch off illuminating him, and I can see he’s got a smile on his face.
“Now that’s a fuckin’ treat for sore eyes,” he states, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He indicates Trip, asleep and cuddled beside me.
But his deep voice, even quietly spoken, is enough to wake up my son. Trip yawns, rubs his eyes, then, seeing Short, sits up.
“Dada.” He crawls down the bed and reaches for him.
Short freezes, but quickly recovers before I do, and responds, “Yeah, Trip. Dada’s here.” I see this big man’s eyes fill with tears. “Have you been having a good time with your momma?”
Comfortable, Trip snuggles into Short’s arms, and it’s not just my man whose eyes are wet. Maybe, because Short had held him during his meltdown, being close to him represents safety? Whatever, he’s made giant leaps forward tonight.
Realistically, I know, a baby’s first word is usually Dada, Momma being more difficult for their untrained mouths to form.
But it doesn’t stop my silent tears from running down my cheeks.
I should be delighted that my son has uttered something for the first time, but somehow, in my brain, it gets twisted into just another sign of how bad a mom I am.
Especially when Short addresses him. “Let’s get you into your PJs and then to bed.” He seems to instinctively know more about childcare than I do.
Short catches my eye. “Little Momma,” he says quietly. “Let me have this.” For some reason, this big man’s in pain and needs something I can’t deny.
I stay lying on Short’s bed, while he sorts out the night time routine with my son. I switch off the television and, using the dimmer switch by the bed I’d found earlier, turn the main light right down.
Minutes later, he returns, carrying my obviously sleepy son, now dressed appropriately for bed. He leans him over me, saying, “Give Momma a goodnight kiss.”
I’m astounded when Trip leans over and places his lips to my cheek. Just a barely there touch, but that doesn’t matter.
Then he’s swept away from me, as Short lays him on the cot that’s been set up. Saying “goodnight” and brushing his mouth over Trip’s head, he pulls the sleeping bag around him.
I watch as Short takes off his cut, places it reverently over the chair, then rips off his t-shirt, lowers the zipper on his jeans, and pushes them over his hips.
He folds his tall body, takes off his boots and socks, then pauses before removing his pants as a soft snore comes from our son. Together, we both snort.
When he slides onto the bed next to me, wearing only boxers, I realise I’m still fully dressed and haven’t completed any of my own bedtime routine.
“I’ll just, er…” Swinging my legs off the bed, red-faced, I enter his bathroom, brush my teeth, and do the other necessities. Then, not sure what he expects of me, I undress until I’m just in a bra and panties.
When I reenter the bedroom, my face flushes deeper as he stares at me.
“No need to be shy when I’ve been inside you,” he says with a smirk. He glances toward Trip. “No matter how much I want to repeat the experience, we can’t tonight. But for fuck’s sake, Bron, lose the bra. I want you to be comfortable.”
He’s right. I hate the darn article that keeps my breasts confined.
But I’m still self-conscious and turn my back to him, as I unfasten the clip, and let the straps fall down my arms. I sigh as I let the hated, but necessary, item of clothing drop.
After taking a deep breath, I turn and jump into the side of the bed he hasn’t claimed.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says softly, taking me into his arms. “Bron, last night was so good, I can’t wait to do that again. But tonight, I just want to hold you. Is that alright?”
More than alright, and if truth be known, I’m feeling the same way as him. But I also can’t shake the thought that something’s badly wrong. “Are we safe here, Short?”
He sighs. “Can’t lie to you, Bron. It looks like there’s trouble coming our way. But I’ll do everything in my fuckin’ power to keep you and our son out of harm. Will you trust me, Bron? Will you promise you’ll do exactly what I say without asking questions if it comes to that?”
What can I answer but yes? I’ve never felt anyone cared for me before, so all I can do is give him my trust.
He holds me close and gently strokes my hair as I lay my head onto his chest. Trip’s gentle snores and Short’s soft, repetitive caresses woo me into sleep.