Chapter 11
11
Schapelle
I've got an extra spring in my step as Brock and I go on our daily hike a little later than usual. That's my fault. I slept in this morning after staying up until three, milking the burst of inspiration I got last night.
Brock playing that song on his guitar last night broke through my writer's fog. I had my heroine's name, and I could finally see her clearly in my mind.
"I've been doing some thinking," Brock says as the incline steepens. "I was considering becoming a firefighter, but I'm actually more interested in joining the local search and rescue after I wrap up the pergola."
"I can see you being good at that," I reply.
"Thanks. I'd like to do something useful."
"Helping others is a great way to do that."
I saw something else last night, too. When Brock played me that song, I saw a man who's been deeply affected by something, slowly stirring back to life and stepping out of his comfort zone.
Not only could I see it was a big deal for him, but hello , it was totally swoony, too. Brock Palladino isn't just a garden-variety romantic, he's Mr. Romance himself.
It just sucks that our wedded roommate arrangement ends in little over a week. I've been doing some thinking about possibly buying a cabin and settling down on the mountain. I mean, it's a great place to raise a child, my parents are close by, which is super important to me, and it would make it easy for Brock and I to remain friends.
Friends .
Ugh…One of the all-time best TV shows, but right now, I hate that word. Why is it that now, when I'm pregnant and have sworn off love, that I meet a guy I can see myself having an actual, healthy relationship with?
"You've gone quiet," Brock observes when we reach our usual spot. "Thinking writer things?"
"No." I stare up into his brown eyes that captivated me the second I walked up to him at that crowded party. "I was thinking about you."
He stops drinking his water and lowers his arm. He's in his usual flannel uniform, a faded green-and-black shirt this time, paired with black jeans and boots. "What about me?"
We sit down on the bench. "How nice it's been living with you."
He smiles warmly. "It's been nice living with you, too."
"And I'm really touched by what you did last night."
"Ah." He looks out, admiring the view. "It was nothing."
I latch onto his arm. "It wasn't nothing…Was it?"
He turns back slowly, the muscle in his jaw ticking, a frown forming over his brown eyes. "No. It's not nothing. It's?—"
"Ohmygosh!" I cry out, grabbing my stomach.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"The baby. It just kicked."
"Is that bad?"
"No, no. It's just…it's the first time. Here." I reach over and take Brock's hand, guiding it onto my tummy. "I'm not sure if it'll happen aga—Whoa. There ."
"Holy heck."
"Did you feel it?"
"Yeah, I did." His eyes grow wide. "That's amazing."
We stare at each other, in shock and happiness, as my little peanut puts on an impressive show, kicking three more times. I lift my hand off Brock's, but it takes him a moment to stop staring at me and realize.
When he does, he draws it back.
"How far along are you now?"
"Eighteen weeks."
He blinks a few times, like he's got something he wants to ask but is weighing up if he should.
I wait.
After a few moments, he asks, "Are you…are you scared about becoming a mom?"
"No, not scared," I answer, taking a deep breath, my body still thrumming from feeling my baby kick for the first time. "I feel guilty."
"Guilty? Why?"
Another breath. "Because my child won't have two loving parents. I have friends who are single parents or who have adopted children, so I know there's no one way to raise a family, but…I can't help it. I want my child to have two parents the same way my sisters and I did." I yank a long blade of grass and twirl it around my finger. "Someone once told me guilt is a useless emotion, that it doesn't give you anything."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, like, with anger, it can compel you to take action. Sadness can give you empathy and connect you to your own humanity. Happiness encourages you to live in the moment. But guilt? What does guilt do other than make you wallow and feel bad?"
He falls silent so I stare out into the valley, and when I turn back, he's breathing heavily, frowning intensely, and his eyes are swirling with emotion.
The hairs on my arm prick up. "Brock, what's wrong?"
"I…I know a thing or two about guilt." His face wears the gravity of his loss, and I just know this is it—the moment he'll open up to me. "There's something I need to tell you, Schapelle."