Chapter 13
Now
Silas
Pulling up to my house in the early-dawn light after a long string of workdays makes me instantly, outstandingly sleepy, like my body has a Pavlovian response to knowing my bed is within range.
It’s not even that things at the station were wildly busy, either.
They’d been mind-numbingly slow, in fact.
Great for local health and property, but not so great for preventing me from running circles in my mind.
My brain keeps skipping and replaying Bea in my house. Bea over the years. Bea in my arms and filling my hands and flashbacks of her against my lips.
Emphasis on Bea in my house. Under the same roof. Wondering what she’s doing at any given time. Wondering what the hell I was thinking doing this to myself. Setting myself up for a world of hurt again. Fuck, I need to slip inside and get to sleep so I can get my head on straight.
I roll my body out of my truck and drag my lead feet up the steps, eyelids sticking together too long when I unlock my door.
My shoulders jump when I spot Bea’s outline in the unlit hallway. I expected her to still be upstairs getting ready for work. She gives no indication that she’s noticed me, at first. Just mutters to herself with her fist raised.
Her head turns my way at the sound of my steps. “Silas! I thought you were already home.”
“Morning. We got held over a little long.” I’m so tired it comes out slurred.
I empty my pockets into the trash—gum wrappers and receipts—and feel my body pull taut when I notice the way her scent has already filled this space. She’s moved into the kitchen and is wringing her hands. I drag my eyes up and notice hers are red-rimmed and glassy.
“What’s wrong?”
She gnaws at her lower lip. “Nothing. I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you something.”
But then she steps around the counter, and I am the one who is not fine at all. I’m the opposite of fine.
“What are . . . What are those?” My heart does a skip-and-roll over a concrete median.
“What are what?” she asks, following my line of sight. “Oh, my shorts?”
My brow feels like it got tangled up in balloon strings, floating slowly toward the ceiling. I slam it back down, indignant. “Those are not shorts. Those are lingerie or something.” I’m too tired to act unaffected.
“They’re briefs,” she laughs.
“They’re LACE. There’s barely a cover thingy and they’re lacy.
” White band on top. Sheer black lace through the legs, with the bottom-most bit of the crotch blacked out.
The optical illusion is more erotic than a G-string.
An ugly, horror-stricken laugh tears up my throat.
“If you’re going to wear those and look like that don’t be surprised if I look like I want to be under you. ”
“Silas,” she scolds me, still chuckling. I’m probably imagining the breathy way she says it and the way her smile slips. “You’re a big boy. You can handle yourself over some shorts.”
I’m going to handle myself. In the shower here, shortly. I am not going to feel proud of myself afterward, but knowing this isn’t going to stop me.
Only way for me to finish this conversation productively is with my eyes closed. “What did you want to ask me, Bea?”
“You know what, it’s nothing, actually. I have to get over it. I am being a weenie.”
I squint one eye open to see that she’s turned around, and to my complete and utter misery, it’s worse from the back. There’s a ringing in my ears. I think of an expression Ellis used to employ on me when I was younger. “What do you have to lose by telling me?”
She opens the fridge and pauses, the wings of her shoulder blades lifting on a sigh.
“I’m supposed to start my shots today. The needle is a lot bigger than I would have thought.
And it’s like . . . my body doesn’t want to comply.
” She swipes angrily at a tear. “But I’m going to.
I’ll just wait until tonight. It’s not like you’ll even be here every day, so I need to figure out how to do this myself, anyhow. I’ll just have to toughen up.”
“Do you want some help for this first one at least?” I ask.
She turns back around, mercifully, and I make myself open my other eye.
“It’s probably hard to override your body’s natural inclination to not stab itself, Bea.
That’s all this is. You get the first one over with, and I bet it’ll be easier to do it next time. ”
She hesitates, then swallows, but I see the way her frame relaxes. “You would have to see my butt.”
I take the deepest, most dogged breath of my life. “I’ll find a way to cope.”
She grabs the vial of whatever she’d just put away from the refrigerator. I keep my eyes glued to my feet and follow her up the stairs and into the bathroom, where it takes me a second to adjust to everything I see.
She’s got a color-coded calendar taped to the mirror and a veritable pharmacy of pill bottles all set up, plus an entire first aid kit.
She catches me looking over everything and nervously adjusts the bottles so each label is facing out at the same angle.
The inside of my chest flashes hot and the muscles in my face harden.
“Lucky kid,” is all I can think to say. I wish I had better words, and more of them.
Rounded eyes meet mine in the reflection. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know they’re still in the hypothetical stages, but . . .” My throat goes thick, and I have to speak around it. “But imagine being this intended. This wanted, before you even exist. I think that makes them a lucky kid.”
Her mouth rolls in on itself. “I do. I want them. Whoever they are,” she says. “I want them in a way that feels scary to allow.”
Someday I’ll figure out how not to make a joke at an inappropriate time. Today isn’t that day, apparently. “Well, then. Turn around and bend over. Let’s get you knocked up.”
Thank god it makes her laugh. We’ve successfully dismantled any awkwardness before it could take form.
She instructs me on wiping her skin with an alcohol pad first, and I don’t remind her that I’m an EMT.
She gets the vial and tells me the amount of fluid I need to pull into the syringe, then hands me both.
The needle is bigger than I would have thought.
And even though this is Bea, this part is clinical, and it’s easy to be professional and not a fucking creep about it.
“So, how’s Jane?” I ask, hoping chitchat will smooth out her nerves. I let her pull down one side of her shorts and swab her skin with the alcohol pad. “She getting bubbly or still being a flat, moody bitch?”
“I thought I was getting bubbles, but she never did the doubling-in-size thing Fisher talked about,” she says.
“I kept dumping her out and feeding her every twenty-four hours, but I don’t know.
She’s in the fridge for now. I’ll try again in a few days.
I did find a recipe for same-day focaccia yesterday, and it turned out pretty good. There’s some for you, too.”
“Oh yeah? Nice. Thank you.”
I bite off the end cap and plunge it, pull it, make sure there aren’t any air bubbles, then stick and inject her as quickly as I can. She doesn’t even wince. “All set,” I tell her after five seconds, then dispose of it in the sharps container and put Bea to rights with a small, innocent pat.
“Thank you, Si,” she says when I’m done. She folds her arms around my neck and pulls me into a hug. I close my eyes so I don’t see the back of her shorts in the mirror. I’m tired and don’t trust myself to remain clinical.
“I’m sorry about the shorts,” she says. I really wish she wouldn’t bring it up again, right next to my ear.
Chills rise over the surface of my skin.
“Hopefully, this all will work the first time and it won’t be such an issue in a few months.
” She blows a small laugh, extricating herself.
I give her a baffled look. “I just mean because I’ll be big and awkward if everything goes according to plan,” she explains.
It’s not the deterrent she thinks it is.
Not even close. Shit. This sleep-deprived, I have less control over my thoughts than normal.
Bea full and round and happy in my hands.
Bea full and round and happy in my house.
I have to flee. “Let me know if you ever need more help, all right? I don’t mind.
” I step out of the bathroom and start down the hall.
“And, Bea?” I say over my shoulder. I wait until I see her leaning on the doorway in the corner of my vision.
“More of you is just going to be more of you.”