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“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry if it caused arguments.”
“So, you’re leaving tomorrow?” He swiftly changes the subject.
“Yeah, an early morning flight. So, I’ll pick you up Saturday morning from the airport?”
He appears calm, but again that stare leaves me breathless. I need to remember he is nothing but the sperm donor in this equation. These stupid thoughts and feelings, they need to be buried along with my libido.
“I’ve hired a car. I’ll just meet you at your parents’ in the morning,” he responds quietly. “I’ve got a meeting all afternoon, so I’ll see you then?”
“Right.”
He begins to walk away, and I let out the huge breath I’d been holding until he turns around, forcing me to suck it back in.
“And, Presley…” Our eyes meet, and something catches me off guard, a force or pull making my stomach flutter or perhaps that was the baby. Whatever it is, I need to ignore it, or I’ll be in trouble. It’s a slippery slope once this shit starts.
With a deep penetrating stare, his eyes narrow and his lips twitch nervously. “Have a safe flight.”
Thirteen
The second my feet land on my parents’ front porch, it’s a bittersweet moment. Having grown up in this house as a child, I am now standing here as a grown woman with child. Yeah, let’s blame the hormones again, but it is definitely worth a good cry.
I have nothing but sweet memories of this house. The pale-yellow paint and white shutters have remained the same throughout the years. The garden is covered in roses and carnations, my mom’s favorite, of course. The rockers are sitting on the porch, the same ones that belonged to my gramps and grammy. Carved in some fancy wood, they’ve been passed down through the generations. The warm air touches my skin, and just when I’m about to shed some more tears, my dad comes out carrying what looks like roadkill.
“Here’s my little poodle!”
I cringe at the nickname, stepping forward and walking into his arms. His overbearing hug and scent of wooden musk engulf me, and I burst into tears, once again.
“I missed you, Dad,” I babble like a baby through my tears.
“Aww, you got those damn hormones your mother did,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
He lets go and takes a good look at me. I’m wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a shirt that has ‘Turkey Baking’ written on it. My belly is popping out. In fact, over the past week, it’s grown tremendously and can no longer be concealed no matter what I wear.
“You’re looking beautiful, poodle. You got that glow to you.”
“Step away, George, and let me see my daughter.”
My mom is standing behind him. Much to my surprise, she is wearing a fluorescent pink yoga outfit. She hasn’t changed much since I saw her last with her bangs still cut like she’s rocking an ‘80s video clip, and it wouldn’t hurt her to wear a bra once in a while. Nevertheless on numerous occasions, I’ve been told we looked like sisters. Apparently, she has a youthful glow, or perhaps I look like an old soul. Let’s stick to the youthful glow story to boost my ego.
“Come here, give me a hug.” She smiles.
I step forward and embrace her. Leaning my head on her shoulder, I’m happy to admit that it’s good to come home. What I need is some quality time with my family. That, and to get ridiculously spoiled.
“George, take her bags up to her room. Honey, you have to eat something. It’s not about you anymore. I know you city girls are into all these fad diets, but if you don’t eat and gain nutrients, the baby could be born with God knows what.”
“Mom, I’ve been eating. And would it kill you to wear a bra?”
“I read an article about how bras can increase your risk of breast cancer.
Your dad seems to enjoy it.”
I wince at the mental image, shaking my head with disgust. “Oh my God! You didn’t just say that.”
As I walk through the house, I see that nothing has changed apart from a ridiculous-looking exercise thingamajig in the living room. Hanging on the walls are several photographs of Gemma and me throughout our childhood. I take a moment to stand in the hallway and look at the pictures, so much fun and laughter hanging on this one wall. I rest my hands on my stomach and hope that one day my child will get to experience everything I did. That will most likely require me finding a husband and having more children. Do not have this conversation with yourself now, you sadistic fool.
There is a picture of Jason and me sitting in a small frame amongst the others. I remember the day clearly—it was the first summer I brought him here to meet my family. We’re sitting in a boat, him behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist. Laughing out loud, I recall just afterward when we both fell into the lake accidentally. It’s a great memory, and so as not to get too caught up in nostalgia, I go in search of my mom.
I settle into the kitchen as my mom prepares lunch for us. As we all sit to enjoy the meal, my mom takes this opportunity to lecture me on everything I should have done, should be doing, and basically how I should raise this kid until he or she is in college. Only my mom could have an entire conversation with herself while I devour the homemade pie in front of me. My dad polishes off three beers as she rambles on. By the end, we both stare at her until she realizes she’s been talking to herself.
