Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Autumn
With my parents home to watch Brady, I no longer have to bring him with me when I go to Forest’s house, but I slip him a few bucks each night to do so.
Whether or not he’s figured out I’m using him as a chaperone so to speak—more to keep me in check than Forest—he doesn’t care, because now he has plenty of money for Shayla’s swear jar.
Every day, I tell myself that I’m going to take Bryce’s advice and rip the figurative Band-Aid off…
and every day I chicken out. Then I tell myself that if Forest tries anything at Thanksgiving, which we moved to Shayla’s house to take the brunt of hosting off Mom’s shoulders, I will finally spill my secret, and we’ll figure out where to go from there.
But nope. Nothing. He’s the perfect gentleman who doesn’t once try to pull me into a bedroom while everyone else is distracted.
All I get is a brief brush of his hand along my lower back a few times, and I’m not sure if it’s purely accidental or habitual. It’s beyond frustrating.
At the firm, he’s nothing but highly professional, too.
Even walking barefoot around him while wearing extra ankle bracelets so they’ll clink together doesn’t grab his attention.
Believe me, I try, desperate for some kind of sign that he’s as bad off without me as I have been without him.
Each passing day confirms my suspicion that whatever Forest felt for me at first has completely cooled off, and that random show of jealousy at the restaurant must have been just that—a show. It didn’t mean anything.
Why is it that I can attack any problem that comes at me with a cool and calm head, put any condescending client in their place without the slightest bit of nerves when they arrogantly think I can’t do my job because of my age or gender, but I can’t come right out and tell the man I hate being in love with that I’m going to have his baby?
What a mess.
Saturday night, following the depressing holiday break, I go in search of Brady and come up empty. Covering a yawn with the back of my hand, since I’m dead tired—one of my early pregnancy symptoms—I cross my parents’ living room.
“Have you seen Brady?” I ask Dad, who’s settled in his leather recliner with a bowl of kale salad topped with roasted garbanzo beans and some kind of sauce Mom made.
His pinched expression lets me know what he really thinks of the meal, but he eats it all the same without a word of complaint. Considering he and I both hate the texture of kale, it’s quite the feat.
“He’s spending the night at Bailey’s,” Mom answers for Dad, standing beside his chair as she lightly runs her fingers through his hair. “You might want to find somewhere else to spend the night, too.”
Dad stops mid-bite, and he twists his neck to peer up at Mom.
“Why?” I ask, then cringe when I catch a whiff of cherry pie baking in the oven. “Don’t answer that.”
Packing a duffel bag with a change of clothes, I make my way across the street and walk into Shayla’s house unannounced. For some reason, she’s already standing in the entryway, and grabs the door.
“Hey sis,” I say, stopping abruptly. “Guess Dad’s feeling better, and I need to bum a night on your couch.” I try to scoot around her, but she blocks me.
“Sorry, tonight’s not gonna work,” she says.
The house is weirdly silent. With six kids, we usually have to speak close to a shout to be heard over them all. It’s not bedtime yet, so they should be running around after finishing up dinner.
“Why’s it so quiet in here?” I ask.
James steps up behind Shayla, bare-chested and weirdly sweaty, wearing thin black sweatpants low on his hips.
Gah, I so do not need to see him like that.
He wraps his arms around her, and I notice the silky and highly wrinkled pink nightie she’s wearing, as if she was in a rush to get dressed and grabbed the first thing she saw on the floor.
“The kids are having a sleepover at Bailey’s,” James says, kissing Shayla’s neck, which is pink from his stubble marks, and she giggles. “So we have the night to ourselves.”
I shift in my new slippers. I’ve bought no less than a dozen pairs since they keep going missing.
I have my suspicions where they’ve gone, but I haven’t said anything yet.
Figuring I can shove cotton balls in my ears for makeshift earplugs, I ask, “Can’t I at least sleep upstairs?
” Surely a whole floor between us means I won’t hear too much, and the couch they keep in their home office is better than nothing.
Shayla shakes her head. “Love you, but I need you to get lost A-S-A-P.”
