Chapter 34
Now
Bea
Okay, so . . . small issue here.
Executing my plan while working full-time and combating occasional morning sickness and deep exhaustion keeps me extremely busy.
Fire season rages on, and Silas is barely home for a few days at a time before he’s pulled off to the next catastrophe.
When he is here, he’s dog-tired, and by the time I make it home to him in the evenings, I am, too.
We usually manage to shovel some food at each other before we scuttle off to bed with the cat between us.
We kiss. We hold one another. But despite being seven weeks post-transfer and in the clear for sex, everything else has stayed aboveboard between us, and I can feel his touches growing more and more tentative.
The ball is very clearly in my court, and it’s like I’m trying to run up the clock for an epic play.
It’s foolish, but I’m—dammit, I want to romance the man.
It has now been two days since Silas and I were even able to connect for more than a brief text exchange, but .
. . today is the day he will finally be home, for an entire weeklong stretch, and I’ve officially got all my ducks in a row, so, I’m currently flitting around the house trying to get ready.
I feel bloated and my boobs ache when the breeze blows a certain way or when I make any sudden movement at all, but I don’t care.
I brainstormed a hundred ways to make this more cinematic, consulting with my mom, Wren, and Sage at every step.
I’d thought about taking him floating, but then the weather forecast shifted, and now the clouds are hanging fat and heavy in a gray-blue sky.
I thought about a fancy restaurant. A weekend away.
Ultimately, Sage was the one with the wisest advice.
“Having you in his home, romanticizing that space because it’s there with him . . . that is what’ll get him the best.”
I’m half-sick with nerves and half-buoyant with excitement, re-curling the same lock of hair for the third time when I hear his truck pulling in.
“He’s home,” I say to Cali, perched dutifully on the bathroom counter since I started putting on makeup an hour and a half ago.
She trills, and I straighten her new collar before I scoop her under my arm, heart pounding, ready to go greet our favorite guy.
I straighten the vase of flowers Sage dropped off this morning on my way.
She’d pressed me into a long hug, her bump pushing into my belly, and I’d thought, Wow, built-in friends. What a gift that would be.
I spy on Silas through the kitchen window. He pauses just outside the front door, resting his forehead against it before he cuts a look back at his truck like he might want to get in it and drive off. His chest rises on a sigh.
My brain takes me there before I can stop it: Maybe this little bit of distance between us isn’t at all what I assumed.
Maybe it’s not that I’ve been holding back and he’s picked up on it.
It could be that he’s realized he wants out, that this is too much but he’s too loyal and good and doesn’t know how to extricate himself now.
Oh, well. I’ll never know until I ask. I’m not leaving a damn thing up to chance. I don’t need protection from the fallout.
I stride over to the door and fling it open.
The first thing I notice is his scent washing over me.
Mint, salt, soap, and that warmth he carries with him everywhere he goes.
It settles somewhere between my shoulder blades like a palm.
The next is his eyes, like always. More gray than turquoise today, faint circles underneath.
His beautiful face looks sunburned from the fires, and freshly shaved.
His mouth quirks up tiredly, and a lock of wet hair falls over his brow.
“Oh. You showered already?” Okay, so he wasn’t in a rush to get home. It’s okay. Stick to the plan.
“At the station, yeah.” He spares the cat a half smile and a scratch between her ears. “Can I, uh . . ?”
“Come in?!” I blurt. “To your own house? Yes. Yes, you may come into your own home.” I move out of his way with a flourish. My laugh is approaching shrill.
Calcifur launches out of my arms like I’m embarrassing her, too.
I watch him empty out his pockets with stiff motions, stepping closer and wringing my hands. Finally, he turns back to me.
“Hi,” I say.
A long exhale through his nose. “Hi, Red.”
My heart is hammering in my throat. “Are you hungry? I thought we could eat and—talk. I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”
He hangs his head and scrubs across his clenched eyes.
“I don’t want to eat, Bea. Just—please. Make it quick for me, all right?
Can you do that for me? I’ve felt like I’ve been on the verge of a panic attack for days and—and I had a feeling this was coming.
I’ll understand and figure out how to deal. Just need you to say it, please.”
