Screwed, page 16
Imogen smiles. “We actually just got the gender ultrasound the other day.” Her grin deepens, goes soft and bright and emotional. “It’s a girl.”
Everyone squeals and claps and hugs her, and then Audra lurches off the couch, shaking off all the affection.
“See? That shit right there is what makes me crazy.” She shudders. “The mushy shit—you bitches squealing and sighing and acting like goofy-ass little girls.” She stands at the picture window overlooking Imogen’s front porch.
“Quit acting like some macho alpha male,” Imogen says, rising off the couch to stand next to Audra at the window. “This is us, babe, you can be real with us.”
Audra’s shoulders shake, and her head drops. “I don’t want to want a baby. It’s stupid. I’m almost forty-fucking-two. I’d be a senior citizen by the time the kid graduates high school.”
“So?” Imogen leans against the window and faces Audra. “You’re fit as hell. You’ll be a spry old lady. And a hell of a cool mom.”
Audra can’t even respond. “I just…I want it with him. I lay awake in bed at night staring at Franco, watching him sleep, and I imagine a little baby with his face and my eyes. I can see him holding a little baby, rocking it…I see a little boy, for some reason. I don’t know why. It’s so fucking weird. It’s almost like a compulsion, like some drive deep inside me—biological and hormonal rather than emotional, or based on some logical, rational decision. I fought it and fought it for months, but eventually Franco was like, what the fuck is wrong with you, because I kept acting weird, especially after sex. I was…we were super careful, you know? Like, I’ve been on birth control since I was a teenager and I haven’t ever missed a dose—and we only ever had sex bare once, at the condo in Florida after you left. Since then, it’s never bare. But even though we always had protected sex, I would lay there thinking about what it would feel like to be with him bare again, and how it would feel to be pregnant, to have a baby…and I found myself not being scared of it.”
Imogen laughs quietly. “Oh, it’s scary all right. But exhilarating and exciting and amazing too.”
“But my doctor says it would be super risky.”
Imogen just rolls a shoulder. “Eh, I’m technically high risk, being over forty myself. It just means a few extra ultrasounds, and a few more doctor appointments throughout the pregnancy. We’re both super healthy, and you even more so than me.”
“I just…I don’t know how to reconcile the part of me that’s still, like, NO WAY, no babies, never ever, and the part of me that’s like, GIVE ME BABY.” Audra touches her belly—flat, with six-pack abs. “I almost feel it sometimes. Like it’s already real. Even though I know it’s not.”
“You guys have been trying?” Imogen asks.
Audra nods. “I went off birth control a couple months ago. It took a while for my cycle to reassert itself into a normal rhythm—and after having super short, light periods if any at all for so long from the birth control, having a heavy flow fucking sucks, let me tell you.” She laughs. “And yes, we’ve been…trying. A lot.”
Imogen laughs. “You guys fuck like sixteen-year-olds who just discovered sex as it is.”
Audra’s eyes widen. “You have no idea. It’s even more, now. Like, once we both got on board and committed to actively trying to get pregnant, it’s like our sex drives went into overdrive.”
Imogen rears back, eyes wide. “Your sex drive is in overdrive? I…I can’t even fathom what that means.”
Audra laughs, shakes her head. “Morning sex almost every day. I put my feet up, and he brings me coffee. He comes home for lunch most days and we fuck again. And then, most nights, we fuck a third time before we go to bed.” She laughs harder. “It’s honestly kind of exhausting, even for me, but I just…I fucking want him. ALL. THE. TIME. I want his cum inside me. Sorry to be so graphic, but I just…it’s a craving. I’m not even blowing him anymore. Like not at all, the poor guy. I think he misses the spontaneous BJs.”
“He’s getting sex three times a day,” I say drily. “I think he’ll survive.”
“He’s used to getting a BJ several times a week at least. Now it’s down to literally zero. But I just don’t want to waste it. I want it inside me.” Audra shakes her head, as if she can’t believe what she’s saying. “I want his baby juice inside me, and I want it in a way I can’t explain. I barely understand it myself, but it’s like this crazy biological imperative.”