“Ugh, fine,” I say, shuffling backward. James all but slams the door, and Shayla lets loose a squeal that can be heard loud and clear from the street. Gross.
I tap my foot and call Eden.
“Hello?” she answers breathily, sounding as if she’s just finished a vigorous workout, even though she hates the gym.
“Oh my god, don’t tell me your kids are with Bailey too,” I whine.
She laughs. “Yup. What’s up?”
“I was going to ask if I can sleep on your couch—”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks anyway.” I end the call.
Now, where do I go? Since Bailey’s house is likely bursting at the seams and I don’t want to bunk with all my nieces and nephews and sleep on the floor again, I make my way to my car to throw my duffel bag inside.
Looks like I’ll have to book a hotel room after I help put Forest’s kids to bed.
I'm considering skipping going to his house altogether, since I don’t have Brady to chaperone, but the idea of it makes my stomach hurt.
I’d never be able to fall asleep, and I’d wind up right back here in a few hours’ time.
These weeks have done fuck-all to lessen my need to see them every day and kiss them goodnight.
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Forest and whichever woman he ends up with are just going to have to deal with me and the bomb that I’ll eventually have to drop.
Loosening the belt of my robe to give me some breathing room, I cross the street again. I only get one number punched into the electric keypad before Forest sweeps the door open.
“Finally,” he says.
I pretend to check the invisible watch on my wrist. “I’m not late for bedtime.”
“No, I know,” he says, rubbing his hands together. He’s acting strange, smiling broadly at me every time I turn to look over my shoulder as he follows me down to the nursery. He bumps up against my back when I stop short in the open doorway.
“Where are the boys?” I quickly move back down to Josephine’s bedroom. “Where’s Josie?” Forest clears his throat when I slowly turn to him with building irritation.
“They’re spending the night at Bailey’s,” he says.
Lanced through the chest, I ask, “You couldn’t let me say goodnight before you dropped them off?” Looks like I’ll end up at Bailey’s after all.
“Autumn—”
My eyes and cheeks grow hot. “You don’t have to say it,” I snap. “I know I’m not their mother, but you could have at least given me a heads up.”
“Ah, about that, I—”
I fist my hands and jut my chin, fury crawling under my skin.
“Seriously, after everything I’ve done for this family, you owe me a little consideration when making these decisions.
And how do you think they feel?” I swipe a stray, angry tear away.
“Don’t you think they would have wanted to see me, too?
” Didn’t they? “They’re probably upset, wondering why I didn’t come to see them before they left. ”
“Would you shut up?” Forest says, though he’s smiling all the more.
My mouth drops open, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to curse up a storm, when he suddenly snags my wrist and tugs me across the hall to the door of the fourth bedroom.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
I guess, “Josie’s project?”
“And mine. We hope you’ll like it.” Once inside, he flips on the overhead light.
Time stands still when I do a slow spin, and I find it harder to breathe, especially when I face the right wall.
Four names have been carved in wood in a curly script, painted in different shades of green.
Each name is over a foot tall, hanging on the wall above a beautiful, dark-brown-stained crib, with a clean sheet already fitted on the firm mattress. I can’t stop my heart from racing.
“How did you know?” I ask.
Standing behind me, he tentatively rests his hands on my shoulders. When I start to relax beneath his touch, he presses his chest to my back, trailing his hands down my arms. I wish I hadn’t worn my robe so I could feel his bare skin against mine.
“Shayla told me the names you picked out,” he says wistfully. “Whichever comes first, we’ll center that one and save the rest. If we have more than two boys or two girls, or if you decide on a different name, I’ll have those made too.”
I miss his body heat when he drifts to the matching dresser on the opposite wall, which sits next to a five-tiered bookcase that already sports a small library’s worth of soft play, board, and picture books with hand-painted animal figurines.
He pulls open the dresser drawers one by one, which are fully stocked with tiny onesies, baby socks, rolled swaddling blankets, and adorable little hats.
“I have everything from preemie to size two-T,” he says, closing the drawers and moving to open the closet door.