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“I was.” I nod.
“And you couldn’t see past the end of your own dick.”
“Jesus, it’s like you’re in my brain right now.”
“I know men.” She shrugs.
Jerry wiggles his eyebrows and nods. “She knows us well.”
I move my finger between them. “I finally get you two now.”
Then I go back to working on my list.
~ ~ ~
At the end of the third week of bedrest, Lainey hits a rough patch. The house is coming along and she seemed okay earlier today when she recorded me putting bookshelves together for the nursery.
But later, when I come out of the shower and slip on a pair of briefs and get into bed—she’s quiet. Sad. Not like herself.
I bet she’s sexually frustrated—I know I would be. Hell, I’m jerking off at least twice a day and I’m still sexually frustrated.
Beside some G-rated cuddling and kissing, things haven’t been real physical between us. She’s banned from any orgasm action, so while a guy can dream, I don’t expect her to help me out in that department. That’s why God gave me a hand. Two, actually, because he really wanted us to use them.
“Hey.” I wiggle her leg. “How are you doing?”
Her voice is listless. “I’m fine.”
“You wanna watch TV?”
“No.”
“Wanna . . . play cards? I’m up for strip poker if you are.”
“No, thanks.” She sighs.
“You want me to play you a song?”
Lainey likes it when I play the drums for her, sing for her—the other night I sang and played the soft beat of “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton for her. The baby likes the drums too—the little guy or girl in there kicks and stretches when I play, and they get really crazy when I slam out a long, loud solo—so I suspect we may have a future metal-head on our hands here.
Lainey shakes her head, and pushes her hands into her hair, tugging.
“I want to get up, Dean. I can’t stand this—I’m going crazy! I want to move, run, skip—God I miss skipping! Why didn’t I skip more when I had the chance?”
And she looks so cute and miserable, a laugh rumbles in my chest, but I keep it locked down.
“I’m so tired of laying here, and I know that doesn’t make sense. I’m just . . . so bored I could cry.”
I could think of a few ways to keep her occupied. For hours and hours. But—nope—banned, banned, banned.
She needs a distraction. Something she’s not expecting. Spontaneous.
A surprise.
Out of nowhere, I ask, “Why doesn’t anyone play poker in the jungle?”
Lainey looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”
“You heard me—why doesn’t anyone play poker in the jungle?”
“Why?”
“Too many cheetahs.”
She looks deeply confused, but less dejected than she did a minute ago, so I push on.
“How did Darth Vader know what Luke got him for Christmas?”
“How?” Lainey asks hesitantly.
“He felt his presents.”
Her pretty, pouty mouth twitches. We’re getting warmer.
“What’s the difference between a tire and 365 used condoms?” I ask.
A genuine smiles spreads across her lips. “What?”
“One’s a Goodyear. The other’s a great year.”
And that gets a laugh out of her. That beautiful fucking laugh—definitely my favorite sound.
“Want more? I can do this all night. I can do lots of things all night.”
She cuddles in close, resting her head on my chest, and, thankfully, it seems like the great skipping craving has passed.
“Okay.”
“What do you call a herd of cows masturbating?”
“What?”
“Beef strokin’ off.”
Lainey groans, laughing, because that was pretty bad.
“Let me try one,” she says.
I nod. “Go for it. Hit me.”
“Why shouldn’t you write with a broken pencil?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s pointless.”
I chuckle, running my fingers through the silken curls of her hair. And that’s what we do, the rest of the night—crack each other up with terrible jokes. It’s silly and stupid and by the time we turn off the lights to go to sleep, it’s a night I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
In the dark of the bedroom, Lainey’s whispered voice finds me.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“When is your door not actually a door?”
I’m almost afraid to ask.
“When?”
“When it’s ajar.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lainey
After six weeks, I’m still not used to bed rest. I don’t think it’s something you’re supposed to get used to.
I have become accustomed to how hard it is—that’s not surprising anymore—the yearning to run and jump and dance is a constant hum, like background noise. That steady familiarity makes it seem like it’s a little bit easier.
And then there’s the joy—that helps too. Every day that I stayed pregnant was a day closer to my baby being born healthy and strong. And now I’m just four little weeks away from the finish line—there’s a lot of joy in that.
The nursery is almost done. I sit on the floor, propped against pillows, recording Erin as she arranges things at my direction. Dean painted this room—the cream walls and chocolate-brown accents. He bolted the bookshelves to the wall and set up the rocking chair and changing table just where I wanted them. He’s held off putting the crib together, so as not to jinx us. I’m not usually a superstitious person, but with our little guy or girl so eager to make an appearance, I figured staving off any bad luck where we could wouldn’t hurt.
