29. Allie
ALLIE
The three weeks after Archer returns home from Texas pass by in a flash. After we find out the sex of the baby—our girl—things are less awkward between us, but the distance remains.
He sleeps on the couch in the guesthouse, and between his training sessions in San Diego and my shifts at The Wicked Wildflower, we hardly see each other. Then, the week before Christmas, I drove up to spend a few days with my parents and celebrate Hanukkah at home with them.
My family has always celebrated Hanukkah, with Christmas more of a bonus holiday, and more of a way to celebrate my dad’s birthday, which is December twenty-fifth.
Our tradition most years is either being at the cabin our families co-own in Lake Arrowhead, or at Disneyland—my dad’s favorite way to spend his birthday.
But this year, with everyone’s busy schedules, we opted to spend Christmas in Pacific Shores, and Archer and I finally told everyone about our baby being a girl. It was joyous and wonderful, to see all of our family so elated about the news.
Before we celebrated Christmas morning with everyone, Archer gave me his gift.
A silver charm bracelet. He’d already placed three charms on it—a cat with sapphire gemstone eyes, a tiny cupcake, and a pink heart, for our girl.
He said his plan was to have our daughter add to it too, once she’s old enough to pick out charms, and that it could become a tapestry of small things that remind her of me.
I cried, then gave him his gift from me.
A kaleidoscope keychain with a digital image of our sonogram on the inside, so that when he looks inside it, he can see our daughter.
I thought it was something he could take with him on his team visits, to the combine, and the draft, so he can look at her whenever he wants, no matter how far away he is.
He cried too, and that hope flourished in me once again.
We walked into his parents’ house hand-in-hand and had a perfect morning—until I opened a gift from his grandmother on Dahlia’s side.
They’re not particularly close with her, and I only met her one time years ago, but I guess someone told her about the baby, so she sent us a onesie that had “Baby Ramos” printed on it.
I blurted out that we hadn’t agreed on the baby’s last name, and I swear to God you could’ve heard a feather drop in that room. Archer’s eyes were shocked, and though he tried his best to hide it, I know it upset him.
Dahlia muttered something about her mom being too traditional and promptly stowed the gift away. The mood lifted when Everett was handed a gift from my own mother—a T-shirt that had G.I.L.F. across the front.
But my comment never left my head.
I hadn’t really intended to say it out loud, but when I saw the onesie—and for the first time imagined my daughter’s name—I became incredibly defensive.
Ramos isn’t a bad name. It’s got good roots, it’s connected to good people—I’ve imagined myself as a Ramos, even. But now, despite growing a child with his very blood, Archer and I seem farther from that future than ever.
We have moments of fondness and affection—our default setting.
The two of us don’t know how to operate any other way, but I know this isn’t more than friendship.
Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like that.
I know Archer loves me, but since he found out about my pregnancy, I’m no longer sure he’s capable of being in love with me, and I don’t know how that impacts our future now.
What I do know, is that I’m the one birthing this child. I’m building her cell by cell. She’s part of me, I carry her with me every second of the day and every step I take. There is no world in which she will be born, and we won’t share a name.
I hope that someday Archer and I find a way to rebuild our bond and salvage the romance I’ve always dreamed about with him.
I hope to see him on his knee, I hope to wear his ring, and meet him at the end of an aisle in a white dress with our daughter by our side, but the vision of that future isn’t as clear now as it once was.
And until that unification of our family is presented to me with sparkling clarity, I won’t give my daughter any other name but mine.
I told Archer as much that evening after we got back home, and to my utter astonishment, he smiled. He kissed me on the forehead and told me he wouldn’t expect anything less.
That was two days ago, and we haven’t spoken about it since.
I could talk to him now, considering he’s lying on the couch in the living room playing video games, but I’m so goddamn irritable I could scream at him just for existing, so it’s probably not the best time.
I pull myself out of bed, padding into the kitchen for what feels like my eighty-seventh glass of apple juice today.
When I open the fridge door, I notice it’s on the bottom shelf, and I become instantly annoyed because I’m pretty sure I did not place it there, and now I have to bend over to grab it.
