35. Hunter
Chapter thirty-five
Hunter
Christmas night, long after Ellie’s parents leave, I light a fire in the fireplace and we lie on the couch, watching Hallmark Christmas movies.
Sometime in the past few weeks, we’ve transitioned into a place in our relationship where it feels as though whenever we’re near each other, we’re always touching.
Ellie’s always been a very affectionate person, but this feels like more than that.
Or maybe … I just want it to be.
I’m sitting at the end of the couch, Ellie’s head in my lap as she lays on her side.
Her belly is so big that it’s practically hanging off the edge of the couch.
One of her hands is tucked underneath my thigh, as if I’m her personal pillow.
And, honestly, I’ve kind of been functioning like that for a few weeks for her.
I’m toying with her silken blonde hair with one hand, pretending I’m paying attention to this movie when I’m really just wondering if this is all real. It certainly feels real.
But in the back of my mind I wonder, will Ellie snap out of this one day? Realize that I was just helpful for a season but better left in the friend zone? Fear and hope war for space within me. And I wish I knew which side was going to win.
Waiting for a baby to come is kind of like getting ready to go on a mission, except you don’t know when the mission will be, only that it’ll come when you least expect it.
We’ve packed and re-packed our hospital bags three times.
We’ve got car seats installed in my truck and Ellie’s.
A couple of weeks ago, we went to the fire station to get them to check the car seats to make sure they were installed correctly.
But this morning, Ellie feels like the car seat in my truck “looks weird.” So, of course, I’m headed back to the fire station to have Ansel take a look at it again.
“Ellie having a bad feeling about the car seat?” Henry asks.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“This is not our first re-inspection.” He steps onto the truck rail by Ansel. “Need some help? I could squeeze in there with you.”
Ansel straightens, ignoring his friend. “Car seat’s fine.”
“Thanks for taking a look at it.”
“No problem. Got me away from CJ and Andre shouting about Mario Kart.” He hops down from the truck. “And I like to help.”
“Ansel’s a secret sweetie,” Henry says.
The “secret sweetie” in question rolls his eyes and looks like he’s about to murder Henry.
I clap them both on the shoulder. “Y’all are so cute together,” I say, and walk around to the driver’s side of my truck.
On the drive home, I call Connor for some updates. I’ve been sending him any relevant footage I find in the surveillance on Dylan, and he’s started corresponding with the FBI.
“I got some info on Quentin Long, that friend of Dylan’s you told me to check out,” Connor says.
“What do you got?”
“The guy has been arrested for all kinds of things. Started small—shoplifting, possession—then it escalated. Grand theft auto. Interstate transport of stolen goods. Couple of arrests tied to distribution networks.”
“Distribution?”
“Yeah. Not street-level. Logistics.” The sound of typing in the background fills the silence before Connor speaks again. “He did a little time at Redstone Federal Correctional.”
“Sounds like a charming guy.”
“Here’s the interesting part,” he says. “While he was inside, he didn’t get visitors. No family. No friends. No one … except one name that shows up over and over on the log.”
I close my eyes. “Say it.”
“Dylan Henderson.”
I exhale slowly. “How long ago?”
A beat. “Three years.”
My eyes snap open. “That’s when Dylan started the trucking company.”
“Yeah.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“You know I don’t believe in coincidences,” he says.
“If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck …”
“It’s going to jail.”
“Exactly.” I sigh. “What can we do next? Can we set up surveillance? Get a wiretap?”
“I’ll work on it.”
“We gotta tread carefully, because if this is bigger than petty stuff, I don’t want it blowing back on Ellie.”
“You got it, boss.”
When I get home, my adrenaline is still pumping after my conversation with Connor. I take a few deep breaths, settling my thoughts before heading inside. Ellie’s in the kitchen, and every square inch of it is covered in something.
Every pot, pan, and cooking utensil I own is out. Even the ones I forgot I owned. A bag of flour teeters on the edge of the counter, with more flour out of the bag than inside.
Ellie stands at the stove, stirring a bubbling pot of … I have no idea what. It’s thick, beige, and bubbling like a science experiment that’s about to escape.