I feel my expression twist and take in the outline of him. The hunch of his shoulders and the misery that’s plain on his face, even though he won’t meet my eye. The way he’s bracing for impact. “Silas. What is it that you think is happening here?”
“Last couple times I’ve been home, you’ve had boxes in your car, Bea.
There’s been—I don’t know. Whatever the fuck there’s been going on between us.
You’re tiptoeing around me, and I gather it’s because you’re trying not to hurt my feelings.
You’re moving back out and decided this isn’t a good idea. ”
I close the remaining space and clasp his big head between my palms. “You got it wrong,” I tell him firmly, trying not to shake him.
He gives me a wide-eyed scowl but waits for me to forge on.
I take my hands and half a step back, clearing my throat.
“I’ve been taking things from my place between renters and bringing them here.
Not the other way around.” I continue fidgeting with my palms so I don’t grab at him again, prematurely.
“See?” I point to the artwork I’ve added to his walls, the plush ottoman over in the living room that Calcifur has claimed as her own.
There’s a lit candle on the island and a cute breadbox on the back counter.
A new frame around our old prom picture and new kitchen towels slung over the stove handle.
“I wanted to add to the place. Make it homier. I was . . . trying to do something nice.” I was trying to be symbolic and make it look like it’s my home, too, but maybe I underestimated this man’s aloofness over his décor.
“And I’ve been working on something else,” I tell him, determined not to lose my nerve.
I go and grab the manila folder on the counter and clutch it in both fists.
“This summer and doing that list. Challenging myself to grieve and feel, to stay close to Merritt and quit being numb. From that nasty sour candy to the wacky science experiment that is baking sourdough bread, to sticking a needle in my ass a million times. I thought it all would feel a lot more like suffering. Or even like a challenge. Like—like I would have to fight to prove I could conquer the last ring of grief . . . just to be worthy of this.” One hand drifts to my stomach, and he tracks it, his throat bobbing heavily.
“With you, it never felt like suffering, Silas. Because of you. From the second you convinced me to stay on the dance floor back in April. And if it was a challenge, then I know I can meet anything life throws at us again if I’ve got you in my corner. I’d look forward to it, frankly.”
And no matter how many times I’ve practiced this in my head, this is where my composure starts to unravel.
“I thought I lost my Always person when I lost Merritt. I did lose her, but you taught me how much room there is for more, if I was open to finding it. And, Silas, I would choose you always, too.” I turn a quarter circle, put the folder back down, and open it, clumsy and shivering with adrenaline.
“You don’t need to decide this immediately, but I’ve done all the research and gathered all the paperwork required for you to be the baby’s father, legally.
I’ve filled out everything I am able to on my end.
It’s called secondary adoption, and I asked if there was any way for it to be official while I’m still pregnant, but even though we could submit everything now, apparently, it’s effective the day they’re born.
Still. The baby would—if you agree to it, I mean—the baby would be a Byrd.
“And we don’t need to be married or anything, and I promise this is not predicated on that for me whatsoever.
I would agree to this even if we weren’t together anymore.
” When I look up at him, he’s too blurry for me to gauge, and when a tear springs loose, I look back down at the papers.
“Obviously, I hope that’s not something you want, because that is not what I want at all, but I want you to know that no matter what, you would be my choice. ”
He steps closer.
“Also, I—I got in touch with a real estate agent, one of Martha’s nieces, and I would be open to selling my house and moving in here with you permanently, if you want. It’s a good rental property, and we could keep it, too, but I thought we could decide that together.”
“Later,” he croaks. “We can decide about the house later.”
My lungs start to work in quick, hitching breaths. He comes even closer to my side.
“I want to make sure I’m understanding this correctly,” he says, voice so low I wouldn’t know it was him if he weren’t six inches away. “You’re asking me to be your baby’s father.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding down at the paperwork. “If you want that. Us. If—if you still want me.”
His scarred hand splays flat atop the papers. He takes my chin in with the other, turning me until I’m facing his chest.
“Do you really not know?” he says, quiet and dangerous. I’m afraid to meet his eyes and stare at his throat instead, focusing on the tip of a scar. “Take one look at me and tell me you don’t know how I want you. I mean it, Bea. Look at me.”