Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
I spring from the chair and make it as far as the door before I realize Matt isn’t behind me. I turn. “Do you want to . . .”
He’s on his feet before I can blink.
After having my height measured (no change) and my weight checked (very minimal change), I hop up onto a white padded bed, as instructed, to have my blood pressure taken and a little blood drawn.
“If you could lie down now,” Jenny instructs. “Then lift your top and wiggle your bottom down a bit, my love.”
I came prepared for being poked and prodded, if not scanned, maybe made to wear a paper gown? So I’m dressed in my easy-access pants, which I wriggle over my hips before lifting my shirt, all while pretending Matt isn’t in the room.
“Would you like me to wait outside?” he asks as the pale roll of tissue under my back rustles louder than thunder with each of my unintentional squirms.
“No, don’t be silly.” I’d never win an Oscar, I think as my eyes follow Jenny, who dips out of the room. “This shouldn’t feel so awkward,” I mutter. “What’s a little skin when we’ve literally had our mouths on each other’s genitals.”
“Ready?”
“Shit!” I jump as the doctor enters the room. Matt begins to cough like a man who’s swallowed his own tongue. “Sorry, I mean yes.” Did he hear me say that? If he did, I’ll just die right now. Get it over with. “All ready!”
“Need some water?” He slides the question Matt’s way.
“No.” Composing himself, he thumps his chest with the side of his fist. “But thank you.”
“Pull your shirt up a wee bit more. Perfect.” Dr. Travers tucks more of the tissue into the lowered waistband of my pants, the motion perfunctory and long practiced. “Cold squirt,” he instructs, squeezing cold lube over my stomach.
My eyes meet Matt’s again as the doc lifts a wand that’s a lot like my old Hitachi, er, massager. Yeah, let’s go with that. From the bottom of the bed, Matt’s brow quirks questioningly. Teasingly. I bite back a snicker.
The lights dip, and the wand is applied in a less fun way than my Hitachi, thank the Lord. There’s something soothing about the dimly lit room, until—
“Oh!”
“There we go,” the doctor murmurs.
An ache instantly creeps up the back of my throat, my whole being focused on the whoosh-whoosh-whooshing and the almost ethereal image on the screen. “Oh.” I suddenly find my hand in Matt’s and look up to find him staring down at me.
“Nice and strong,” Dr. Travers murmurs from somewhere outside our bubble. Me looking at Matt, Matt looking at me, our baby’s heartbeat filling the space between us.
“Tell me something,” I find myself whispering.
Matt smiles, his eyes turning glossy. “This is so fucking amazing.”
Chapter 20
Ryan
La-di-fuckin’-da. Just look at you now. You’re no better than me.
No better than I said you’d be.
I jolt upright, dragged from my sleep like a person pulled from the deep as I press my hand to my chest and gulp mouthful after mouthful of air. It’s still dark outside as I reach for my phone and realize it’s past seven already. A lie-in, I think, like my heart isn’t still thundering as I use the back of my hand to brush the hair from my face.
As my panic begins to recede, I throw back the covers and swing my legs out of the bed. I thought I’d forgotten what my mother’s voice sounded like. That her accusations were no longer my problem.
Better than her. Lord, I’d like to think I’ve made better choices, but whether that makes me a better person or just more obstinate is anyone’s guess. I knew from a young age I wouldn’t be following in her footsteps. Not as long as I had breath in my body.
I’ll never be dependent on my looks or a man. I’ll never get myself so twisted up that I forget my responsibilities.
How can you forget about a child? My feet softly pad across the carpet as I head for the bathroom. How do you forget to pick her up from school? Or forget she needs to get there in the first place. How could you put your need for liquor above her tiny stomach?
I won’t ever be her, I think as I pass my suitcase on the luggage rack, both items that signify my temporary state in this place. The arms of my pink sweater hang from the case. What story do they tell? The need for a hug? A bolt for escape?
It’s too early to start analyzing myself this morning.
The sweater is a manifestation of my manic attempt at packing last night after Matt brought me home. My temporary home. The phase that lasted less than twenty minutes and seemed to achieve nothing but piles of clothes dotted on every surface, and a few dumped to the belly of my $2,000 Rimowa suitcase.