Her hair is pulled up in a wild messy bun and she’s wearing an apron. It doesn’t quite fall correctly over her belly, it just sort of juts out oddly. It’s an almost absurd image.
But when Ellie’s eyes meet mine, messy kitchen and all, something tightens in my chest.
If this is what coming home looks like—flour on the counters, mystery sludge on the stove, Ellie wearing an old apron of Grandma DeeDee’s like a badge of chaotic honor—then I’d take it every day for the rest of my life.
I step closer to her, pulling her into my arms. She comes willingly, pressing her head against my chest.
“So … what’re we up to here, Ells?” I sniff at the concoction, hoping it’ll clarify things. It doesn’t.
“I’ve been meal prepping.” I lean back, stealing a glance at Ellie, who’s trying very hard to look like she’s got it together.
“Oh, okay.” I glance around the kitchen, wondering where all these “meals” are, but all I see is mess. “How can I help?”
Her mouth trembles.
I barely have time to think uh-oh before she crumples into my chest, sobbing.
It doesn’t surprise me in the least. The woman is a tear factory these days.
I tuck her head under my chin and rub her back.
Through sputtering breaths, Ellie goes on to tell me how she wanted to make a week’s worth of meals before Sweetpea made her arrival.
“I just kept thinking about how useless I’m going to be around here after the baby comes and I didn’t want everything to fall on you, and-and I just was trying to do something good but I just made a m-mess,” Ellie wails.
“And I’m pretty sure I mixed the taco seasoning with the oatmeal and now it’s ruined.
Just like everything else I tried to do today. ”
I hold back a laugh. That explains the mystery goop in the pot, then.
“Shh, Ells,” I tell her. “I’ll get this all cleaned up.”
“I’m tired of you cleaning up after me,” she cries.
“Okay,” I say, dragging out the word. “I don’t have to clean up, then.”
“But then it’ll be a mess!”
I swipe flour off her cheek with my thumb, cradling her face in my hands. “Thus, we find ourselves at a crossroads.”
I’m content to just hold Ellie in the kitchen while she gathers herself. After a few moments, I lean over and turn the stove burner off. Taco oatmeal, I think with a small smile. Maybe it’ll become a thing with pregnant women, like ice cream and pickles.
Once Ellie’s tears have dried, I untie the apron, pulling it over her head. I lead her to the kitchen table and sit her down. “Are you hungry?” I ask.
Ellie shakes her head. “Sweetpea’s taking up too much space in me. I don’t think I have a stomach anymore,” she says, leaning back as she rubs her belly.
I heat up some leftover chili and a baked potato that I made yesterday. When I bring it back over to the table, Ellie leans over. “That looks good,” she says. I smile as I push the plate over to her. “Oh, I don’t want to take your dinner, Hunter.”
“I made it for you. And don’t think you’re going to be useless when the baby comes. You’ll be doing the most important things. I want anything else to fall on me. It’s part of the reason I’m here.”
She sniffs, looking a little too teary-eyed for my liking. “You spoil me, Hunter.”
“Isn’t that what husbands are supposed to do?” I tease, sitting down beside her. “I’m pretty sure I declared that in my vows somewhere. ‘To have and to spoil.’ Something like that.”
Apparently, I chose the wrong words because Ellie’s crying again. “Dylan never did,” she whispers. “And I don’t think you should be either.”
“Ellie.” I pull her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her. “You deserve to be spoiled, to be swept off your feet, to be taken care of. You deserve all of that and more.”
“But why you, Hunter? The person spoiling me should be my husband—someone who chose to be married to me because he loves me. Like, really really loves me. Not someone who’s doing this out of some kind of friendship or familial obligation. So, why you?”
Because I really, really love you, Ellie. I always have.
I take a deep breath. I told Wyatt I wouldn’t say anything until after the baby was born. No big declarations. No complicating things.
But Ellie is sitting here in my lap, convinced she’s a burden.
And suddenly keeping quiet feels like the worst idea I’ve ever had.
I’m about to tell Ellie I love her.