Chapter 37
Beckett
I miss you.
It’s been four hours. How can you miss me already?
Beckett
I miss you when you’re in the next room. Four hours might as well be four years.
You’re being cheesy.
Beckett
And you love it.
Don’t you miss me?
With the text comes a picture of Beckett in the back of a cab.
His eyes are covered by his sunglasses, but he’s pushed his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout, and I don’t even try to stop the laugh that slips out.
He looks ridiculous—like someone who’s never once made that face for a camera—and it makes me miss him all the more.
Of course I miss you.
Maybe it’s not fair, but I never said I’d play fair. I send him a picture of the sight in front of me—my little bump popping out of the bubbles of the bath I’m currently sitting in.
His response is instant.
Beckett
That’s dirty.
How am I supposed to pay attention to Aaron with that image in my head?
I’m not sure that’s my problem.
Beckett
You’re lucky I love you.
So fucking lucky.
It’s not the same as him being in the bed beside me, but it’s the next best thing. I shift to my side, propping the phone against my pillow and watch through the screen as Beckett does the same.
“Hey,” he says, and I can see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes. It’s only been two days since he was here, but it feels like so much longer. “I can’t believe I missed the appointment.”
“It’s fine.” I want to reach out and smooth the wrinkle between his brows, but he’s not here. “How are you? How are rehearsals?”
“Crazy.” He runs a hand through his hair, which looks like he’s already done plenty of times today.
“Aaron’s running me ragged. And the media…
” His words trail off as he shakes his head.
“You’d think I made some life-changing announcement like I was quitting or something instead of simply getting back to work. ”
“That bad?”
“Worse.” But he smiles, that crooked smile that makes my chest ache with how familiar it is. “I missed the appointment,” he repeats. “I promised I wouldn’t miss any and I missed the first one since I left.”
“Beckett, honey. It’s okay. Even if you were here, I wouldn’t expect you to be at every appointment. Most of them are boring and repetitive anyway. Weight, blood pressure, measure the belly, listen to the heartbeat. Rinse and repeat.”
“Still—”
“Still nothing,” I interrupt. “Take the tour and fame out of it, even if you did something ‘normal,’ you have to work. Missed appointments are going to happen.”
There isn’t a single part of me that’s upset he missed the appointment. I miss him and I wish he was here, but that has nothing to do with the baby or the news the doctor gave me, and everything to do with my selfish desires. The world makes sense when he’s around.
“How’d the appointment go?” he asks, shifting in his bed.
“Fine,” I hedge, not looking forward to giving him the news. “Doctor Wallace wants me to come in every week instead of every other.”
“What?” He springs up in bed, his concern pouring off of him, I swear I can feel it through the phone.
“It’s just precautionary,” I tell him, shifting to sit with my back against the headboard. “My protein levels are perfect, it’s just my blood pressure she’s a little concerned about.”
I watch Beckett’s eyes bounce around the screen and I know he’s looking for any sign that I’m holding something back.
“I’m okay, honey.”
“Maybe I should cancel the tour.”
“Absolutely not.” The words come out sharp, harder than I mean them, but I won’t be that person to him.
He may be ready to take a step back, but he still loves what he does, and he deserves to get the chance to do it.
“I’d rather you do this tour and miss every doctor’s appointment if it means you’re here for the birth. ”
He’s quiet—studying me more through the screen.
“We’re fine. I promise.”
“I love you,” he says firmly, like he needs me to know how true that statement is.
“I love you, too.”
And that feeling only grows more and more each day.
The flowers are waiting on the porch when Ian and I return from the grocery store. White lilies and something purple I can’t name wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
I stop at the bottom of the steps, my hand tightening on the grocery bag. My gaze shoots to Ian, sudden anxiety prickling my skin.
Ian’s glance to the flowers is far too relaxed for where my mind goes and when he looks at me, his expression is knowing, almost gentle. “It’s fine.”
“But—”
“Go on.” He gestures to the house. “Get the door.”
I climb the stairs slowly, my eyes on the flowers, but before I can bend to pick them up, Ian lifts them himself.
Inside, I turn off the alarm while Ian watches close behind me.
