Them (Him #3) (15 page)

“Can I do anything to help?” My offer is lame and most likely too late, but I was raised to pitch in. Besides, it will help ease my guilt over her cooking for all of us in the first place.

“It is all finished, dear,” she replies, linking her arm through mine and moving us both toward the dining room table.

The table is set, drinks already poured and dishes brimming with pasta, chicken, vegetables and rolls. There’s too much food for just the four of us, and I realize she’s done it purposefully so we’ll already have another meal ready to go from the leftovers. At the table, she sits to my right, with the both of us facing the boys.

I reach out to clasp her hand in mine and thank her. Knowing the woman she is today makes me mourn the mother Will did not have growing up. Back then, she was cold, living but only barely doing that. She pushed Will away, terrified to form attachments after the death of his older sister. His whole entire life could have changed.

If he had felt more at home in his own house, would he have ever come to spend the time he had at mine instead? It’s sad but if Mama Price had been a better mother, there’s a chance Will and I wouldn’t be together today. Our paths in life shape us; they have both the opportunity to break us or strengthen us depending on our own unique circumstances.

I lost seven years I could have spent with the love of my life, all because I was an immature eighteen-year-old who lacked the confidence to believe someone like Will could love me the way he did. That is my burden to live with. I plan to spend the rest of my life making certain that man knows how much I love him and enjoying and trusting in the fact that he loves me the same.

I choose not to live in the regret of what might have been in those seven years we lost. It is possible that, as Will needed to be more at home in my house growing up, we also needed time apart to grow as individuals and understand how beautiful we are together.

After dinner, Will follows his mom home. She sold the house Will grew up in last year and moved into a condo not far from our house. She’s made many changes in choosing to live life versus only existing in it, but Will still gets nervous when she drives at night.

Logan helps me with the dishes, but considering Mrs. Price cleaned the pots and pans she used, there wasn’t much to clean. When we’re finished, Logan goes to take Rascal for a walk around the block and I make myself comfortable in the living room. I’ve barely sat down by the time Will is back. He’s shaking his head as he walks in the door.

“Everything all right?” I ask.

He shrugs off his coat and hangs it over the bannister post at the bottom of the stairs. “My mother had her turn signal on the entire drive.”

“Good thing it was you behind her and not some other driver she could confuse.” I laugh.

His only reply is to come and kiss my forehead before sitting down next to me.

“Did you stop and make sure she got in okay, and thank her again for dinner?”

He nods, untucking my legs from my side and pulling them across his lap.

“Head’s up.” He gently turns my chin until I’m facing him. “I saw some Babies R Us bags in there. The stuff could be for Christine, but I’m guessing Mom’s already shopping for our baby and by the number of bags I saw, a lot.”

“Don’t mention any of this to my mother,” I plead.

He laughs. “Why?”

I shrug. “You know my mom. If she finds out
your
mom is already baby shopping,
she’ll
start baby shopping to try and out-grandma your mom.”

“Out-grandma?” He’s still laughing.

“Don’t laugh at me. It’s a thing, and if you don’t believe me, call Brian and ask him what happened when Calvin was born.”

He lifts his hand in surrender before dropping them back onto my legs. “I believe you.”

Our heads turn toward the front door as Logan and Rascal barrel in, bringing a cool blast of air with them. Logan’s nose and ears are red as he unhooks Rascal’s leash and then pulls off his coat. Unlike Will, he actually hangs his coat up in the closet.

“You should have worn a hat,” I remind him as he slumps into the loveseat.

He nods. “It’s colder than I thought it would be.”

“Want me to make a fire and we can watch a movie?” Will asks the both of us.

Logan grins while I reply, “Sure, but there’s a good chance I’ll pass out halfway through, so you guys pick the movie.”

Logan chooses a movie while Will gets the fire going. As I predicted, I was asleep long before it ended.

Will

“Is there anything she can take?”

This isn’t the first time I’ve asked this question. We had hoped that once Sarah was past her first trimester, the morning sickness and exhaustion would go away. It hasn’t. In fact, her morning sickness is so severe it’s called
hyperemesis gravidarum.

Last month, she got so dehydrated at one point she had to spend the night in the hospital hooked up to an IV. If I didn’t believe in that kind of thing, I’d wonder if we were being punished for some unknown crime by fate. This is supposed to be one of the happiest times of our lives, but Sarah is miserable and I’m worried sick about her.

Something is up with Logan, too, considering the way he watches Sarah when she makes it out of bed. It’s like he feels responsible, but that’s crazy. He’s just a kid; how could he think that?

Sarah squeezes my hand. She worries about me.

Dr. Stacey goes over everything we already know: consuming a bland diet, eating frequent small meals, drinking plenty of fluids when not feeling nauseated, avoiding spicy and fatty foods, eating high-protein snacks, and avoiding sensory stimuli that can act as triggers.

This is all stuff we’re already doing. It still didn’t keep her from being hospitalized, though.

“There has to be an anti-nausea medication we can try,” I urge, already knowing what he’ll say.

“We’ve tried them all.”

Sarah gives my hand another squeeze. “As long as the baby is healthy, I’ll be fine.”

She’s the strong one at the moment. All I can do is sit by helplessly while she struggles. All I want to do is take care of her, to take away anything that causes her discomfort.

“With some women, the symptoms lessen when they’re into their twentieth week.” Dr. Stacey’s expression is hopeful.

“Fingers crossed,” Sarah continues to try and lighten my mood.

Dr. Stacey uses this opportunity to change the subject. “Have we decided on whether or not you’d like to find out the sex of the baby during your ultrasound today?”

