Chapter 12 #2
Fuck, he is an asshole. A jerk. A real piece of work who is slowly ruining any chance he might have at truly being with her because he’s afraid to admit the truth now that it’s festered into such a big lie.
It felt like an absent thing to say back when they first met.
Easier than arguing with some stranger about his claim to that house. He gave it no thought whatsoever.
Now, it’s all he thinks about when he isn’t fantasizing about Addison or having nightmares about the baby’s birth.
“What about you?” he questions. “You need a room, too.”
She shrugs, unbothered. “Don’t worry about that, we’ll clean out the one next door. It’ll be quick.”
‘Emma can have that one, and you can stay here with me,’ is what he wants to say, but isn’t brave enough to consider voicing.
There’s more space in here than in the others. They gave him the master. A crib or a bassinet would fit over there by the window, he thinks, imagining a reality where something like that is possible.
He needs to be grateful for what he got today. If all they ever are is a fake family within these walls, he’ll happily take it, even if Addison sleeps next door forever.
* * *
“Music is important. The book says at least an hour a day streamed directly to the belly, but since we ain’t got headphones yet we gotta make do,” Wyatt says, rifling through a pile of CDs they found.
The windfall of a portable power bank in the attic means they can charge it with solar. They have enough electricity to plug in a toaster or coffee maker…or a CD player.
“Any particular type.” Addison squints at the fine print on a faded label. “Jazz?”
“Hell no. Classical. That’s what the books said.”
“Classical.”
“You don’t like it?”
She shrugs with what looks like a hidden smile of amusement. “I do, I do, you just don’t seem the type. Lemme guess…country? Is that your kinda thing?”
“This ain’t about me,” he grunts.
“I like country!” Emma pipes up, waving a CD in the air, as if she’s ever heard a lick of country music in her life. “This one says it’s an audio reading, and there are three X’s on the label. What does that mean?”
Addison’s eyebrows creep up into her hairline as she plucks the disk from her daughter’s hands. “It means it’s boring. Not music, find something happy, okay?”
“Wait, what is that?” Wyatt whispers after Emma disappears again into a pile of boxes.
Addison leans in, her voice whisper-light. “I’m assuming it’s audio porn.”
“Oh.”
He must be beet red already because she laughs, her whisper turning dramatic and theatrical. “Yeah, oh…oh…oh—”
“Okay, I got it. Jesus. Stop that. Are you gonna look for some classical music or what? What were all the ladies doing in that cult of yours that you know about this stuff?”
“Well, my cousin Evie left once for a whole six months. It wasn’t common or approved by the elders, but she just up and ran one day. Spent all that time in the city, and when she came back…the stories she told us. Probably more sinful than what’s on this CD.”
“She came back? Why?”
Addison’s voice evens out. “It’s difficult out there, is what she said.
There were other sets of rules she wasn’t prepared for.
Practical requirements like paying bills and finding shelter, and a job, and I suppose in the end she became overwhelmed with starting a new life outside the group and retreated back into what’s familiar. ”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“It did give me ideas, though,” she continues. “It was hard not to question things as you get older.”
He nods.
“This was right around when I began to do that, too, and for a moment, I wondered if I might succeed where she couldn’t. I almost left, too.”
“But you stayed.”
“I was married off shortly after. Pregnant with Emma, and everything that felt possible suddenly wasn’t. So yeah, I stayed.”
Her voice is monotone, and he regrets this line of questioning.
“Anyway, I was forced out eventually because here I am. With you.” Her smile then is quick, and he almost looks away with a blush when her gaze connects with his. “I don’t think these people were classical types. I say we pop something in and go with it.”
“But the book said—”
“Wyatt.” She levels him with an even stare. “This baby will be happy to hear anything that’s not my stomach growling for more food. Grab three CDs and let’s wing it.”
He’s trying to follow exactly what the books say, but she’s far less concerned with details. They’re more likely to find a Picasso in this house than they are classical music, so he doesn’t have much choice but to agree.
They all converge in the kitchen where the solar power charges by the window. He plugs the player in and shoves a random choice into it, hoping it’s something decent. What fills the air is an upbeat, soft love song. Something he suspects teenagers would play on summer nights around a bonfire.
