Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
BEATRICE
As soon as I move onto the jetway, I’m enveloped in thick, sticky heat.
It’s like stepping into a dog’s mouth.
Early October shouldn’t be this miserable, but apparently New Orleans is ignoring autumn until the very last minute.
It was like this last year, too, but the swelter feels more oppressive than it did before. Maybe I’ve been in Scotland too long. Or maybe it’s suffering the heat for two that has me fanning myself with my passport by the time I reach the terminal.
I instantly feel more pregnant than I did in a cooler climate, my swollen ankles twinging and sweat rolling down my spine.
Bean doesn’t seem to be enjoying her first taste of the Louisiana heat much, either.
She fusses inside me, flopping around on my bladder until I’m afraid I won’t make it through immigration without wetting myself.
I do, but just barely, and by the time I leave the stuffy bathroom, my hair is a frizzy mess.
The airport air-conditioning is clearly not up to the task today.
I swipe a hand across my forehead as I head for baggage claim, cursing the long-sleeved linen dress that seemed like a logical choice in Glasgow. I was fine on the plane, but now the fabric clings to my skin like a damp towel.
A gross, funky-smelling towel…
I can’t wait for a shower and a change of clothes. I’ve only been traveling for about fifteen hours, but it feels like a lifetime. Like I’ve been bouncing through time zones and emotional states for days, not since midnight in Scotland.
But at least I know Blue is okay. The Wi-Fi on the plane was good enough to get an update just as we crossed over Canadian waters.
According to the news reports, he has a mild concussion and is benched for the weekend, which I’m guessing means he won’t be at the away game Baylor is leaving for this morning.
Which is perfect!
I’ll be able to talk to Archer without worrying about managing my brother at the same time. Then, I can surprise Charlotte and Bay with the baby news together early next week, once he’s home from the travel game.
I couldn’t have asked for better timing.
So why is my heart pounding like I’m about to bungee jump off a skyscraper?
Oh, I don’t know. Probably because you’ve been hiding your pregnancy for so long that everyone is going to think you’re weird. REALLY weird. And probably mean and selfish. And possibly unstable.
Shit.
I pause near a pillar, bracing my hand on the cool concrete, forcing myself to focus on the next step, not all the big, scary conversations that have to happen in the next few days.
Baggage claim. I need to find the baggage claim.
Then, I need to find Clover.
Easy baby steps.
Well, as easy as MSY gets on a busy morning, anyway.
Outside the terminal, chaos reigns. Families cluster around the baggage carousels, kids squeal as they race around their suitcases, and couples argue in languages I don’t understand. The air smells like jet fuel, too many perfumes mixing, and terrible chain-restaurant hoagie bread.
I’m pretty sure it’s the same hoagie bread I puked all over my friend Estelle’s bedspread the first time I tried vodka. Also, pretty sure I might throw up now if I think about that too much.
Wisely, I turn my thoughts to other things.
“So wise,” I mutter as I maneuver past a little girl having a screaming meltdown in her stroller and head toward the carousel for my flight.
People are already crowded three-deep around the belt, jostling for position, craning to spot their bags.
I’m about to join the horde of idiots—when people force their way to the front instead of standing back so we can all see the bags, they force us all to be idiots, which I’m pretty sure is a metaphor for everything that’s wrong with society as a whole—when a voice shouts, “Bea! There you are! Bea!”
I spin to see Clover waving from just inside the sliding glass doors.
She’s wearing a yellow crop top and high-waisted red jeans that make her look like a refugee from the happy part of the 80s.
Her wild brown curls are pulled up in a high ponytail against the heat, and as usual, there’s a giant smile on her face.
I realize with a pang how much I’ve missed her.
I wave back, and she dashes over, arms outstretched.
But then, she circles the poor kid still screaming in her stroller, gets her first good look at my stomach, and skids to a stop. Her eyes fly wide, and her jaw drops. Literally drops, like a cartoon-character, until I can see all the secrets of her uvula.
I prop a hand on my hip with a laugh. “What? Never seen a terrifyingly pregnant woman before?”
Her hands fly to cover her mouth as she gasps, “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect…” She flaps a hand toward my midsection. “You look like you’re about to pop, woman. Are you okay?”
I smile. “I’m fine. And Bean is fine. My doctor in Scotland said everything is right on schedule. Pregnancy is sometimes just more obvious on a smaller frame.” I wave her in. “Come give me a hug. It’s not catching, I promise.”
She leans in, pulling me into a careful embrace. “Thank goodness, I can’t afford to catch a pregnancy right now. I still haven’t saved up enough for a new car.”
“Good.” I press a kiss to her cheek before we part. “I’d be sad if I didn’t get a few more rides in Mr. Higgins before he goes to the great junkyard in the sky.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, never fear. Mr. Higgins is here, moldy seats and all.”
“Yay,” I say as we move toward the baggage carousel.
“Yeah, I still can’t get the back window up all the way,” she adds cheerfully. “The smell is getting really offensive. The guy I’m hooking up with right now has an asthma attack every time it’s my turn to drive.”
“That’ll teach him,” I say. “You should never have to drive. You’re just a baby.”
Clover laughs. “I know, right? But he’s twenty-three, too, so he thinks he’s just a baby. And he gets sleepy after dark and has a stigmatism that makes the streetlights look smeary and has anxiety about city traffic and blah blah blah.”
“Sounds like a live one,” I tease.
She bumps her hip against mine. “You know it, girl. Nothing but the baddest of bad boys for me.” She shrugs and waves a breezy hand.
“But it’s fine. I don’t want anything too serious or fun right now, anyway.
I’m locked in at work. Reba is considering me for the assistant manager job at the diner. I should know by next week.”
“Congratulations!” I say, squeezing her arm. “That’s amazing, Clover! Look at you, climbing the corporate ladder like a boss.”
