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But more than that, I think I’m not alone.
In my room, I mean.
I think there’s someone here.
And that someone is holding my hand.
I already know who it is before even looking at him.
I already know him by his touch. The way he’s gripping my hand so hard, his large, dusky fingers wrapped around my small, pale ones. Even in his sleep.
I take a second to look at him, at his messy hair, both his arms thrown on the bed, his head resting on them, his face mostly hidden. The only things that I can see are his brows and his closed eyes and a little bit of his stubborn nose.
Something about that makes me smile.
But then I realize I shouldn’t be smiling or rejoicing in his presence.
Which I have to admit that I am.
I told him to stay away and this is not away.
I try to extricate my hand from his grip and separate myself from him. But even in his sleep, he doesn’t let me go. His grip tightens and I see the smooth brows bunching. And then a second later, his eyes snap open and clash with mine.
He jerks upright then and despite myself, I can’t help but adore the sleep lines on the side of his face.
Like before me jerking him awake, he’d been sleeping so hard.
He’d been sleeping so comfortably, which is ridiculous because he was half sprawled on the side of the bed while sitting in the most uncomfortable seat I’ve ever seen.
“You’re awake,” he says in his sleep-roughened voice.
The voice that I’d come to treasure when we lived in our dreamland.
It sends a shard of pain through my chest. It’s different from the pain in my middle but I think it’s no less excruciating. I glance down at our joined hands and again try to get free.
He looks at our hands too, notices my struggle to break free from him and a second or two later, lets me go. Then, “How are you feeling?”
Staring at his stubbled jaw that’s clenched right now, I ask a question of my own “You… What are you doing here?”
He straightens up even more, his eyes strangely alert for a guy who’s just been jerked awake, and takes me in. In his usual way. “Yeah. I… They called me.”
I try to ignore how good it feels to be looked at like that.
How familiar and comforting.
And safe.
I definitely try to ignore it when his eyes linger on my very visible mound and his fingers become fists. As if he wants to touch my belly and he wants to touch it really, really badly. Reminding me of that day in jail when our babies moved for the first time and he couldn’t feel it.
“Who?” I ask, trying to distract him from the sight of my swollen stomach.
He jerks his eyes up to mine. “Your brother.”
Right.
Apparently my brother and him are BFFs now. Another one of the unexpected consequences of that horrid day. They talk on the phone. Reed gives him full reports on my health and tells him about my doctor’s appointments. Moreover, my brother also sends him ultrasound pictures and keeps him informed on our babies’ weights and things.
I had a discussion with him about this and he told me in no uncertain terms that as a father, Ledger had every right to know about the well-being of his children. That whatever happened, happened between the two of us and our babies shouldn’t suffer. Not that I was going to make them suffer, but I see his point.
Besides, as long as Ledger isn’t there in person, I’m okay with him knowing about my appointments.
“I thought…” I say, frowning. “You had a game tonight and —”
“Home game. I came right after.”
I swallow, my throat feeling dry. “What… What happened?” My hand goes to my stomach, pressing on my mound. “Are they —”
“They’re fine,” he tells me. “You’re fine too.”
“But I —”
“It was Braxton Hicks.” He swallows. “Apparently one of the more severe cases. But everything looks normal. You just need to take it easy for a few days.”
“Oh,” I breathe out in relief, my hand still pressing on my bump.
“How do you feel?” He’s still looking me up and down, concern evident in his gaze. “Do you need anything?”
I swallow again. “I think… I think I need to pee.”
At that, he stands up so abruptly that it startles me a bit. But then I understand why.
When he bends down and helps me sit up. He even goes so far as to bring my legs down to the floor like I’m some kind of an invalid.
I don’t mind it as much as I probably should. I’m pretty sure my brother told him about my reduced mobility as well and I’m secretly thankful for it. Because getting up from the bed, especially after lying down for so long, has become a chore.
