Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Vickie rubs my back and passes me her favorite lavender tea, telling me it’ll settle my stomach before she sits down on the other side of the couch. “Maybe we shouldn’t have finished off that second bottle of wine after all,” she says, her face still a little green from the hangover we both woke up with this morning.
After speaking with Mom, then having dinner with both my parents and smiling without force for the first time in what feels like a month, knowing they’re together again, Vickie and I spent the night in at my house watching trash TV and devouring a pizza and downing too much wine. I didn’t have any intention of doing either since I had plenty of food to eat in my fridge, but when she showed up holding the two bottles with a look of pure hatred on her face that she’s only gotten one or two other times in her life—both because of men—she’d told me our plans, said “fuck all dick wielding scum” and then turned on my television.
She’d guilted me into not letting her drink alone. At some point during the night, we’d drank straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth while I listened to her rant about some guy I didn’t even know she was seeing. Whoever he is, he’s no longer on her good side and at the very top of her shitlist. Maybe even above Hunter after I told her what had happened the day after I found out myself.
“When did wine affect us this much?” she groans, resting her forehead against the table. “I think this officially means we’re getting old, Stevie. I hate to say it.”
I can’t help but grin. “At least you didn’t spend all morning with your face in the toilet.” I was feeling extra queasy this morning, and as soon as my stomach emptied into the toilet bowl, I was extra glad I cleaned it the day before—anxious cleaning, Vickie had called it when she smelled the cleaning products in the air and saw all the sparkling surfaces. I do my best work when my mind is swirling with what-ifs.
It kept me busy when I wanted to go over to the house I hadn’t been at since I called out the man living there. I offered tight smiles whenever I saw the little boy and dog in the yard, but never more than that.
You’ve done enough.
It’s been quiet over there too. No poker nights. No visitors. Barely any lights on except late at night. Fletcher has done just as good a job at avoiding me as I have him, and that’s probably a good thing.
Until now.
It’s been an entire month since our fight and a week since my mother helped me decide what needed to be done. But I realized even after making my choice how chicken I was about doing anything about it. I found reasons not to walk across the street and tell Fletcher how I felt every day when I got home from work, and now that Vickie is here, my weekend has been full of drinking, bad food, even worse TV. The last thing I want to do is show up looking like a mess and probably smelling ten times worse.
“That’s true,” my friend eventually agrees, her voice no better than before. “But I still think we’re old.”
I simply snicker and then sip my tea, standing up. “I’m going to try making some toast. Want some?”
Her groan tells me no, so I shrug and walk into the kitchen. While the bread is in the toaster, I walk into the half bath and cringe at my flushed cheeks and red eyes. My hair is a frizzy, tangled disaster that not even a messy bun can make look decent, and I’ve yet to change from the baggy clothes that I put on yesterday.
Turning on the faucet, I splash cold water on my face and take a few deep breaths at the nausea slamming into me. There’s nothing left in me to get rid of, so I hope to God the toast helps because at this rate, I’m going to need another day off from work to recover. I’ve felt off all week, but couldn’t pinpoint what was causing it besides stress, and the wine and greasy food didn’t exactly help.
It isn’t until I’m staring at myself in the mirror, examining my chapped lips, dark-circled eyes, and peaked face, when something clicks.
Something that makes me nearly stop breathing.
“Hey,” I call out to Vickie, voice muffled by thick realization. “I’m going upstairs for a few minutes. Can you get my toast out and butter it for me?”
She makes a face. “Are you going to get sick again?”
Maybe.
I offer a weak smile. “I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry I forced you to drink with me. I know you haven’t been feeling well with everything going on.” She sighs heavily and stands when the toaster pops. “I guess I thought we both could use a reason to drink away our manly woes.”
I haven’t gotten the chance to tell her that I have every intention of getting Fletcher back, but she didn’t let me say much when she was going on about whoever spited her. It wasn’t exactly the right time to say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m still madly, stupidly in love with the man across the street and plan on apologizing and getting him back if he’ll have me.’
Escaping to the bathroom in my bedroom, I dig through the drawers.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door followed by my best friend’s voice behind the closed wood. “Your toast is cold, bitch. Did you get sick again? Because there cannot be anything left to vomit up at this point. And if it’s diarrhea or something gross like that, I don’t want to know, or I’ll start puking too. But can you at least tell me if you’re okay?”
I stare down at the positive pregnancy test in my hands and let out a shuttered breath, nodding as if she can see me. “Yeah,” I call out with a watery smile. “I’m good.”
After Vickie drags herself back to her place, I make myself shower and brush my teeth to look halfway presentable for what I know I need to do. It isn’t until I’m out, hair wrapped in a towel and body semi-dried, when I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my naked body.
Nothing has changed. It’s still soft and curvy in the same places it was before, nothing showing or changing like I’d hoped my eyes would see. I flatten my palm against the skin, caressing just above my belly button and staring into the mirror, trying to picture what it’ll look like, feel like.
What the baby will look like.
Will it have my light, Irish complexion or Fletcher’s darker, tanner one? Will it have my hazel-green eyes or his brown ones? Will its hair be dark or light? Will its features take more after me, him, or will it be a perfect mixture of the two of us like I consider myself with my parents?
Then I wonder what Fletcher will think.
Almost on cue, I hear a knock downstairs, and I barely have my bathrobe tied around my waist before it opens, and a husky voice calls out my name from below. “Stevie?”
I stare down at my stomach—my semi-flat stomach that will have a few more stretch marks added to its collection over the next nine months.
“Your daddy is home,” I whisper to the small being growing inside.
“Stevie?” Fletcher asks, the stairs creaking under the weight of his steps.