Imogen sighs. “Audra, god…” She twists and faces Audra again, touching her on the shoulder. “Let’s just be real, here, huh?”
Audra frowns. “I am being real, Im.”
“Calling it the work of some mysterious biological imperative is a copout and you know it, hon.”
Audra tips her head backward and groans. “Goddammit, Imogen. Can’t you give me one little white lie?”
Imogen shakes her head. “No. Because you wouldn’t give me one, and you know it.”
Audra turns away and paces across the room, slumping to the couch, head hanging, face buried in her hands. “I’m fucking terrified,” she whispers. “Of being a mother. Of being my mother. Of being a terrible mother.” Her voice drops until we almost can’t hear her. “And yet I’m even more afraid of not being able to get pregnant, and never knowing.”
Laurel comes to sit on the couch, and suddenly all four of us are crowded together, the three of us huddled around Audra—who, for once, doesn’t fight the affection as she weeps like I’ve never seen her weep.
“As the only one here who has already had a child, I can tell you this, Audra: that fear of being the worst part of your parents?” Laurel’s voice is a quiet murmur. “That will drive you to be the best mom you could possibly be. You’ll make your own mistakes, but you sure as hell won’t make their mistakes. I can tell you that you’ll never be ready. I can tell you that it’ll be hard—Imogen will testify to the fact that being pregnant is hard, unless you end up being one of those annoying bitches who has an easy pregnancy. But it’ll be worth it.”
“I don’t even know if I can get pregnant,” Audra says. “And that’s the scariest part.”
Imogen laughs. “I was told I couldn’t get pregnant,” she says, and then palms her belly. “And look at me. And we weren’t even trying. I thought I couldn’t get pregnant so we never bothered with a condom, and obviously I wasn’t on birth control. And the one morning I suddenly started throwing up, and I missed a period…” She shrugs. “So I took a test, and promptly freaked the fuck out.”
Imogen wipes her eyes. “So you guys don’t think it’s stupid to try for a baby?”
I snort. “Why the hell would it be stupid? You’re in love with the man, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re committed to him for life, yes?” I ask.
She nods. “Absolutely.”
“So what possible reason is there to not have a baby with him?”
She frowns. “Being old.”
Laurel scoffs. “You’re forty-one, Audra, not sixty-one. Big difference. People have kids at our age all the time.” She indicates Imogen. “Case in point.”
Audra nods. “I guess you’re right.”
Imogen rests her head on Audra’s shoulder. “I want to be a mommy and an auntie. I want us to be auntie-mommies together. So, you just have to work on becoming more fertile.”
Audra frowns at Imogen. “And how does one do that?”
Imogen shrugs. “I mean, you’re already doing most of it. Natural fertility doctors would say more sex, better diet, exercise.” She grins. “You’ve got the sex part down. More of the sex should be positions that put you a bit more inverted so his spermies don’t have to swim upward as much. Putting your legs up, like you’re already doing. There are supplements you can take, which I can help you find. I’d say in your case actually reduce your exercise—less high-intensity, less high-impact. More food high in healthy fats. Reduce stress, maybe even take up yoga and meditation. The more you stress out about it, the harder you make it on yourself. The more you relax and just enjoy the process, the easier it’ll be.”
Audra laughs. “Well, I definitely enjoy the process. No worries there.”
Imogen lightly whacks Audra’s shoulder. “I mean the whole process, dummy, not just the sex.” She leans against Audra, arms around her waist. “Enjoy being in love. Relax into the feeling of wanting a baby with the man you love, and while you’re laying there with a pillow under your thighs and Franco’s baby juice draining up inside you, think baby—think pregnant, think love, think openness, think acceptance. Don’t fight it, honey. You’re fighting the whole process. You have to relax and accept it and enjoy it.”
“Easier said than done,” Audra whispers.
Imogen nods, kisses Audra’s cheek. “You’re safe, Audra. You’re loved. You’re accepted. He’s not going anywhere and neither are we.”
Audra looks around at each of us in turn. “Promise?”
We all wrap her up in a big suffocating bear hug.
