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Tears fall faster, sobs come harder, and as they wrack her small, delicate body and the smaller, even more delicate body of my daughter—my fucking daughter—worry tickles the back of my mind again. “Please move in with me.”
I should’ve known that if anything could stop her weeping, it would be that oh-so-simple. Rearing back and flashing me that beautiful, tear-streaked, snotty face, she starts to shake her head. “Cass…”
“I was scared out of my mind tonight, Sunday. If something happened and I wasn’t there—” I cut myself off, sucking in another calming, cinnamon-scented breath. “I want you close. Please. I’m not opposed to begging.”
Her hesitation lasts a lifetime but I’m prepared for it. Just as prepared as I am for her rebuttal; I have a whole fucking monologue planned. In the end, I don’t need it.
Because all Sunday needs? “I have to ask August first.”
And that’s the easiest demand in the world to meet.
37
SUNDAY
Cass wastes no time.
When I’m discharged later that day, he doesn’t drive me home; he drives me to his. He helps me inside—I consider it a small miracle he lets me walk instead of fireman-carrying me across the threshold—and shows me to the room he casually, easily, without a second thought refers to asmyroom. All but shoving me into bed, he commands me to stay put, says something about being back later, and disappears with my son in tow.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s off to pack up my things and lug them over here. I’d prefer to do it myself—something about the thought of Cass touching everything I own feels incredibly intimate—but I’m too tired to put up a fuss. The stress of the last twenty-four hours or so has left me a shell of a woman, and even though I’ve already slept most of the day away, another nap is calling. I barely have it in me to shed the jersey I’ve been wearing for entirely too long and swap it for the pajamas someone left on the bed before I’m diving beneath the softest comforter I’ve ever felt and passing out.
When I wake up a few hours later, it’s with a frown on my face. A tickling sensation plagues the back of my mind, insisting‘hey, something is different.’Forcing myself upright with a yawn, it takes a few slow, sleepy blinks until I figure out.
The last time I stayed in this guest room, it was undoubtedly a guest room. Furnished but plain with a generic but comfortable bed and generic but comfortable pillows, normal, uninspired white walls, a small chest of drawers perfect for a temporary stay. The only color in the room came from different wood tones, the only personalized touch was the good-quality toiletries stocking the ensuite.
There wasn’t a desk in the corner. One wall didn’t have a closet with mirrored doors. There were no plants or books or candles littering the shelves on the wall. The comforter was not purple, nor was the fuzzy blanket folded across the foot of the bed, or the decorative pillows I’m cocooned by.
Tears and laughter plague me in equal measure as I sink back against my sea of purple. My purple bed in my room. It’s ridiculous and I should be mad because clearly, he’s been plotting to move my ass in here despite my insistence it wouldn’t be happening but how can I be? How can I possibly be mad at this?
When I hear footsteps in the hallway my way, I hastily swipe at my face but it’s a wasted effort. As soon as the door opens and Willow creeps inside, my bottom lip starts wobbling. August’s yells for help woke her up and judging by the dark circles under her eyes, she never went back to sleep.
Dropping the cardboard boxes balanced in her arms, she launches herself on my bed, wrapping herself around me. “What the fuck, Sunday?” she whisper-yells in my hair, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”
I cling to the forearm locked across my chest, holding me tight against hers. “Join the club.”
She retreats just enough to scan the length of me. “Everything’s okay?”
“Everything’s okay,” I confirm for my own sake as well as my sister’s, words I feel like I’m going to be repeating pretty regularly for the next, oh, four months or so, just for my own state of mine.
I’ve never felt fear like that in my life. Not even when my last pregnancy ended too early, when August came too early and I had to see his little body in a NICU incubator. Somewhere in my gut, I knew he was okay. I could see he was okay.
This one is different. Maybe it’s because I’m older now and with age comes cynicism disguised as realism and awareness of the shitty things that happen all the time for no reason. Or maybe it was because last time, I didn’t have anyone to be scared for me. Anyone to hurt or to disappoint. Last time or this morning or whenever the hell everything happened, I could see the wild panic on Cass’ face and it fueled my own. Reminded me that if something happened to the baby, it wouldn’t only affect me.
I wouldn’t just lose her.
Maneuvering herself beneath the covers, Willow’s head lands on my shoulder. “This place looks like Barney’s lair.”
I bark out a laugh. “I like it.”
“Stockholm Syndrome will do that to a girl.” Snagging a pillow, she hugs it to her chest as she surveys my new bedroom. “I can’t believe he really got you to move in.”
I can’t either. I wish I could say he caught me at a weak moment but I’d be lying. Honestly, since seeing the nursery, it’s been a constant plague on my mind. Thinking about Cass’ offer, considering it. Last night was the final straw; he wasn’t the only one struck with worries about something happening and him not being there. “Are you okay with this?”
“No,” Willow drawls sarcastically. “Please, reject your beautiful baby daddy and stay with me instead.”
I poke her in the ribs. “I’m just checking, doofus.”
“I know.” She pokes me back, the smile on her face wobbling slightly. “That beautiful baby daddy was super freaked out earlier.”
