Chapter 29 Gabi
GABI
“Where did I put the…” I trail off because not only don’t I remember where I put it. I don't know what it is.
Welcome to the final stretch of pregnancy…
I want to say that my inability to find the it—seriously what the fuck was I looking for—is a product of that I’ve only been in this kitchen for a week and we just finished unpacking it yesterday.
In my defense, this kitchen is bigger than my whole apartment was.
And there are so many cupboards and drawers I can’t fathom how I’m going to fill them all.
Everywhere I look there’s a cupboard. The island has cupboards and inside those cupboards are drawers.
Even the garbage can is hidden in a cupboard.
The worst part is that I can’t find it and only half of the cupboards are full. I can’t imagine my confusion when all the bottles I registered for—that are all bought from the registry—get here, along with the other baby things. I really won’t be able to find shit then.
Oh well. It’ll be worth it. It already is.
Realizing that I’m not going to remember what I was looking for any time soon, I turn my attention back to the cutting board that has a spread of vegetables on it.
I call out to my speaker to turn on my favorite playlist—appropriately called Kitchen Jamz—and immediately, the playlist doesn’t disappoint, playing an upbeat song that doesn’t make a lick of sense lyrically, but back in high school, I couldn’t stop singing it.
I mean, how do you kiss someone through the phone?
The lack of lyrical understanding doesn’t stop me from moving my hips—which are as wide as they’ve ever been—to the song as I start cutting green peppers. But not any green peppers. Ones that I’m using to use to make our first official dinner in our new home.
I hate that every meal we’ve eaten here has been take out of some sort, but between the bakery, unpacking, and his football schedule, neither of us have had the time or energy.
But tonight I’m feeling good, probably better than I have in weeks.
Our son, who’s still being called Tiny Tot because we can’t decide on a name, has been pretty calm today.
It’s Saturday, so I had the early shift at the bakery.
I was home by noon and took a glorious nap that’s left me refreshed.
I was even able to finish unpacking the last of my clothes.
And because Maddox plays away on Monday night to open the season—a rarity in pro football from what I’ve been told—we have tonight to ourselves before his travel day tomorrow. Just the two of us.
Because before I know it, it’ll be three.
I can’t wait for Tiny Tot to be here, but at the same time, the closer I get, the more terrified I am.
There are the little things—the fact that we don’t have a name.
Still having no clue what brand of diapers to use.
There are the much bigger ones, which all fall under the category of being a mother in general.
Breastfeeding, sleep schedules, and keeping a human alive.
You know, the basics. I want this. I think I’m ready for it.
But that doesn’t make me less terrified that I’m going to screw one or a hundred things up.
Then there’s the actual birth, which is the fear that has kept me up most nights.
Sure, I’ve already told my doctor to give me every legal drug and pain killer there is, and Maddox has made me a playlist that he’s insistent is going to make me think that I’m at a dance party, but that hasn’t quelled the worries.
Things happen. Plans change. If anyone knows that, it’s me.
What if something happens and surgery is needed?
What if the baby is breech? What if Maddox isn’t there?
Shelby is on standby to be in the room with me, but I want Maddox there.
I need him there. I love my best friend, but I know if the going gets tough, I’m going to need his strength.
The way that he can keep me focused and calm.
There are a hundred more thoughts like those that run through my brain daily, and I hope that not one of them comes true.
But again, plans change. Hell, nothing in my life has ever gone according to plan. But maybe, just maybe this time something will, and we'll have the normal, routine, very undramatic but completely exciting birth of our son.
A girl can dream, right?
I take a deep breath and grab a red pepper, giving myself an internal pep talk to stop thinking about the what-ifs, when I hear the distinct sound of crowd applause followed by guitar chords I’d know anywhere.
Our song.
That’s what I think of it as now. It used to be the song that reminded me of such a bad place in my life. A day I never wanted to think about again. Yet, with one night, one man, and one dare, I can now listen to it without pain, but most importantly, I can sing it.