A low, frustrated groan tears from my throat as I snatch the juice from the fridge. When I spin around to face the counter, my eyes snag on Archer across the room, who’s now looking at me over his controller with a raised brow.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No,” I bark.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply as I move to the cupboards and raise on my toes to grab a glass from the third shelf.
I’m overwhelmed by a strong, huge presence as he closes in behind me.
A corded, muscled arm shoots out above my head, the delicious fucking veins in his forearm flexing as he grabs the cup before slowly setting it in front of me.
I’m enveloped in the musky, teakwood scent of his cologne as he drops his lips to my ear and whispers, “What’s the matter, Amor?”
Suddenly, being bent over doesn’t seem so bad.
His voice sends trickles of hot honey down my spine, and I bite back a moan at the sensation. I’d be horny right now if I wasn’t already so fucking bloated.
“Nothing.” I sigh.
“Don’t lie to me. I can’t fix it if you lie.”
The word lie coming from his lips causes a flutter of dread to erupt inside me, only pushing my exasperation farther up my throat, until I’m spinning in his arms and glaring up at him. I huff an exasperated sigh, growling, “You know what’s wrong? I’m fucking constipated, Archer.”
He blinks, eyebrows skyrocketing into his hairline. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I flash him a sickly-sweet smile. “Can you fix that for me?” He chews his lip, studying me contemplatively as I scramble out of his arms, muttering, “Pregnancy is really fucking ugly.”
Feeling suddenly very embarrassed, I pour my glass of apple juice and stomp back to the bedroom. I slam the door behind me, spread my heating pad on the bed before clicking it to the lowest setting, and lie down, searching for some kind of comfort.
A moment later, Archer comes barreling into the bedroom.
I watch him with vexation as he lifts my legs and sits at the edge of the bed, placing my feet in his lap.
“I want you to show me all your uglies, Allie.” He drags his hand up and down my calf.
“That’s my baby in you, and I want to take care of you.
And her. Even if I can’t fix it, I can do my best to make it better, but I need to know. ”
“You want to take care of me because this is your baby, or because you love me?” I ask, voicing the question that’s been plaguing me for weeks—the question I’m terrified to know the answer to.
He rears back, brows furrowing, gaze becoming withdrawn and stunned. “What?”
I shake my head, turning my face into the pillow. “Nothing. Forget I said that. I’m just… I’m uncomfortable right now. I want to take a nap or something.”
He studies me for a while, but I can’t keep my eyes locked on his. The devastation I find within them slices through my skin like daggers.
“C’mon,” he says finally, patting my thigh. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I’m gonna fix this.”
An incredulous laugh bursts from my lips as Archer stands, reaching his hand out to me. “You’re going to make me shit?”
“That.” He nods, before murmuring, “Among other things.”
Curiosity gets the best of me, overpowering my annoyance, so I take his hand and let him lead me into the bathroom.
Archer grabs my robe off the hook on the back of my door, thrusting it into my arms. “Here. Take off your clothes and put this on while I grab some things.”
Take off your clothes.
Fuck. I shake out the images that plague my mind when his velvety voice says those words.
He darts back into the bedroom, I wiggle out of my panties and pull my shirt over my head before he’s knocking on the door again. “Do you have your robe on? Can I come in?”
“No. And yes.”
He peeks through the door, and when his eyes land on my now naked figure, they immediately drop to his feet. “Sorry. Do you want me to come back when you’re covered?”
“Archer,” I say, waiting until he pulls his gaze back to my face. “Do you plan on leaving the room when I birth your child? How about when I’m breastfeeding her?”
“I’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with, but…I’d like to be part of everything you allow me to.”
“You’re allowed to look at me now,” I whisper.
As if my permission was the final thread of his composure, his gaze unravels, eyes eagerly roaming every inch of my exposed skin.
My body has changed beyond just my growing belly.
My hips are rounder, thighs thicker, my breasts massive—heavy.
I feel good about it, though. Good in my skin.
Sure, I’m achy and constipated and irritable, but pregnancy glow is real and I’ve felt more confident than ever as I come into this new version of my body.
The sound of Archer’s breath hitching, the rapid expansion of his chest as he soaks in those very changes, only cause a surge in my self-esteem.
“I know my body is changing,” I whisper, fingers dancing over my collarbone. Archer tracks the movement as I slide my hand over my breast—torturously slow. “But I like it.”