Chapter 22
Ellary
Lila answers on the fifth ring. “Yeah?”
“I’m starting to develop feelings for Jackson. Tell me every single flaw you can think of about him.”
God bless my sister because she sucks in a breath and starts talking.
“He takes too big a bite of his food and takes forever to get it down. He looks like a goat chomping on grass. Oh, and his left eye is slightly bigger than his right, which makes him look a bit like Quasimodo.”
I laugh. “Quasi—”
“He must have been hit on the head too many times playing hockey to think of hurting you. His legs are thinner than his arms, which makes him look like an upside-down triangle. If you’re going to work out at the gym, don’t just focus on your arms. Girls appreciate muscled thighs as much as bulging biceps. ”
I grin “That was weirdly specific.”
“I know how to be petty. He took you for granted. His forehead is flat. Oh, and…”
I’m hunched over and laughing by the time she’s finished listing all of Jackson’s flaws ten minutes later. I should be concerned that she had a list that long, but this was exactly what I needed.
“How do you feel about him now?” she asks as I wipe the tears from my eyes.
“I miss him,” I whisper. “He’s a cheating idiot, and he hurt me so much, but I miss him, and I think I still love him. Please tell me this is because of hormones, because if it is, maybe this feeling will go away once I have this baby.”
Lila lets out a sigh. “Yeah, I don’t think hormones work that way, sis. I’ll come over with ice cream after work. Want me to pick up some Chinese food?”
“Orange chicken.”
“Coming up.”
“And beef and broccoli,” I add.
“Sure thing.”
“And—”
“You know what, text me what you want. You’re just making me hungry.”
Laughing, we say our goodbyes and hang up.
I sit at the dining table, trying desperately hard not to think of Jackson. Of how it felt with his hand on my belly when the baby kicked, of how much I look forward to sitting on the swing set in the evenings and talking about anything and everything in a way we never did before.
“It’s just hormones,” I tell myself, and get to my feet so I can clean up a bit before my sister comes over. “All this is hormones. That’s all.”
A couple of days after my night on the couch eating Chinese food, ice cream, and watching trashy TV shows with my sister, I’m heading to the store.
But not the grocery store.
I haven’t decided whether to have Jackson come empty the spare bedroom, ready to turn it into a nursery, but it wouldn’t hurt to check the hardware store for some paint inspo.
I have spent hours on Pinterest, and all the beautiful nurseries overwhelmed me to the point that I now don’t know what I want.
A red light stops me, and as I wait for it to change to green, my gaze slides to the park.
A bunch of little kids are playing field hockey.
They’re adorable, running around with their little sticks. It’s a beautiful mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Parents in small groups huddle on the sides. They chat among themselves or sit in camp chairs eating snacks.
I’m smiling as a man with a very familiar set of large shoulders blows a whistle. The kids rush over to him, and he drops into a crouch, giving each kid a specific set of instructions.
My eyes widen.
Jackson.
That’s Jackson.
He rises from his crouch, and the kids return to the field, laughing and clearly having a good time.
BEEP!
I jump, startled at the horn behind me.
The light is green and I’m sitting here, staring at my husband.
I start to drive on, but at the last second turn into the park’s parking lot instead.
It’s not a good idea.
I cut the engine, look in my mirror, and even tell myself, “This is not a good idea, Ellie.”
But I still unbuckle my seatbelt, grab my purse, and get out of the car.
We’ve talked a lot over the last few weeks. Almost all our conversations have centered around the baby, birth plans, birth lessons, and what the baby will need.
None of our conversations have led to Jackson telling me he’s apparently now a coach for a kids' field hockey team. Calling it a team is probably a bit optimistic. These kids look like they’re just here to have fun, and none of them have uniforms or anything.
But he’s giving them directions and actively teaching them, though he’s spending as much time laughing as coaching.
I stand near the other parents, listening to them talk about how much fun their kids are having, and I see another side of my husband I haven’t seen before.
Jackson has always loved hockey. He started playing when he was seven years old.
Almost his whole life, he knew that was what he wanted to do.
When a knee injury cut his pro career short, he was devastated at first, but he quickly recovered.
He didn’t complain about missing hockey, though I know he must have.
We packed up our lives in Colorado, came back home to northern Michigan, and he got a job as a sales manager at his godfather’s logistics company.
Jackson must have been missing hockey all this time. He hasn’t laughed like this since I’d watch him fool around with his teammates when I’d go to some of his practices in college.