“I’m in here,” I call out, knowing this isn’t exactly what I hoped to look like but not having any chance to do anything about it now.
He walks into the bedroom the same time I step out of the bathroom, hugging the robe to my body as his eyes do a scan from the towel on my head to my bare feet. Toes curling into the carpet over his gaze, I offer a small, shy smile. “I was getting ready to come see you. You beat me to it, I guess.”
Fletcher stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I saw Vickie leave. Didn’t want to waste any more time by waiting. I tried giving you space, but I don’t want to give you any more.”
My breath catches. “No?”
He shakes his head.
I lick my lips. “I really was going to come see you. Vickie and I had a rough morning, so I needed to clean up first and—” I gasp, eyes widening. “Oh my God.”
Fletcher is instantly in front of me, hands scanning over me, eyes doing the same to make sure I’m okay. “What’s wrong?”
“I drank!”
He blinks slowly. “You drank?”
Tears quickly fill my eyes. “I drank, Fletcher. Vickie and I finished off two bottles together and that can’t be good.”
I used to watch birthing shows obsessively before the truth came out about where that would lead with Hunter. I know just about everything there is to know about pregnancy, including how bad excessive alcohol is during it.
And I didn’t know…
I’ve watched hours and hours of shows on pregnancy and birth, and I still had no clue I was going to join the motherhood club. None.
Before I know it, I’m crying into Fletcher’s T-shirt and he’s holding me to his body and rubbing my back despite having no clue why I’m melting down.
“What’s the matter, honey? If you’re not feeling well, I can get you some Advil and make you something to eat. Eggs. Something easy on the stomach. Get you water. Whatever you need, just tell me. Yeah?”
That only makes me sob harder, his body locking over the ugly noises I’m making. It isn’t until I clasp a handful of the tee he’s wearing and blurt, “We’re having a baby, Fletcher, and I didn’t know until this morning, and I drank. A lot. I drank, and you’re going to be a daddy again, and I didn’t know and—”
He lowers us until we’re sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands on my face, his thumbs wiping at my wet cheeks as he tries getting me to look at him. Through my blurry vision, I see shock among an array of other things on his face.
His lips are parted.
His eyes are wide.
His breath is short.
“We’re having a baby?” he repeats in a whisper.
I manage to nod, sniffing back tears.
“I’m going to be a dad again?” he asks.
Another nod.
Those lips that I want nothing more than to be on mine at some point tonight stretch into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on his face. “And you’re going to be a mom.” It’s not a question, but I still nod anyway.
His hands go to my stomach, his gentle touch coasting over the soft material of my robe like he’s in awe of the concept.
“I was going to come over and tell you that I’m sorry,” I tell him once I manage to calm down, using my robe sleeves to dry off my face. “I wanted to tell you how much I love you and that I don’t want us to fight anymore. Never again, Fletcher. Because I want a future with you. A big one. A long one. I had a whole speech planned in my head, but then I had this feeling, and I took the test and…” His hands are still on my stomach, but his eyes are on mine as he listens to me ramble. “I didn’t know I was pregnant. I’ve been so distracted and stressed that that’s why I thought I was late.”
It sounds lame saying it out loud, but it isn’t like my period has always been on time. There were times, especially during my divorce, when I’d been late plenty of times because of the pressure I was under.
Fletcher’s hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my bottom lip before he leans in and kisses me. It’s quick, soft, and he rests his forehead against mine, looking down at where his other hand is still glued to my stomach. “You have nothing to apologize for, Stevie. I get why you were upset with me. I really thought I was doing the right thing, but I was wrong. Had a lot of time to think about it. If the roles were reversed, I’d probably want to know too. But we’re okay now, right? We’re good?”
I breathe him in, closing my eyes and placing a hand over the one he has on my torso. “We’re better than good, Fletcher. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.”
He sucks in a quiet breath, the term of endearment clearly bringing more realizations front and center. “Dominic is going to be a big brother.” The smile in his tone makes mine grow as he looks up and captures my lips with his. “Christ, Stevie. There was a lot I wanted to come over and say, but this knocked me speechless. The only thing I need you to hear is that I will be here for you no matter what because I love you. I will love you and this baby for as long as you’ll let me, and I know Dominic will too.”
I let out a shaky breath and kiss him lightly, resting our lips together. “That’s all I need to hear anyway.”
His hands trail to the opening of my robe, trailing a finger under the material and touching the bare skin underneath. “I have time before Nicki starts to wonder where I am. Couldn’t wait to see you. But if you’re not feeling well…”
I stop him by untying my bathrobe and letting it fall open. “Remember what you said the first time? You told me you loved me so much that you hoped my birth control failed.”
He kisses me once, twice, another time before chuckling and laying us back until he’s using one arm to hold himself above my body. “I think it worked, baby girl.”
I bite my bottom lip as he trails kisses down my body until he nudges my legs open and gives me a whole new kind of kiss. “I guess you’re right,” I moan as his tongue flattens against my clit before he starts working it with his lips, sucking it into his mouth and working a finger into the wet entrance.
Before long, he’s undressed too, pushing back inside of me and reminding me how we got to this moment to begin with.
It’s quick but gentle.
Fast but passionate.
And when he’s on the brink of coming, he readjusts us, so each thrust hits the right spot deep inside of me until I’m falling apart around him right before he buries himself hilt deep and follows suit.
We lay next to each other, my body draped partially on top of his, catching our breaths, when he laughs to himself. “He was such a fucking idiot,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t have to say who.
All I do is curl into his body and rest my head against his shoulder, thinking about how nice it’ll be to be able to do this for the rest of our lives.