Chapter Seventeen
Brooke
After my shower-slash-breakdown, I towel off and get dressed.
The hot water helped in the moment, but now the pain is sharper, radiating with every step.
I take a Motrin, because apparently a stitched-up vagina isn’t “bad enough” for the good stuff.
And with my father’s history of addiction, I’m not about to risk stronger painkillers anyway.
After dealing with the pad situation, I pull on one of my maternity dresses. Pants are out of the question, I’d need an assistant just to get them over my knees.
Matthew must’ve plugged my phone into the charger before he left, but he didn’t turn on the switch. Of course. The screen stays stubbornly black when I tap it.
I let out a long, frustrated huff, drop it back on the nightstand, and leave it to charge properly this time. My feet drag a little as I make my way to the kitchen.
I head straight for the fridge, the faint hum of it the only sound in the quiet apartment.
“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice chimes from the sofa.
I startle, spinning around. Chloe is perched there like she owns the place, glasses on, a glass of my wine in hand, flipping through papers. It takes me a few seconds to even register what I’m seeing.
“I didn’t think anyone was home,” I manage.
She doesn’t even look at me. “Well,” she drawls, “my son didn’t think you could manage on your own.”
Of course. I knew Matthew wouldn’t leave me stranded. Even if the person he asked for help is her.
I bite back the sting and say tightly, “He probably knew I wouldn’t be able to pick up the baby with my stitches.”
Chloe flips a page, then glances up at me briefly, eyes sharp. “I managed to pick up my baby just fine. But then again…” She shrugs lightly. “Times are different.”
I turn my back to her. “Yes, they are,” I mutter, pulling out containers of pre-cut meats and cheese. Sandwich time.
Before my due date, the girls from group brought me a bunch of frozen meals, things I could heat up one-handed, things that wouldn’t spoil. I told them I had Matthew but they said better safe than sorry. They were right.
My appetite’s finally back enough for a sandwich, though not quite ready for the carb-loaded casseroles. I set the bread down, and line up the slices of turkey and cheese.
“Oh, darling, could you make me one too?” Chloe calls from the sofa.
My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches. Still, I force my voice even. “Sure.”
Inside, though, I want to fling the mustard jar at her head.
I shake my head. Can’t believe I was stupid enough to think she’d be different. I slip my hand back into my dress pocket and check the baby monitor, Penny is quiet.
Is that safe? She’s been sleeping so much. Everyone says newborns give you sleepless nights, but she just… sleeps. Should I take her to the doctor? I’m gonna call Stella later to ask. Not like I can call my mom, the afterlife doesn’t have cell service and Chloe is… well, Chloe.
“Honey, it’s a sandwich, not a three-course meal,” Chloe calls, distracted, from the sofa.
I trace my teeth with my upper lip and bite my tongue. Yup. She needs to go.
I wonder how I can get rid of her. I close my eyes, and smile faintly. She’s small enough to fit in the trunk of her Tesla. Do Tesla’s have trunks?
“Brooke. Brooke.”
The voice pesters in my ear. I startle, the fantasy dissolving. Chloe rolls her eyes and snatches the sandwich off the board.
“Huh. Sucker,” I mutter under my breath. I hadn’t even put the cheese on it.
Fine. I decide to toast mine properly. I hate unmelted cheese. And cold bread.
My sandwich comes together in no time-gooey, crisp, exactly how I like it. I take a bite, savouring the warmth, and grin to myself imagining Chloe chewing her way through a cold, bland slab of bread and meat.
Ha.
And to think, I used to get this kind of satisfaction from opening a plane door. Now I find it in serving my mother-in-law a cold sandwich.
I want to take my plate and retreat into the bedroom, but manners win. Instead, I carry my sandwich and a packet of chips to the sofa, lowering myself beside Chloe as she polishes off hers.
Protocol dictates I offer her some, so I hold the bag out. She shakes her head, dusts her hands on her slacks, and takes a long swallow of wine.
I smile tightly, take one for myself, and crunch down hard.
“You know…” she begins, that casual tone that isn’t casual at all, “some women start their healing journey the second they bring the baby home. You know, worried about their husbands finding them…” Her eyes flick deliberately to my stomach. “Revolting.”
My teeth grind, but I keep chewing. I take a huge bite, look her dead in the eye, and swallow before answering.
“So, what you’re saying is… you think your son is so shallow he’ll leave me if I look like I just had a baby.” I pause, smile thin and sharp. “Which I did.”
She backtracks immediately. “No, of course not, it’s just… you’ll feel more confident. And maybe cry less in the shower if you feel good in your own body.”
My pulse stutters, but I keep my face sweet, polite, proper. “I didn’t realize you were listening so deeply.”
She shrugs, unfazed.
“Kind of a surprise you ignored your granddaughter’s crying then, huh?” I say, tilting my head with a sugar-sweet smile.
The silence that follows is thick enough to chew.
I get halfway through my plate when the cramping starts, low and sharp. I pause, take a deep breath, and press my palm against my stomach.
Chloe just watches me. “You have a really low pain tolerance, don’t you? Matthew said you had an epidural.”