I turn it up before closing my eyes, letting the opening chords, and then the male lead’s words, run through me.
Of course I transport myself back to Vegas.
I think to how Maddox looked on stage. So poised.
So confident. So handsome. How when he turned to pass the song off to me, the care and gentleness in his eyes was overflowing.
He gave me more encouragement in that moment than I had received in years.
I should’ve known then he was different. Boy how stubborn was I…
Why couldn’t I see it? Since the second I met him, that man has never faltered when it came to me and what I needed.
He gave me strength that night and with that performance, just like he has every day since we met.
He comforted me then when I broke down after the song the same way he did in the bathroom when we found out about Tiny Tot.
He brought me back to life in that Vegas hotel room and has continued to do so every day I spend with him.
When the female lyrics come on, I don't hesitate to start singing. And I don’t hold back.
I put down my knife, take a deep breath, and let the words I know by heart ring out.
I'm so lost in the moment that I don't hear anything else or realize that a certain someone has come behind me, wrapping his arms around my very large stomach.
"I love hearing you sing," he whispers, kissing my neck, just underneath my ear.
I think the only thing that could get me to stop singing this song is Maddox Gallagher’s lips on me. “Then why’d you stop me?”
Maddox’s hips start swaying back and forth, his hands guiding me to dance with him. “Keep going gorgeous.”
I listen to the song, doing my best to sing with the lyrics, but I’m having trouble concentrating while Maddox’s mouth is doing everything in its power to distract me.
“I’m off the deep…” I can barely get the words out, and they’re just above a whisper.
Maddox’s mouth is hot and the open kisses are now moving down the length of my neck to my shoulders.
He pushes down the strap of my cotton sundress as his mouth continues to travel up and down my neck to my shoulder, leaving me hot, bothered, and definitely not thinking about singing.
“Do you know how fucking sexy it is to walk into our house—our home—and see you like this? Your body looking like this? Hearing you sing? Seeing you so happy?”
I shake my head because if he’s lying, I never want him to stop.
Sexy is the last thing I’ve felt recently that I’ve crossed the ten-weeks-to-go mark.
Example A is the sundress I’m wearing. It’s not a sexy one.
It’s made of cotton T-shirt material that hangs on me, but between the still-summer heat and my size, it’s the most comfortable thing I own.
Which means I bought one in every color.
I know it isn’t the most flattering article of clothing, but Maddox doesn’t care.
I can feel what I’m doing to him. One would think I was wearing French lace and thousand-dollar lingerie.
His hands reach up, cupping my heavy breasts in each of his hands. “Gorgeous was the first word I thought of when you walked up on that stage. But every day I spend with you I realize that word isn’t enough. And every other word that comes to mind doesn’t feel strong enough.”
If I wasn’t horny before, I am now.
I turn around into him and drape my arms over his shoulders. “Then show me.”
His eyebrows raise in a question. One downside to becoming as big as this kitchen is that my sex drive has plummeted. Most days I can’t get comfortable laying down, let alone trying to have sex.
I know Maddox doesn’t care about our little drought—at least if he does, he’s the best actor I’ve ever seen—but I’ve missed it.
Him. That connection. I know we love each other.
We tell each other that dozens of times a day.
He always kisses me before I leave for the bakery, or he leaves for practice, and it’s the first thing either of us do when the other gets home.
But for a person who didn’t think physical intimacy was a love language I needed to realizing I crave it, it’s been a slight shock to not have.
But for the first time in weeks, I want it. I need it.
I need Maddox.
“Are you sure?” he asks, concern pooling through his still heated eyes. “I didn’t mean for—”
I put my finger up to his mouth. “I want you Maddox. I want us. Just… maybe not on my back.”
Yes, it was a cautious warning, but then I see when my words hit the creative side of his brain. “I think that can be arranged.”
Before I can ask any questions, Maddox is swooping me up in his arms, carrying me bridal style to the living room.
“Maddox! Put me down. I’m the size of a whale.”