Chapter 31 #2
My stomach tightens again. Dammit. As my lungs seize, I count the seconds in my head, willing the pain to pass, and not happen again anytime soon.
Tate wraps his arm around my stomach and settles into my side, using an extra pillow to prop him against me. As I stroke through his hair, he dozes while I stare at the screen, not really watching a movie I’ve seen a hundred times.
When the movie finally ends, I shift, and Tate lifts his head.
“You missed it,” I whisper.
He glances up at me, his eyes sleepy. “The dreams in my head were better.”
“Really?” I softly laugh, brushing back that lock that falls forward when he sleeps. “What did you dream about?”
He simply hums, then leans for my belly and kisses it.
“Take me to bed,” I whisper, not eager to continue our orgasm mission but wanting rest for my racing thoughts.
“Sounds like the perfect dream,” he rasps, before sitting upright, reaching for the remote, and turning off the television.
He stands and uses both hands to pull me up by mine. Then he leads me through the dark house to his bedroom, where he tucks me under his arm again.
And sleep refuses to come.
Lovewell Landing is all about celebrating National Lobster Day with a Seafood Bake and a beach bonfire.
In the two days since Tate showed me the baby room in his house, I sense myself nesting. I scrubbed my small house from top to bottom, as if it could make the space look bigger and brighter. I washed baby clothes and bottles and put together a bouncy seat. My house doesn’t have space for much more.
When the time for the seafood bake arrives, Tate picks me up, but a distance exists between us. While I feel the urge to cling to him, I don’t. While I want to ask questions, I bite my tongue instead.
Little Wrench is all that’s on my mind.
How will I provide for her? Can I give her all Tate can? While I’ve never been a woman of materialistic desires, I can’t deny his house is larger. He has more financial means. He has a set future.
It frightens me that we haven’t ironed out how we’ll make this work.
Him. Me. Little Wrench.
When we arrive at the beach, it’s packed with locals and tourists looking to celebrate a huge source of Maine’s economy. Lobster. While we have so many other sources of income and natural features, lobster is one of the biggest draws to our state, and there is plenty of it.
So much that the stench makes my belly roll. It tightens like it has on and off over the past few days, almost taking me to my knees, then just as suddenly, relaxing. The pinch in my back worsens with each scrunch, but I breathe through the cramps, gently cursing, then apologize to Little Wrench.
There isn’t much space in my belly, just like there isn’t much room in my house.
Tate holds my hand, then uses his body as a shield as he walks us through the crowd. Various vendors sell lobster concoctions. Lobster bisque, lobster stew, lobster sauce over pasta, and of course, just lobster.
I opt for a lobster roll, but once I have it in hand, I can’t put it in my mouth.
“You feeling okay?” Tate asks me for the thousandth time.
I’ve been quieter the past few days. Withdrawn. I feel it myself. I don’t want to be irritated with him. It isn’t his fault he’s . . . everything I’m not. Still, I’m on edge and ignore his question.
The bonfire is lit early as the light disappears faster from the sky at the end of September. The evening is dim, but the flames blaze brightly. The scent of burning wood and strong smoke fills the air.
Tate takes a seat on a fallen tree trunk, patting the space beside him.
“I think I’m going to walk a little bit. Keep my legs stretching.” Even if they feel as thick as the tree trunk stump he’s sitting on.
“I’ll come with you,” he says, concern laces his voice. He feels the distance in me as well. We haven’t had sex for days. We haven’t touched each other sexually either.
“I just need to stretch my back.” I emphasize the ache by placing both hands on either side of my too-tight spine.
Tate gives me a pinched look of hurt, but doesn’t move off the log, allowing me some space.
Despite the cold sand and the even colder bay lapping on the shore, I kick off my sandals and walk along the edge of the water.
My thoughts drift like the soft waves. I’m too irritated, almost irrational, to keep one thought for long.
Then I’m gripped by a pain so sharp, I nearly double over. I bend at the waist, grasping my sides.
“Holy pumpkin pie,” I grumble, hissing through the clench of my belly. Relief comes only momentarily. Just a short breath before my abdominal muscles squeeze again. Although, in truth, this pain feels like my uterus is rebelling.
I turn around, searching for my sandals, then decide I don’t need them. I struggle over unstable sand, my feet sinking in the cold grains beneath my toes. Frantically, I search for Tate, but he’s no longer seated where I left him.
“Tate,” I whisper, digging my fingers into my side as I’m gripped in pain once more. My voice is too small. My eyes blur with tears.
Then a hand comes to my lower back and a quiet voice says, “I’m here, Neve. I’m right here.”
I spin to face him.
His eyes are wide. His jaw set tight. He starts to ask, “Are you o—”
I cut him off. “I’m in labor.”