She ducks her head, shy about compliments, as always.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I’d make twice what I do now and only have to work four shifts instead of five, which would give me way more time to look for music gigs and design work.
I’ve barely had my sewing machine out at all this summer.
But we’ll see. They’re considering a couple of other people, too.
” She shifts her gaze toward the belt. “So what color are your bags? Let me grab them, so you don’t have to stress your preggers body. ”
“Thanks. I just have one big suitcase. Teal with a yellow stripe, but I’m not sure it’s out yet.” I push up on tiptoe, but at five foot nothing even in combat boots, I can’t see over a middle school kid, let alone the adults swarming around the belt.
“No worries,” Clover assures me. “I’ll be your lookout, my vertically challenged, friend.”
“Thanks again,” I say dryly, but I’m not about to complain.
It’s not my fault that the world was built for giant people.
I’m grateful to have my supermodel tall roomie on my side.
Clover is nearly five eleven, with legs that go on for miles and big Bambi eyes that easily dazzle the man in front of us when she taps him on the shoulder and chirps, “Excuse me, please? That one’s mine. ”
“Oh, yeah?” the man stutters as he stumbles out of the way. “Yeah, sure. Which one? I could get it for—”
Clover dives forward, claiming my massive suitcase and plopping it down on the ground beside us before the man can finish his offer.
“That’s okay, thanks!” She takes my duffel from my shoulder and drops it down on top, threading the straps through the case handle.
“I’ve got it. Have a nice day.” She then proceeds to drag my luggage toward the door like it weighs nothing at all.
I trail after her, feeling deliciously lighter.
“My knight in shining yellow crop top,” I murmur as we step out into the heat.
“You know it, girl,” she says. “I’ve got you. Want me to pull the car around? Or are you okay to hoof it to the cheap, short-term parking?”
“I’m fine,” I say, grateful that my ankles aren’t prickling as badly as they were when I first got off the plane. I’m still sweating like a beast, but there’s nothing to be done for that until we get home, and I can dig my t-shirts and lightweight skirts out of my suitcase.
A short trek across sunbaked pavement later, Mr. Higgins, her ancient Honda Civic with the peeling gray paint comes into view.
“Wow, he does smell worse than usual,” I agree as she pops the trunk, sending a musty sourness wafting out as she loads my bags.
“Yeah, poor guy. It’s hard to be a crusty old car in this heat.”
“Hard to be a pregnant woman, too, Mr. Higgins,” I agree as we climb in. “Don’t feel bad. I’m sure I don’t smell great right now, either. I am dying for a shower and a t-shirt.”
“We’ll have you home in a jiffy,” Clover says, shifting into reverse. “Traffic isn’t too bad this morning. So, how was the flight? Aside from long as hell? Did you get any sleep?”
“A little,” I say. “First class was the right call, but it was still hard to get comfortable, even in the lay-flat seat. Bean was kicking the hell out of me the entire time. I think she was freaked out by being in the air.”
“Same, Bean,” Clover agrees. “Flying scares the crap out of me.”
I shoot her a meaningful look. “But you’re working on that. Because you want to come to Scotland with me next summer. Right? I think you’d love it.”
Her shoulders hunch closer to her ears as we merge onto the highway. “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it. And if I don’t get over it, you can just give me a Xanax and roll me off the plane when we get there.”
“Or put you in Bean’s stroller.”
Clover laughs. “Yeah. I can’t believe she’s going to be here so soon!”
I drag a hand over the top of my fuzzy hair. “I know, I have to get my shit together. Find a new doctor, fill her in on my birth plan, get a crib set up in my room…” I laugh as I add, “And, you know, launch an album in all my spare time.”
“What’s up with all that? Is everything still on track?” Clover asks as we settle into the steady stream of cars heading toward downtown.
She’s right, the traffic isn’t bad at all.
“I think so,” I say. “The photo shoot for the album cover is next Saturday, and we’ve already got the marketing strategy locked and promo interviews lined up.
It’s just a matter of tweaking a few of the tracks and getting the final masters to the plant for pressing by the end of the month.
If all goes according to plan, we’ll be holding physical copies of Vespers for the Fire Born about a week before Christmas.
Shortly before Bean makes her arrival on the scene. ”
Clover makes a soft squealing sound. “I’m so excited! I can’t wait, Bea. Seriously. I’ve been playing the latest mix of Burn Me you sent me on repeat nonstop. I can’t wait for everyone else to hear it and get as obsessed as I am.”
I clasp my hands beneath my chin with a grin. “Really? You promise? You’re not just saying that because—”
I’m cut off by a horrible pow-punch-pow that steals my breath away.
Metal meets metal, and the world detonates.
No warning. No screech of brakes. Just a sickening crunch that swallows my voice whole, slamming the air from my chest. My teeth crack together. My skull bounces off the headrest. Glass explodes inward—a hundred thick, chunky teeth that go flying through the air, biting into my arms and neck.
Clover screams. I’m pretty sure I do, too, but the sound gets eaten alive by the shriek of tires and the wail of horns erupting all around us.
The car lurches sideways. My seat belt locks hard across my collarbone, cutting deep, and the world tilts violently to the right as we spin-slide-scrape across pavement.
The smell of burning rubber floods my nose.
Bile climbs my throat.
My hands fly to my belly, my fingers spread wide, clutching as much of Bean as I can. She thrashes under my palms, her panic matching mine as the concrete median rushes toward us.
I curl forward, protecting her with my body, because there’s nothing else. Nothing but Mr. Higgins’ ancient metal shell, that suddenly doesn’t seem so charming anymore.
The world narrows to her feet against my hands and the prayer pumping desperately through my veins.
She has to be okay.
She has to.
Please, oh, please…