“You’re stuck with us, bitch,” I say, feeling oddly emotional about this myself. “Get used to it.”
Audra meets my eyes through the scrum of hair and arms and shoulders. “You’re not out of the woods, you know,” she says to me. “Just because we’re talking about me doesn’t mean we’re done talking about you.”
I sigh. “That’s fine, because there’s nothing to talk about.”
And no amounting of wishing or talking will change that. And at this point, I’m wondering if I was stupid to tell James I would wait. My heart hurts from waiting, and it’s been barely a month. How long can I wait with an open heart?
How long before I shut myself off again? Because if I do that…there will be no curtain call—not after this.
Chapter 11
Another week passes—my kitchen is nearly done. The island is finished, and the floor is in: dark wide planks. The cabinets are almost in, brand new white open-face cabinets custom built by Franco. The opening for the fridge is roughed in, and Jesse has been working on the bathroom while Franco does the cabinets. Ryder has come by a few times—once to reroute the electrical so I have light switches for the kitchen by the hallway and by the back door, and a couple more times to just generally help with the remodel.
But no sign of James.
Not a word.
In fact, the guys have clammed up about him, too, and I worry there’s something they’re not saying. I don’t push it, though.
Late one evening, it’s just Jesse putting the finishing touches on my new three-quarter bathroom—touch up paint around the switch plates and installing the new light fixture, caulking around the marble shower, changing the doorknob and installing the cabinet pulls.
“Jesse?” I say, leaning against the doorframe while he puts a powder-coated black iron cabinet pull on the cabinet and screws it in from inside.
He grunts a response, not looking at me.
“What’s going on with James?”
Jesse finishes and leans back on his heels, head hanging. “He’s been struggling these past few weeks.”
“Struggling? How so?”
A shrug of Jesse’s heavy shoulder. “Just with…everything. Memories, I guess. Letting go. I don’t know and I’m not sure it’s my place to say even if I did.”
I nod, and sigh. “I won’t ask again.”
Jesse eyes me. “Nova…” He flips the screwdriver in the air, catches it with a slap against his palm, and then stands up, raking a palm through his loose, messy brown hair. “I’m not saying give up. I’m just saying he’s trying to work through things he’s been suppressing or not dealing with for years. It’s a lot. I know he’s trying, but he…he can’t do this just for you.”
I shake my head. “It has to be for him, and for his girls. If he goes through all this and he’s in a better place, I’ll be happy for him, even if he concludes he and I can’t be anything.” I ache inside just saying that.
Jesse pulls his hair back and then lets it go. “I don’t think he’ll come to that conclusion. I guess I’m just not sure how long it’s going to take for him to feel like he’s ready to offer you anything.”
“And I don’t know how long my heart can hold out, Jess.”
“And he’d tell you to do what you need to do.” Jesse slaps the sink. “I’m gonna go.”
“Thanks, Jesse,” I say.
He nods. “We’ll be done with your kitchen soon, and then we’ll start on your new door wall.”
“What about the master suite idea? I guess I thought that would be next.”
Jesse hesitates. “James said he planned on doing that himself.”
“Oh.” I blow out a breath. “I guess at this point I assumed he wasn’t planning on actually doing any of this.” I realize I sound ungrateful, possibly. “Not that it matters. I don’t want to sound like I’m—”
Jesse laughs, holds up a hand. “Hey, I’ve been thinking the same thing myself.”
“You guys are amazing. My kitchen is incredible.”
Jesse grins. “Appliances get delivered Monday. Once those are in, you’ll have a kitchen again.”
I clap excitedly. “I’m actually giddy with excitement, Jess. Seriously. Thank you so much.”
He exits the bathroom and I follow him into my mostly complete kitchen, which is just missing appliances and some floor trim, which Franco is working on now that the cabinets are in. “My pleasure.” He grabs his toolbox off the floor and heads for the door, pausing halfway through it. “Don’t give up just yet, Nova.”
I smile weakly. “Trying, Jess. I’m trying.”