It’s become our routine over the last week.
Ian doesn’t take charge and do everything for me, he’s simply there, observing and ready to step in if the need arises.
I thought I’d hate it, him being here, but it’s somehow become a comfort, like in some weird way a part of Beckett is still with us.
Ian doesn’t leave after he sets the flowers on the kitchen island. He steps back, giving me space, but keeps a position in the doorway.
I don’t know why my fingers shake as I reach for the note, Ian wouldn’t let me do this if he didn’t know exactly where these flowers came from. All my fears fade when I see Beckett’s handwriting on the front of the card.
I’m sorry I’m missing our movie day. I’d rather be there with you than anywhere else.
I can’t wait to be home with you and Nugget. To have more movie days with you.
I press the note to my chest, missing him a little more than I did this morning. Behind me, Ian’s feet move across the wood floor and he begins unpacking the groceries.
“Movie day,” I explain, even though he doesn’t ask.
“Easiest day of the week.” I hear the smile in Ian’s voice and can’t help but agree.
Saturdays with Beckett have been the easiest days I’ve ever had.
The tour bus looks nothing like I imagined. Instead of over the top and luxurious, it’s simple and comfortable. The warm tones and black leather make the place look like a home, and I’m glad Beckett has that while he’s on the road.
He’s seated at a table with the kitchenette behind him, and seeing his face makes me wish I were there.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
We’ve talked about so much over the last three and a half months since we met, but somehow we haven’t talked about how he feels before he steps on stage.
He laughs—that easy, confident sound that always pulls me in. “No. I don’t remember the last time I got nervous before a show.”
“Must be nice.”
“I think it comes with age and experience.” He shifts in his seat, leaning his elbows on the table to get closer to the screen. “How’s Nugget?”
“Active.” I laugh, rubbing my belly.
Beckett watches me through the screen, and I see something curious and maybe a little nervous pass over his features. I want to ask him about it, but decide not to push. I know he’ll say what’s on his mind when he’s ready.
“Have you—have you been thinking about names?”
I bite my lip to stifle my smile. That’s not the question I thought he’d ask, but I’m glad he did. “I have. I think I’ve narrowed it down to five.
“Share them with me?”
“Silas, Mason, Shepherd, Oliver, and Ramsey.”
His smile is soft and I wish I could run my finger over it, could feel that smile pressed against my cheek.
“I love them,” he whispers.
“Which one’s your favorite?”
Beckett’s body goes stiff as he pulls back from the camera. “No way. I’m not telling you that.”
“Beckett—”
“No, Madison. I want to be part of this, of raising him, but I haven’t earned that.” He swallows so hard I see it through the screen. “You pick the name.”
I take a second, truly looking at Beckett, and realize he truly believes that—even if that’s the farthest thing from the truth.
“He may not be biologically yours, but you’re just as much a part of this—of us—as I am. You definitely get an opinion.”
He goes still, something shifting in his gaze.
The ambient noise of the bus fades into background static.
“I love you,” he says, and there’s weight behind it, like they might just be the most important words he’s ever said.
“And I miss you.” His voice breaks in the middle and it takes me a second to see the tears in his eyes.
“We love you too,” I say, my hand resting on my stomach. “And we miss you, but you’ll be home before we know it.”
Someone calls his name and Beckett quickly wipes his face before looking away and giving someone I can’t see a brief nod before his attention is back on me. “One down, twenty-nine to go.”
I smile and blow him a kiss, reaching forward to grab the phone from where it’s propped when Beckett’s eyes catch mine.
He looks at me, an intensity in his eyes so deep my breath catches. “Shepherd,” he says right before the screen goes dark.
Main Street is packed for a Tuesday afternoon, but I can’t say I blame anyone. The April sun is warm on my face, and after such a cold winter, it’s no surprise everyone is out to enjoy it.
“Is there a festival or something?” Ian asks from my side as we dodge a group of people clustered outside the bookstore.
“No. Probably just the weather.”
We pass the bakery, the smell of fresh bread wafting through the open door. I’m deciding whether I have room for a cinnamon roll when a group surges toward us.