He growls in frustration, ready to shut it off. “This won’t promote higher brain functions.”
“No, leave it. I like it,” Addison smiles. “It’s something to dance to.”
Oh fuck.
What has he done?
Emma is already bouncing around the room, not a care in the world. Her dress from the attic spins as she does.
“Come on, can you do one of these?” Addison deadpans, flapping her elbows.
“No.”
“Hmm. Disco?” She mimes the classic move.
“I don’t dance. Was that in one of your twenty-three movies?”
“Matter of fact, it was. How about this one…oh, what was the name….it’s like this.” Her feet slide across the tile floor in a move he recognizes.
“The hustle. I am begging you to stop,” he says flatly.
“Can’t stop. Won’t stop.”
“Ah, hell, come here.” He takes her hand, spinning her twice while her dress ruffles, before bringing her in close.
Her breath hitches, nose near enough that the tip almost brushes his. Hadn’t meant to tug her in that hard, but now she’s here and letting her go sounds torturous.
He doesn’t know a damn thing about dancing, but does a poor imitation of every stupid thing he’s ever watched on TV.
Puts her arm over his shoulder and slides away, lets her spin him, and then dips her dramatically.
He looks like a complete fool, but he doesn’t care.
She’s so damn happy that he’ll be a fool the rest of his life to keep her smile that bright.
“Spin me! Spin me!” Emma laughs.
He obliges. Spinning her so fast she gets dizzy and collapses on the floor in a fit of giggles.
“Spin me again!” Addison follows up in the silliest, teasing tone, her hand out and ready.
“Oh my god. You’re ridiculous.”
“You like me this way.”
“Mhmm.” He fakes a put-out expression but twirls her before dragging her back into his arms.
A slower song comes on, crackling electricity in the air, making his nerves sing, and her pupils dilate like saucers.
He’s not completely ignorant of how people circle each other. He may have been married for a long time and single by choice for long after, but he is observant enough to catalogue her reactions and assume their meaning.
She hasn’t moved away yet, and her lips have parted in hopeful expectation. It all tells him that he’s not imagining it when he thinks maybe…just maybe, she’s interested in him.
The logical, rational facts about this are the easy part. It’s everything else that he struggles with. His own fear of not being worthy keeps him from entertaining the idea further.
Backing clear across the kitchen, he lets her go. “I’m gonna look through the music again. See if we missed some classical.”
It’s a lame excuse to leave as he beelines for an escape without looking back. Next time, he’ll be brave. If there is a next time.
* * *
“I found this in the pantry. It’s not cocoa butter, but it could work the same. The book says you’re supposed to rub it on your belly.” He proudly places a jar of coconut oil on the coffee table as if he hunted it himself out in the wild.
Emma is in bed, and now seems the perfect time to bring up the importance of proper skincare.
Addison uncaps it. “Smells good. What does it do?”
“Prevents stretch marks, prevents pain from tender skin, overall sense of well-being.”
“Overall sense of well-being, huh?”
“You think this is stupid,” he flops onto the sofa beside her. “Sorry, I’m going overboard.”
She takes a dime-sized dollop of coconut oil and slathers it across her still unchanged stomach, her voice gentle. “I like that you care enough to think about these things and to read those books like it’s important.”
“It is important. I know all the cocoa butter and Mozart left in the world isn’t going to make up for the fact that we live in the apocalypse.”
“But it’s something we can control. I get it, I do.” She goes quiet for a moment. “I’m really happy you agreed to stay here.”
“I actually wanted to ask you the same thing. I just chickened out.”
“You did?”
He nods.
She smiles. “We still have to go back and get the cat and the goats, and you’re right about keeping a food stash there just in case. Can’t have all our eggs in one basket. Speaking of eggs, I’m starving.”
“Want some crackers?”
She shivers. “No. Never again. Something sweet.”
“The books say sugar can stunt the peanut’s development.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Okay. Sugar. Got it. Hold on.” He rushes into the kitchen, grabs two expired candy bars, and hands her one like a gift.
“Thank you.” She rips into the package, taking a bite with a sinful hum.
“You know what I craved when I was pregnant with Emma? Peanut butter. I had to hoard it because it was coveted back home. We’d get it from town, and it was a luxury to spend the money we did have on it.
