54. Maisy
54
MAISY
“So gross,” I whisper while lacing up my tan roller skates. Supposedly, the rental skates are disinfected, but I’ll believe that when I see it happen with my own eyes.
Jensen stands from the bench, testing his mobility on eight wheels. “You picked the date,” he reminds me.
The vintage roller rink in a town near Walford smells like stale popcorn, dirty socks, and hasn’t been renovated since the 1980s. It was a popular birthday party spot back in grade school, and I haven’t been here in decades.
We’re settling into cohabitation with ease, though I’m not surprised. Jensen and I never tire of each other. At home, we cook breakfast together, work on updating the house decor, and we’ve gone antiquing to find unique furnishings to fit our style. We spend quality time together, learning more about the adults we’ve become and growing closer than we’ve ever been.
He’s also followed through with taking me on dates. Since nighttime outings are off the table because of his job, we find things to do earlier in the day. A morning stroll through the park is our favorite activity, but the rain prevents us from being outdoors today. Enter my backup plan: good old-fashioned roller skating.
Because it’s so early, the place is empty. Apart from the two of us, there’s a tired-looking woman reading a book and four young boys zipping around the rink. Top 40 music hits blare from the speakers, but the strobe lights add little to the party atmosphere since half of the overhead lights are on as well.
With my head down, I peek at Jensen from my hunched position. The black skates on his feet shouldn’t work with the beard, tatted arms, jeans, and grey T-shirt, but they do.
“You undressing me in your mind, birdie? Do these babies turn you on?” He shuffles his feet, showing off his skills.
Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “Please. You look ridiculous.”
With my laces knotted, I push myself off the bench, unprepared for the wheels to spin. My arms flail, and I bend back and forth at the waist while regaining my balance before he steadies me.
“On the way here, you bragged about being a good skater,” he says.
I shove his arms off my shoulders and grab his elbow. “I said I used to be good at skating. It’s been twenty years. Now shut up and lead the way.”
With ease, he escorts me across the carpeted floor to the low wall surrounding the rink. “Do you want to hug the wall or me?”
“Neither. I know how to skate.”
Quirking a brow in challenge, he gestures with a hand, inviting me to enter the rink first. The second my wheels touch the hardwoods, a young boy zooms past me. He almost knocks me down but swerves at the last minute. I’m all windmill arms and curse words as my feet go in different directions. Always steady, Jensen rolls forward and lifts me off the ground.
“I’ve got this,” I say through clenched teeth while dangling in his arms.
“If you say so.”
He sets me down by the wall and takes off, skating backward with a smirk on his face. I cling to the wall and growl at him, but he can’t hear me over the music or his laughter. Pretending to be unbothered by his graceful movements, I adjust my oversized red sweater, which got twisted during my near fall, and pick invisible lint off my checkered leggings.
After he makes a full, cocky circuit around the rink, he returns, plants a hip on the wall, and rests a forearm along the top. “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Playing along as myself, I reply, “The fastest way to strike out is by calling me ‘sweetheart.’”
His gaze sweeps me from head to toe. “Is that right? Well, I’m sure you taste sweet, and you have my heart racing, so the name seems fitting.”
My breath hitches before laughter explodes from my chest, and he joins in until we’re both holding our bellies. Wiping my eyes with a sleeve, my amusement fizzles on a long sigh. “Oh my god. That was awful.”
“Wait, wait. Let me try again.”
He wipes the grin off his face and gives me a smoldering look, which causes my laughter to resurface. I can’t take him seriously. Not in the middle of a dingy roller rink with neon stripes painted on the wall.
Tilting his head down, he stares at me through lowered lashes and grazes a knuckle along my jaw. “From across the room, I knew you were the one. A piece of my heart had always been missing, and I found it the moment I saw you smile.”
Warmth suffuses my cheeks. I want to look away from his piercing gaze or roll my eyes again or something, but I can’t. Instead, I say, “Okay, that one wasn’t too bad.”
He bends down and whispers, “Because it’s the truth.” Then he kisses me. It’s a closed-mouth kiss since we’re in a family-friendly venue, but we let it linger.
Pulling away, he offers me his arm. “Together, birdie? I promise I won’t let you fall.”
I loop my arm through his. Safe. Secure. “Fine. But don’t go too fast.”
Standing in Jake and Tatum’s living room, I hold out my hands and say, “Give me your baby.”
Tatum’s wearing a onesie with gold and blue stars, twinning with her newborn son, Lennon. She pulls him tighter to her chest and angles her body away from me like I might snatch him and run.
“Excuse me?”
I wiggle my fingers. “Hand him over.”
“Um…” Her alarmed gaze swings toward Lucy.
Our friend lazes comfortably in leggings and a long sweatshirt on the opposite end of the leather sectional. Because she’s used to our antics, she ignores Tatum’s silent plea for help and continues flipping through one of the many parenting magazines on the end table.
“You want to hold him?” Tatum asks, seeking confirmation.
