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I’m about twenty-seven weeks now and hugely pregnant.
And when I say hugely, I mean it.
I’m like a whale.
My back aches more often than not. I’ve got swollen feet. Rolling over in bed feels like I’m climbing a mountain and I have to pee practically all day long. Carrying twins is no joke and in my moments of irrationality, I’ve blamed him for that as well. If only his stupid dick wasn’t so powerful, I probably would be cruising through my second trimester like the rest of the women out there.
But no, he had to have super fertile sperm that gave me twins in the first shot.
Anyway, he walks me to the bathroom, where I do my business and throw some water on my face. When I’m done and open the door, he’s right there waiting for me.
But instead of going with him, I simply stand there.
And look up at him.
It’s been almost nine weeks since I last saw him in person. I’ve of course seen him on TV though, focused and dominating the soccer field. I’ve seen his interviews where he keeps things short and to the point, always looking like he’s in a hurry to leave and extremely focused on his game and nothing else.
Of course I’ve been happy for him.
Soccer has always been his dream and I’m glad that he’s getting all the glory that he deserves.
But I’m not going to deny that I’ve also felt a little sad and hurt and — well okay, downright miserable — that he moved on so quickly. That I told him to stay away and he did and now he’s thriving.
It shows on his face too.
Apart from the stubble on his jaw and his crazy, sleepy hair, he looks good. He looks healthy and well-rested even after the game tonight. And I look like someone close to me has either died or taken really sick and I spend my days crying over them because my dark circles are more like dark depths of despair; my hair hasn’t been styled in weeks and my skin has more pores and oil than ever before.
And I just…
I’m so mad at him all of a sudden.
So fucking mad.
For looking so fucking beautiful; for moving on; for being here when I told him that I didn’t want to see him. For actually listening to me — for once — and staying away for weeks on end. When all he’s ever done is bulldoze his way into my life over and over again.
Like, what the fuck?
So I clench my teeth and look away from him because I can’t stand his put-together beauty when all I’ve done in the last nine weeks is cry and agonize over him, and start to waddle away myself. And he picks this moment to disobey my wishes and lends me a hand anyway. He puts a hand on the small of my back and grabs my elbow and walks me back.
I hate him for this.
I do.
But I keep my silence because well, I did need a hand, plus if I’m going to argue with him, I’d much rather be sitting than standing.
Once I’m situated on the bed and he’s propped the pillows up enough, I tell him, “Thanks for coming. But you don’t need to stay.”
He gives me an inscrutable look. “Are you hungry?”
“Where’s my brother and Callie?”
He stares at me for a beat. “They went home. Couldn’t find a babysitter this late so they had to leave.”
I nod in understanding. “Well, you should leave too. There’s no need for you to stick around now that I’m awake. I’m sure a nurse will be coming around soon and —”
As if I summoned her with my words, a nurse does come in to check my vitals. She says the same thing that Ledger told me. That I had a severe case of Braxton Hicks but everything looks normal now. I should take it easy from now on though. No stress, no anxiety. Try to rest as much as I can, and my doctor will come by to check on me in the morning.
I’m nodding my head at everything but Ledger, as always, has questions.
Like he used to when we’d go to my appointments together.
And his question has to do with what I can or can’t eat right now. When the nurse gives me the all clear to eat whatever I want to but focus on protein and fiber, she leaves.
“You don’t —”
“I’m going to bring you food,” he cuts me off with a determined expression, “and I’ll be in the visitor’s lounge.”
He looks like he’s about to leave and I say, “No, you won’t.”
“I don’t want to argue with you —”
“Then don’t. Just do as I say.” Then, because I just can’t help myself, I add, “It’s not as if it would be the first time.”