I had a good six jars by the end, all half-eaten. ”
She tells him this unbothered, even smiling like it’s a fond memory. He’d have bought her all the peanut butter she wanted, and she wouldn’t have needed to hide it.
“I wonder if they made peanut butter cheesecake?” she asks, remembering his favorite dessert.
“They definitely did.”
She pauses, squinting at his face before reaching out toward him.
He pulls back without thinking and gives himself a mental kick for that reaction. All he wants is to be closer to her, and here he is flinching away on reflex for no good reason.
“Relax,” she whispers. “You’ve got chocolate on your lips.”
He forces himself still while she wipes a dollop of sugar from the corner of his mouth, holds his stare, and sucks it right off that digit in a way that feels obscene.
His brain short-circuits, and he’s well on his way to hardening in his pants.
“Know what else the books say?” she asks.
“What?”
“That…touching certain places can produce beneficial endorphins.”
Holy shit, she is trying to kill him.
Does she want him to touch her? Where? How? Should he know this already from the books, or is she screwing with him?
He can’t remember any massage instructions, but she’s the expert on having babies, so he won’t question it.
“Can I show you where?” she asks, her words low and deep.
He only nods, afraid to speak and say something stupid.
Her hand slips into his, guiding it to the back of her neck. “Here, this is a good spot. Little circles or light scratching.”
He follows instructions while her whole body shivers.
“And um…here.” She moves his other hand to press below the curve of her breast, his fingertips slotting against the dips in her ribs.
His thumb brushes dangerously close to where he shouldn’t be. Then again, she put him there, so maybe it’s exactly where he should be.
“You gotta tell me how,” he begs, overcome by indecision. Hoping she’ll take pity on him and say flat out what she wants or doesn’t.
“A waving motion with your thumb. That would be….oh shit—”
The minute he complies, brushing the pad of his thumb across the swell of her breast and ghosting the underside, she hisses out a curse.
“Sorry, sorry, you meant on the ribs? That’s what you meant. Fuck, I didn’t mean…I dunno why I did that.”
“I meant exactly what you did.” Her teeth snag on her lower lip. “It’s just a cramp. It’ll pass. It already is.”
“Oh.” He’s having a silent panic attack because she’s so damn close he can feel her exhale on his chin. “Are you sure that’s normal? It’s been happening a lot.”
“It’s fine,” she assures him.
Whatever happened, she’s already recovered, and she looks like she’s waiting for him to kiss her. All the signals are smacking him in the face, bright enough that even he can’t miss them.
If she didn’t want him to kiss her, she’d have moved away by now.
If she didn’t want him to touch her, she wouldn’t have put his hands on her body.
Is she cruel enough to tease him to the edge and then rip the rug out from under his feet? No. No, she wouldn’t do that.
Then she glances at his lips again and snakes her tongue out to wet her own. His last shred of hope at controlling his reaction shatters between them.
He plans to move slowly and give her plenty of time to rethink this and shove him off the sofa, but before he can lean in, she grabs her stomach with a grimace on her lips that he was just about to kiss.
“What is it? Addison, talk to me. What’s happening?” He crouches down in front of her, his hands at her elbows, while she doubles over.
“I think something is wrong with the baby. The cramps have gotten worse. I didn’t want to say anything because there’s nothing we can do.”
Her skin is as pale as his must be after hearing that.
They need the ultrasound machine.
They need a real doctor.
Only one of those things exists within their grasp. Even once they have a clear view of whatever is wrong inside her, he has no idea what they plan to do with that information.
“Come on, lie back.” He encourages her against the throw pillows, pulling a chair up beside the sofa.
“It’s fine, right?” she asks, knowing anything he says will be a lie.
“It’s fine. A little rest and you’ll be right as rain again.”
She offers him a half smile at hearing her own line. “You’re such a bad liar.”
“I might be better than you think.”
“What do you…Oh…that’s not, I just—”
“Easy, squeeze my hand if you need to.”
And so she does, digging her fingernails into his skin as her muscles contract in ways they aren’t supposed to just yet.
He can only hope it’ll pass soon and prove to be a one-off situation that has no bearing on the baby whatsoever.
He refuses to entertain the idea of any other outcome.