I lose track of time watching him teach the kids, and the five minutes I swore I would stick around for—and definitely no more than that—start to feel more like an hour.
The kids break apart at his whistle, running back to their parents, who greet them with smiles and hugs.
I could never have come and watched something like this before.
Not when I wasn’t pregnant and was desperately afraid I would never be a mom.
The longer this pregnancy has gone without any issues, the more I’ve been able to relax, hopeful that nothing will go wrong.
Jackson is gathering all the hockey equipment as I turn to leave.
“Ellie?”
I freeze.
Should I pretend I didn’t hear him and walk away?
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him moving my way, and the parents turning to look at me, probably wondering who I am. Even if I wanted to outrun Jackson, that’s not happening.
I turn around and walk toward him instead. “Hey!”
He looks surprised to see me, his face glistening with sweat and a light tan from the sun, looking handsome in his sweatpants and black tank top. “When did you get here?”
I twist my fingers together. “Um, not long after you picked up that blond boy and ran with him to the goal.”
He laughs, raking a hand through his hair. “Pretty unconventional way to score a goal, huh? But Martin has been wanting to score, and his short legs meant he never would have made it.”
“It was sweet.” And the reason my self-imposed five-minute limit to stay and watch immediately failed.
He looks alarmed. “And you’ve been standing all that time? I can get—”
I grasp his arm before he can go for a chair, though I’m not sure where he’d get one from.
He halts. His gaze dips to my hand, and I drop his arm, blushing as I retreat. “It’s fine. I was driving before, and it felt good to stand for a bit.” I gesture to the equipment on the field. “Do you need help putting those away?”
He smiles. “You don’t have to help with that. It’ll take a couple of minutes to load the back of my car. Where were you headed?”
I shrug. “The hardware store.”
He lifts a brow. “For paint?”
I thought he would be offended that I refused his offer and decided to go myself, but he accepts it as easily as he accepted meeting him on the swings at the back of the house. He hasn’t once asked to come inside. It’s as if he knows it’s become my sanctuary and is determined to keep it that way.
“For inspiration. I went on Pinterest for ideas, and there were so many beautiful nurseries, I’m second-guessing myself about everything.”
Everything on Pinterest looked so professional, like an interior designer had worked their magic. Every idea I had felt amateurish and stupid in comparison.
He waves to parents who call out "bye" and bends to gather the small hockey sticks the kids left on the grass. My gaze keeps wanting to linger on his muscled arms.
“The nursery doesn’t have to be perfect, Ellie. No one will see it but us, and our parents.”
“I know. I just…”
He stops putting the sticks in a large black duffel to focus on me. “Just what?”
“This might be the only time I get to do this, and I want it to be perfect.”
It’s taken years to get pregnant. I’m nearly thirty, and it will get harder to conceive the older I am.
“You’re going to have lots of firsts,” he says softly, “first laugh, first word, first step. First time he goes out on a date, and neither of us can sleep, terrified about how it goes.”
I flash him a brief smile. “I know.” I gesture to the little hockey sticks. “When did you start doing this?”
“A few weeks ago. Remember me mentioning that my therapist suggested I find a hobby to focus on that wasn’t… well, you?”
I nod, remembering all our evening swing conversations in the backyard.
“Well, I was out for a drive, saw these kids playing hockey, and the coach—one of the dads—seemed a bit overwhelmed. I told him I used to play, showed him some of my stats, and reassured him I wasn’t just a strange guy off the street wanting to play with his kids.”
I laugh at that.
He chuckles and scratches the back of his neck, my eyes straying to a bulging bicep. Thankfully, he does not notice, so I refocus my attention on his face instead of his body.
Jackson continues, “After he checked out my background and got in touch with my old hockey team to make sure I was who I said I was, he asked if I could help out since he didn’t have the time or experience to coach hockey, but didn’t know anyone else who could.
I still love hockey, and this turned out to be more fun than I thought it would be. ”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs, looking embarrassed. “There wasn’t much to tell.”
“I think there is. You looked like you’re really good at it.”
His expression softens. “Thanks.”
We stare at each other, tension crackling between us.
Clearing my throat as my cheeks burn, I back up a step. “Um, I'd better get to the hardware store.”
“If there’s anything you need…”
“I’ll let you know.”
I feel him watching me as I cross back to my car and get behind the wheel.
And I sit there, a soft, warm feeling squeezing my heart.
I dig through my purse for my phone and call my sister.
“Yeah?”
“It’s not hormones. I still love him.”