To be fair, I deserve the dubious expression on her face. I’ve never held a real baby, including the one my best friend gave birth to five days ago. Jensen and I were cleaning out the closet in Jake’s old bedroom when our phones pinged with a text alert. Tatum was in labor two weeks early.
We rushed to the hospital, and she gave birth to her perfectly healthy son a few hours after we arrived. Jensen, the proud uncle, smiled from ear to ear with watery eyes as he held his nephew. Meanwhile, I fussed over Tatum, hoping no one would notice I didn’t hold baby Lennon. Apparently, she noticed.
“Yes, I want to hold him.”
“Why?” she whispers, wide eyes darting around again. “Am I being punked?”
With a huff, I explain, “I need to know if I have motherly instincts.”
“Motherly instincts,” she repeats. “And you want to use Lennon as a test baby?”
“Exactly.” When she gawks at me like I’ve lost my mind, I repeat my request with a kinder tone. “Please give me your baby.”
“Hold Marcella.”
I glance at the toddler in question. Marcella learned to walk, and she’s using the coffee table for support while adding squats to her mobility repertoire. A pacifier hangs from one side of her mouth like a cigar as she stares at me. Always staring.
“She doesn’t like me,” I grumble.
Lucy laughs and says, “Marcella likes you. She’s just an observer like her dad.”
I definitely feel observed.
Minutes later, I’m cradling Lennon while Tatum breathes down my neck. She shows me how to support his head, how to position my arms, how to speak in soothing tones. She’s quite bossy.
“I want to get my phone and take a picture of this, but I’m scared to leave you unattended,” she says.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
A soft squeak comes from Lennon, and I look at her with panic written all over my face. “Babies make noises,” she assures me. “Just relax. He can sense how stressful this is for you.”
I shuffle my butt away from the edge of the couch and sink into the cushions. Tatum hums a song in her light, soothing soprano, and we gaze at him while he sleeps. Although he’s only days old, there’s no doubt he’s a Holloway with his dark, thick hair and olive undertones. I see Jake’s face when I look at him. And Jensen’s face.
Lennon’s tiny cheek feels silky soft against my knuckles. The phrase baby smooth makes perfect sense now. His little pink mouth moves, and the fuller bottom lip becomes more prominent. Another Holloway trait. He’s adorable, and my hypothetical baby would look similar to Lennon.
My baby .
Not a doll. A living, breathing person who will depend on me and need me when I’m off helping strangers feel good about themselves. Plenty of women have what it takes to be badass working mothers—role models for their children. But do I? I can’t help but feel like I don’t deserve to have a successful career and a loving family. I worry I’ll have to choose, and regretting a decision only leads to resentment.
Once again, I question if motherhood is right for me. Thankfully, I don’t have to find the answer any time soon.
Tatum wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Does someone have baby fever?” she sing-songs.
“I don’t know. I’m horny as fuck, and I can’t figure out why.”
“Maybe it’s because you and Jensen finally have some breathing room. You’re able to focus on each other without all the distractions.”
She makes a good point. Jensen and I dealt with a lot of other issues at the start of our relationship. We weren’t able to focus on us as a couple because we spent our time either having sex or helping each other through hardships, often both. There was no downtime in between. From what I’ve witnessed in other happy couples, the downtime is when foundations form and love grows.
“He wants to take things slow, which means no sex. I agree with his reasons, but when I look at him, I want to tackle him to the ground and rip off his clothes.”
Lucy offers her words of wisdom. “I bet if you tell him you want a baby, he’ll end the sex ban.”
I gaze intently at the baby in my arms. “Honestly, I can’t picture myself as a mother.”
Tatum presses her face to mine, cheek to cheek, as we admire her beautiful son. “Caring for people comes natural to you. I’m living proof of that. Jensen’s living proof. Marcus, Graham, Miguel, even Vera. You’ve cared for us all and asked for nothing in return. You have more patience and perseverance than anyone I know. Two qualities that make a great mom.”
“What if I don’t want to be a mom?” I whisper, ashamed for voicing the question while hugging a newborn close to my chest.
Lucy asks, “What if you do, just not right now? You may think differently in a few years.”
I sigh. “Jensen wants kids, but I’ve made no promises. We have a lot of work to do on ourselves before we can think about bringing a baby into our lives.”
They don’t argue with my reasoning because we all know it’s true. Instead, Tatum encourages me to sniff Lennon’s hair, and oh. My. God. Is there a better scent on earth than a baby’s head? I don’t feel weird admitting this to Tatum and Lucy because, of course, they agree.
Quiet minutes go by before I’m unable to hold my tongue any longer. “Your face has been touching my face for a long freaking time,” I say to Tatum.
Because our cheeks are pressed together, I feel her smile. “And I’ve enjoyed every second of being this close to you.”
“Creep,” I say, fighting the grin tugging at my lips.
She lets out a long, contented sigh. “I love you too.”