Sarah answers for the both of us. “We want to be surprised.”

Boy or girl, all either of us want is for him or her to be healthy. The whoosh-whoosh of hearing the heartbeat of our child is enough to improve my mood, slightly. That and the dreamy expression Sarah gets as she listens to it. I am humbled by the strength and grace she has shown as the daily battle with nausea rages on within her.

“You are so beautiful,” I whisper against her temple before I press my lips to it.

She blushes. “I look like crap.”

“Shut it,” I mock growl. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

She shakes her head at me but reaches for my hand, taking it in hers and lifting it to press a kiss to the back of it. I hate this, how powerless I am to do anything to take away her discomfort. Worse, by impregnating her in the first place, it’s all my fault.

As we drive home, I ask, for most likely the hundredth time, if there is anything I can do. The answer is unsurprising, as it’s the same one she’s given me the ninety-nine other times.

“You’re doing everything perfectly.”

No matter how many times she tells me this, I still don’t believe her. The last thing I want to do is leave her, but I have to get back to school. Since she’s tired, I let Rascal out for her while she goes upstairs to lie down. Once I let the dog back in, I pop up to kiss her before I leave.

She’s out, absolutely exhausted from only going to the doctor. It’s been so bad she’s taken leave from work. I brush her bangs from her eyes and kiss her forehead. She shivers in her sleep, and I lift the comforter to her chin then give one last, longing look before I leave.

I make it back to school in time for lunch. Logan is waiting for me outside of my classroom, and he’s not alone.

“Would it be all right if Amber ate with us today?”

I’m speechless and manage a jerky nod before I unlock my door. They shuffle in behind me, and Amber follows Logan toward a table in the middle of the classroom. It’s further from my desk than where he normally sits, but I haven’t gotten the complete brush off that would have been if they sat in the back of the class.

“The appointment go okay?” Logan asks as he drops his backpack onto the floor.

He’s been as concerned about Sarah as I have.

“More of the same. The doctor hopes the further she gets along that she’ll have less morning sickness.”

“My mom had really bad morning sickness with my younger brother,” Amber adds, sliding into her chair.

“Did it ever go away?” Logan turns to face her.

She nods. “She hardly got sick toward the end of it.”

Logan turns back to me, his face hopeful. “Maybe that will happen for Sarah, too.”

I nod, my expression most likely mirroring his.

It’s that hope I hold on to for the rest of lunch. I pretend-load grades into the system, but truly I’m reliving my friendship with Sarah through Logan and Amber.

Instead of talking about MTV, they’re talking about YouTube. The subject matter might be different, but the sharing and learning of their mutual likes and dislikes is the same.

The nostalgia carries me through the rest of my day. No matter what happens, no matter what obstacles await us, as long as I’m going home to my girl nothing else matters.

Practice has started for the spring lacrosse season at the high school, and Logan acts as my assistant. I’m distracted though, so I spend the majority of practice having them run passing drills and then let them scrimmage for the last thirty minutes. As much as I’d rather be home taking care of Sarah right now, coaching is probably keeping me from smothering her.

Once all the kids have left or have been picked up by their parents, I call her to see if she wants takeout for dinner. Since certain smells can set her off, it’s easier to grab food these days. As long as it’s something bland; dinner has been the meal she has had the most success in keeping down.

I use the car ride as an opportunity to pump Logan for details about Amber.

Glancing his way at a red light, I ask, “So, lunch?”

He shrugs, turning his head so he’s looking out the side window. “A couple of girls were being mean to her in the lunch room, so . . .” He trails off.

My back straightens. “She’s being bullied?”

Years can go by, but for some reason there’s always a few kids who need to torment their classmates to feel better about themselves.

Logan sighs. “There’s this girl who likes me and she doesn’t like it that Amber and I are friends.”

“Do I know this girl?”

There’s nothing worse than finding out a kid you thought was sweet and kind is actually a master actor or actress. I’d like to think I can pick out the trouble-makers. The stealth ones who fly under the radar, making their classmates miserable right under my nose, piss me off the most.

“I don’t think she takes art. She does drama.”

I nod; knowing she isn’t one of my kids helps somehow. “Do you want me to step in?”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t want to say anything and be a snitch.”

That’s another thing I’ll never understand. It’s like middle school aged kids have it hardwired into their systems to try and solve their own problems. Heaven forbid any teenager or preteen reach out to an adult for help; we’re clearly all idiots in their eyes.

“What kind of stuff is this girl doing?”

I don’t care if he wants me to step in or not, if this girl is putting her hands on his friend I’m reporting it.

“She talks about her clothes and the way she talks.”

“The way she talks?” I ask as we pull into the parking lot of a local Chinese place.

“Yeah, Amber’s family moved here from Minnesota a couple years ago, so she says Amber talks funny.”

We park and I wait until we’re both out of the car to reply. “I don’t remember hearing an accent.”

He rolls his eyes, “That’s the thing. It’s pretty much nonexistent, and she still gives her crap about it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to report this?”

He hesitates. “I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow. Can she eat lunch with me in your class again?”

I nod, holding open the door of the restaurant for him. Since we didn’t call the order in ahead of time, we have to sit and wait for it. The restaurant is in a small strip mall, with a hardware store on one side and an antique store on the other. When Sarah and I come, if we have to wait, she likes to go and walk around the antique store. It’s a small space, with all sorts of treasures stacked up to the ceiling. She’s gotten a painting or two from there and a tea set she doesn’t use, just displays on a bookshelf in our living room.