I stare at her, words drying on my tongue. The urge to ask why she feels the need to tear me down burns in my throat, but before I can open my mouth, the front door swings open.
Matthew steps inside, hair dishevelled, shoulders slumped, looking like he’s the one that just gave birth.
Chloe jumps up the second the door opens, her glass clinking on the table as she sets it down. “Matthew,” she says, voice bright, almost triumphant.
I stay seated, plate balanced on my lap, every muscle tight. My first instinct is to rise, to go to him, but no. Not this time. I’m still annoyed he left.
Matthew looks at his mother, then at me. His eyes flicker, guilty, tired. He runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “Hey,” he says, softer, to me.
I just take another bite of my sandwich, chewing slow, my gaze steady on him. Let him squirm.
Matthew
Brooke just stares at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Before I can get a word out, Ma says, “Let me get you some water,” and bustles off toward the fridge.
I sink onto the sofa beside Brooke, the weight of the day dragging at me. “I’m sorry,” I begin quietly, turning toward her. “Something came up at work and I-”
Ma reappears with a bottle in hand, cutting me off. “There’s no need to apologize. We understand you have responsibilities, don’t we, Brooke?” She smiles thinly at Brooke as she passes me the water.
I gesture at Brooke’s plate. “I’m glad you’re finally eating.”
“A toasted sandwich, just the way she likes,” Ma adds.
I smile at her, grateful she cut her day short to stay with my girls while I went to fight for my job.
“Speaking of,” she says, “let me make you one too.”
I shake my head, once she’s gone. “I really am sorry. If I had a choice…” My words trail off.
Brooke studies me. “Is everything okay with work?”
I run a hand through my hair and sit back. “They hired a marketing director.”
“What?”
I nod. “Apparently a buddy of Hughes or Knore’s. I can’t even tell at this point.”
“But your job’s safe, right?” she asks carefully.
I nod, though I’m not sure of that myself.
She sets her plate on the table and rests her hand on my leg. “Of course it is. You’re the man who brought in Boeing.”
I manage a smile, reaching for a strand of her damp hair. “You showered.”
She nods. “I was feeling disgusting.”
I cover my face with my hand. “God, the nurse said you weren’t supposed to shower alone.”
She takes my hand, squeezes. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m fine. If I didn’t pop my stitches falling over the crib, I wasn’t about to in the shower.”
I sit forward, alarmed. “You fell?”
She waves it off. “I caught myself. It was fine. The hard part was the walk from the bedroom to the nursery with her crying through the monitor. But… I was thinking. Now that you’re going back to work, maybe we should put the crib in our room.”
I look at her, throat tight. “I’m really failing at this, aren’t I?”
She tilts her head. “You’re working for us. I’d hardly call that failing. Irritating, yes, but not failing.”
Ma returns with a sandwich for me and a glass of water for Brooke. Brooke takes it with a polite thanks.
After my first bite, I glance at Ma. “I gave you the baby monitor. How come it ended up in the bedroom?”
She smiles, shaking her head. “I don’t think you did, sweetheart.”
I frown, brows pulling tight. I could’ve sworn I had.
Penny lets out a sharp wail from the baby monitor in Brooke’s pocket. Brooke starts to push herself up, wincing, but before she can get far, Ma springs to her feet.
“I got it,” she says quickly, already halfway to the nursery.
Brooke sinks back down, her hand brushing absently over her stomach.
I give her a reassuring smile. “She’s got it.”
Brooke doesn’t smile back.
I lean forward, voice gentler now. “I know you two haven’t exactly… clicked.”
Brooke scoffs. I ignore it, pressing on. “Just, give her a chance.”
“She hasn’t liked me since the day we met,” Brooke says flatly.
I counter, “Can you blame her for that?”
Brooke bites her lip, laughing. “I thought it was great.”
I look at her cheeky smile. “Uh-huh. Great for you, maybe. You’re not the one who got walked in on by his mom.”
Brooke laughs. “You’re the one who gave her a key.”
“It was for emergencies,” I say. “How was I supposed to know she’d be dropping by with lasagna?”
I shake the memory away just as Ma comes back from the nursery, Penny naked in her arms. “Where are the onesies?” she asks.
“I’ll show you.” I jump up, kiss Brooke on the forehead on my way to her.
In the nursery I fling open the chest of drawers. My mom facepalms. “Of course, why didn’t I check there?” She laughs.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her, taking Penny. Then I hesitate. “Are you sure you can help? Don’t you have listings?”
She waves a hand. “I’ll manage, sneak by between appointments. Stop worrying.” She gives my arm a playful slap.
“I just don’t want Brooke to get overwhelmed. The birth wasn’t easy.”
Ma studies the nursery. “She does look fragile.” She tilts her head. “But honestly, between diet culture and everything, women barely have enough meat on their bones these days.”
I purse my lips. “Please don’t say that to her.”
“I won’t,” she promises, hands up. She watches me dress Penny and then she says, quietly, “You’re a good dad.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“Why are you surprised?” she replies.
I shrug. “I’ve just been feeling useless.”
“That’s natural,” she says. “With breastfeeding, the man’s role isn’t always hands-on. All you can do is work hard and support the family.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
“I know, baby. I know.”