Once he’s gone in a rumble of diesel clatter, I stand in my kitchen and look around, in awe of how open my house feels now. I stare at the framed-in opening where the fridge is going to go—it still needs drywall, mud, and paint, and then the actual appliance, and I try to picture the completed space.
I spend a few more minutes trying to visualize the whole place being done, but it’s hard, because I’m not really a visual person. And the mental exercise, to be honest, is more about distracting myself than anything.
Because it’s all too easy to remember James in here, to picture him. To feel him.
Gahhh.
I get ready for bed and curl up under my blanket, watching Dexter on my iPad until I eventually fall asleep.
I wake up abruptly, and try to figure out what woke me. I’m groggy—I don’t wake up easily, and when I do, it takes me a while to regain anything like coherency.
I lay in bed, blinking at the ceiling, waiting to see if whatever woke me up will happen again.
There it is—a fist pounding on the door…the back door.
I slide out of bed and tiptoe hesitantly out of my room, down the short hallway, and into the living room. Another knock—more of a pounding, honestly. Franco left his tools here, so I grab a hammer from the toolbox—the thing is something Thor would use, not just a normal hammer, but a two-foot-long thing with a huge, heavy head. I wield it in both hands as I approach the back door. I grip it one-handed, yank open the back door and kick the storm door outward, and then grab the hammer in both hands again, ready to clobber whoever the hell is at my back door at whatever the hell time it is.
James.
He’s weaving on his feet—absolutely hammered. “Nova.” His voice sounds oddly clear, however, even though he’s visibly obliterated.
“James…um. Hi.” I toss the hammer on the porch and reach for him as he sways, nearly falling off the little porch. “Whoa, there. Grab onto the doorframe, James. You’re too big for me to catch if you go down.”
He reaches for the doorframe, misses three times, and then gets it, and I hear the wood crackle under his grip. “Hi, Nova.”
I rear back from the potent reek of alcohol on his breath. “Wow, um…hi.”
He’s shirtless, although I see the shirt hanging from his back pocket. His jeans are filthy at the knees and one hip, as if he’d fallen in the mud and struggled to get back to his feet; his hands are similarly muddy.
“ ’M drunk, Nova.”
I nod, wide-eyed. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“No. No-no-nonono. I’m really, really, really drunk. Like super-duper McShwasted. Drunky drunk drunk.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“I started drinking at Billy Bar, but then I was too drunk to drive, so I started walking home. But then I missed.”
“You…missed?”
He nods, a wobbly, circling sort of movement. “Uh-huh. I missed the house and ended up at a liquor store down the road.”
“Um.”
“I think my truck is still at the bar.” He digs in his pocket with one hand—a long, laborious process—and comes up with keys. “See? I stopped driving. Not a driving drunker. Drunker driver. Drive drunker. Whatthefuckever. Buddy in college killed a guy doing that and went to jail. Told his stupid ass not to drive. Tried to wrestle his keys away, but he was a boxer and he knocked me out. Lucky punch, but still. Tried to stop him and I couldn’t. Should’ve. Never drive drunk. Never never never.”
“You walked here?”
He nods. “Uh-huh. Walky walky walk.” God, he’s so silly it’s almost cute, but there’s a darkness to this, a heaviness masked behind the silliness.
“Why are you here, James?”
He blinks at me. “I missed you.”
I only just barely suppress a pained sigh. “You need to come in and sit down.”
He follows me in and stops just inside, looking around. “Looks fuckin’ great. Just like I pictured it.” He touches the island, comically missing it the first few times, but once his hand finds the countertop, his touch is professional, examining the workmanship of the island and the cabinets. “Franco did great on this. The cabinets too.”
I nod. “He sure did. The guys have been working their asses off.” I realize it sounds vaguely accusatory.
James looks at me—drunk as a skunk, but the awareness in his gaze is potent. “Don’t, Nova.”
“Don’t what?”
“Act like I don’t care.”
“I didn’t say that, and I wasn’t suggesting that.”
He abruptly misses a step and falters backward, stumbles, catches himself on the counter, and then slowly slumps down onto the floor. “Whoops. Guess I’m sitting down right here, huh?” He rests his head against the cabinet. “I care, Nova.”
