The front door is basically a revolving door of my favorite people during family dinner night; I expect Rhett to be the next one through. Weston and Willow come in laughing.
“Do I even want to know what you two think is so funny?” my mom asks, not so subtly asking me for the baby by stealing her out of my arms.
“Rhett ate shit getting out of his truck,” Weston says, doubling over in laughter.
People falling isn’t usually hilarious, but when it’s someone in this group, it is. Trip once and you’ll be living it down forever.
“I didn’t even hit the ground,” Rhett's deep timber of a voice chirps in from behind.
When he walks in the room, it’s like every nerve ending on my body stands at attention. His eyes search for me, and the second they land on me, a gentle smile takes over his lips. His shoulders relax, and I wonder if he was more nervous for this, the whole telling my parents bit, than I was.
“Still counts as a fall,” Weston says, reminding me that it’s not just Rhett and me in the room.
West slaps him on the back as Rhett takes off his boots.
The door shuts behind him for the final time tonight; the whole gang is here. There may be a lot of unknowns in my life right now, but for now, I take pleasure in knowing all my favorite people are here, safe and happy.
Chapter 16
Rhett
Idust my hands off as I stare down at what I've started. Pieces of wood are strung out in my makeshift garage. The cabins didn’t come with garages, so I built a small one to park my truck in during the winter. It’s a lot of sheet metal, screws, and a bit of a hodgepodge. But right now, it’s turned into a makeshift woodworking station.
My heart has felt incredibly heavy lately, and sleep escapes me every single night thinking about my unborn baby. If I’m understanding the research I've done, they most likely won’t inherit BMD. But what if there is that small chance I send this curse down the family line? What if I’m the reason my child won’t want to risk having a family too? The thought nearly makes me double over.
That’s why I started this. The second I heard I was having a baby, something awoke in me. The carnal urge to provide and protect roars through me. Mixing that with anxiety, the best wayI can think of is to use my hands. And why not build a crib? That way I can know for sure it’s sturdy and safe. I’ve watched a dozen videos on how to build a safe and functional crib. I’ve bought enough tools to switch careers and become a full-time woodworker.
Looking down at the watch on my wrist, I see it’s about the time Aspen gets off her shift at the hospital. Which means I need to refill her snack pantry and do whatever else she might need help with.
The lack of sleep has exhaustion gnawing deep, but from what I’ve read, Aspen probably feels ten times worse. If she can power through a twelve-hour shift, I can power through this.
Running into my cabin, I grab what I need to bring her: the instruction manual for babies and pregnancy book I've been reading, and head over to her place.
I warned her I would be stopping by so she wouldn’t have to get up to let me in. I park my truck in front of her house, lights shining through her closed curtain windows. It’s winter, so the decor on her tiny front porch is pretty bare; just one lone ‘Let it Snow’ sign rests against the outside wall.
Trying to balance the bags without dropping them, I push the door open and juggle them in one swoop. “Hey, it’s me,” I holler out.
My eyes search for her, they always do. Everything about this girl is sunshine; it’s like someone bottled up joy and anointed her with it when she was born. But today, her shine is a little dull. Dark circles rim her pretty eyes, and there is almost no hint of a smile on her face.
“Hey,” she says, looking far too exhausted for my liking. She smiles for me, but it’s weak and forced.
“You okay?” I ask as I set the bags down on the counter.
“Yeah, it was just a really long day and my feet are killing me. I had another bout of nausea so I haven’t really eaten, but now I'm too tired to cook.”
I walk over to the couch, pick up her feet and swoop them onto my lap. “Well, let’s get this done one thing at a time. Is it okay if I rub your feet?”
“Is the sky blue?”
“Well, it’s nighttime, so right now it’s black,” I joke, but when she levels me with one of her stares that makes my balls shrivel up, I nod and take off her socks.
“Sorry, I probably reek,” she says.
“I work with cattle. Your stinky feet are still a drastic improvement from literal cowshit,” I joke as I place her socks on the floor.
“Touchè.” Her lack of bite has me feeling even worse. I wish I could shoulder this for her, but since I can’t, I’ll make the load as light as I can.
When she closes her eyes as I rub her feet, I let the silence hang in the air. I wonder how each little piece of her is so damn soft. She is the polar opposite of me. Even when she puts on that brave face, I’ve seen the other side. I’ve seen her vulnerable, I've seen her cry at sappy commercials. I relish that for a moment, that I get a version of her that not a lot of people have.