I step back to let them pass, releasing Ian’s arm, and feel the slight shove just before my foot catches on a dip in the sidewalk. Everything seems to move in slow motion after that, my hand instinctively shooting out to break my fall.
My wrist takes most of the impact and pain shoots up my arm as my hip hits the concrete, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
Terror pumps through me. I didn’t hit my belly, Shepherd’s fine.
“Madison.” Ian’s beside me in an instant, hands hovering over me like he can’t decide if he should touch me or not. “Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. I’m frozen, one hand pressed to my belly the other cradled to my chest.
“Madison.” Ian’s voice is firm, cutting through the panic. “Look at me.”
I meet his eyes. His face is pale, but his hands are steady when they grip my arms.
“I’m taking you to the doctor,” he says, no room for argument in his tone.
But I don’t want to argue with him. I know it’s the right call.
Ian helps me to my feet, his arm solid around my waist, and I lean into him more than I want when my hip screams in protest. My wrist throbs and I still haven’t felt Shepherd move.
“Don’t call Beckett,” I whisper as Ian guides me toward his truck.
“Madison—”
“I’m gonna tell him. I just want to be the one to do it.”
Ian stops at the passenger door, pulling it open and helping me in before he looks at me, his jaw set in that stubborn line I’ve seen more times that I’d like to admit.
“Please, Ian. If I call him now, he’ll panic and do something drastic. Let’s get answers from the doctor and then call.”
He studies me for a long moment, before he gives a curt nod. “Okay. But if the doctor says anything concerning, I’m calling him myself.”
“Deal.”
The doctor’s office is blessedly quick. Blood pressure normal—or at least normal for me at the moment—heartbeat strong. The cramping I was afraid to admit was likely from the impact, Braxton Hicks triggered by the stress of the fall. Nothing serious, just a sprained wrist and a bruised hip.
Ian drives me home in silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I know he’s upset I still haven’t called Beckett, but I want to do it from home. With one of Beckett’s flannels wrapped around me.
At the house, he follows me inside as he does every day, but this time he disables the alarm as I make my way to the couch.
“I’m gonna call Beckett now,” I promise him.
He nods, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “Do you need anything?” His words are softer than I expect.
“No, I’m good.”
“You going anywhere else today?”
“I’m in for the night.”
His posture relaxes slightly, and I know he’s beating himself up about the fall. Before I can say anything, he squeezes my shoulder before heading for the door.
“I’ll be at the cottage if you need anything, Madison,” he calls over his shoulder. The sound of the alarm reengaging follows him out the door.
I sit alone in the living room, listening to the silence of the house. My wrist throbs in its wrap and my hip aches, but Shepherd’s moving, a flutter of reassurance against my palm.
I pull out my phone and hit Beckett’s contact. He answers on the first ring.
“Hey,” he says, and I can see the arena behind him, the chaos of sound check going in the background. “I only have a few minutes before—” He stops, catching a quick glimpse of my face. “What’s wrong?”
I tell him—the crowd, the fall, the cramp that turned out to be nothing. I watch his expression shift from concern to guilt, and I hate everything about it.
“Where was Ian?” he asks quietly.
“He was with me. I stepped away from him to let the crowd pass”—I shake my head—“it wasn’t his fault.”
“I should come home. I should cancel—”
“No.” I smile at the love I feel. “It was just a fall. I’m fine. Shep’s fine.” The nickname slips out, natural as breathing and Beckett’s face calms at the sound. “He’s moving around and kicking like crazy now. He hears your voice.”
Beckett closes his eyes and when he opens them, they’re bright with emotion. “I wish I was there.”
I feel the familiar ache, the one that’s become as constant as my own heartbeat these past weeks. “I know,” I say softly. “I do too.”
I look at him on the screen, at the man who’s become more important than I thought possible, at the tired lines around his eyes and the love in his face that I can feel even through the distance.
“You’ll be home before we know it,” I say.
The words have become my mantra, my prayer, the thing I say to get us both through the days apart. It’s the truth. One day, when we look back at this time, these weeks apart will feel like nothing.
Beckett smiles, sad and sweet, and echoes the words back at me. “Before we know it.”