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“Yes!”
I shake Carter’s hand again. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks. I’m nervous as hell, but it’ll be okay. Right?”
I put my hands up in surrender. “Don’t ask me, dude. I don’t know the first thing about kids.”
Which is partly a lie now. The best experience I had in Africa was treating the children. I even got to witness an emergency C-section. Woman was rushed to the clinic from the village with a breech-presenting baby. I had to hold the little guy’s bottom in the mother while Jack cut the baby out so he could be delivered safely. I cringe, remembering how the poor mom had no time for pain medication. She’d passed out from the pain. But the baby boy was delivered safely and she’d come back a few weeks later to show off the little guy and thank us.
“I’m happy for you, sis,” I tell her honestly, feeling a small flame of hope bloom in my chest. A new life always brought new possibilities, to be the person we wanted to be before we made all our mistakes, and I vow to be the best, most fun uncle ever.
After I pluck my suitcase from the carousel, we drive in Carter and Taryn’s brand new Escalade he bought when he found out he was going to be a dad. I plan to stay with them for a few days, as I missed them and wanted to catch up before going back to my little empty condo. They promised to feed me too.
He parks in the massive garage and Taryn shows me to the guest suite that has its own bathroom. I look at the bed and groan. I want to fall into it and sleep for days. That damn cot with the makeshift mattress I slept on for six months did no favors for my back.
“Get comfy, I’ll order us some dinner.”
“Haven’t you learned how to cook yet? You’re gonna be a mom. You better learn,” I tease her.
She sticks her tongue out at me, and I’m reminded of her twelve-year-old self. “Carter cooks. I do laundry and dishes.”
“You must be so proud,” I say dryly.
At least she isn’t hiring a housekeeper and doing the stuff herself—not that I’d blame her if she did. Carter’s loaded.
I set my bag and suitcase down and plop onto the bed. My eyes roll back in my head and I groan in pleasure at the luxurious comfort, then, I immediately feel guilty. There’s nothing like this where I was, and there probably won’t ever be for the poor villagers who only seem to work to live.
I pull my cell phone out and read Christa’s texts for the hundredth time, wondering if I should shoot her a text.
Fuck it.
I hit reply and type:
Me:I’m back Stateside.
I backspace and delete that.
Me:I’m back in Colorado and I want to see you.
Again, I delete it.
Me:I’m home. I’m sorry. I need to see you.
I let that one linger a few moments before I delete it.
A text is lame, and it’s not enough.
I decide that it’s been six months and I can wait another day or so before I decide what to do about Christa. I should probably talk with my sister first.
After a hot shower that felt like a dream, I put on some sweats and a tee and head into the kitchen, where the smell of tomato sauce and pasta hits my nostrils.
On her massive marble kitchen island is a spread of pasta, bread, and vegetables.
“Smells amazing,” I comment as Carter spoons more broccoli into a dish and throws a pat of butter and some garlic salt on it. He puts it with the takeout.
“From Marisios?” I question.
“Of course. Where else?” Taryn answers with a chuckle.
