“You know every single word written online was bullshit, don’t you?” she asks quietly.
A heavy sigh passes my lips. When I woke this morning, the only thing I felt was bloodcurdling fear that I was going to fail Bea and our baby. It didn’t matter that the nightmare wasn’treal...that it was just a figment of my imagination, it felt so real. The way my heart raced and my hands trembled was very real.
All I want is to give them the best, and apparently, the pressure I’m putting on myself to do that is seeping into my slumber.
Sleep has never come easy to me. I know it stems from my nightmares as a child.
I used to lie in bed at night and fight like hell not to allow my eyes to shut because I knew what would happen. I’d get a front-row seat to my biggest fears playing out right in front of me.
I thought I’d left it behind, but now I’m terrified it’s going to return.
The second I grabbed my cell, I got to see those fears playing out firsthand. I never, ever pay any attention to what is said about me online. I learned long ago that it has the power to drag me even deeper into the darkness than I am on any normal day. But this morning, I was powerless but to dive in.
And it was brutal. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
There were comments about Bea that made my blood boil. Question after question about why I’ve chosen her. Of course, they long figured out that she was born into money and walked away from it. Although that story has now been spun to say she was banished by her family, not that it was her choice. They think they have her all figured out. But me…why would I go for someone so…ordinary? And a beauty therapist at that.
I more than understand the therapist. I’m the dumb jock, after all, and I have been almost all my life. I can handle the chirping in my direction. But reading those things about the girl who has come to mean everything to me? Well, it just fed into all my insecurities that I’m not good enough for her.
“Yeah, of course,” I say with a confidence I don’t yet feel. It’s going to take a little while longer to shed the doubts.
“This is a really beautiful home,” she says, changing the subject as we walk across the deck toward the back door that will lead us right into the kitchen. The main room in the house is where almost everything has happened over the years.
As a child, I remember sitting at the island with Mom and Parker, making pictures to welcome Dad back home. I remember running past with Linc hot on my heels, grabbing freshly baked cookies as we went to spend more hours playing hockey or basketball in the yard. When I was a little older, I’d sit there with Mom as she helped with some of my homework. I also remember waiting nervously with my college acceptance letter clutched to my chest so we could open it together, and only a couple of days after I was drafted to Seattle, I walked into that room and felt the arms of those who meant everything to me wrap around me. That was the day I thought all my dreams had come true. Something tells me that what I’m going to experience in the next few months might just change that.
“I love coming back here. So many memories.”
“I can imagine,” Bea says. There’s a sad note in her tone, and I can only imagine she’s thinking about her own childhood and the differences we experienced growing up.
But that’s all wiped away as I open the door for her. The scent of Mom’s home-cooked food floods our noses, and laughter hits our ears. Nostalgia slams into me, along with images of what our future could look like with little kids running around, squealing happily like we used to.
“Here they are,” Mom cries the second she sees us. “We thought you were going to try to make your excuses.”
“I’d never let him get away with that,” Bea answers for me as my dad strides over, wearing the most god-awful apron.
“We knew there was a reason we liked you,” he says before pulling her in for a hug.
She giggles and embraces him back.
“That’s really quite something, Dad,” I state, nodding at the sculpted torso covering him, the words, “kiss the chef” across the pecs.
“Your mom bought it for me for Christmas,” he states proudly.
“It reminds me of the good old days when a six-pack wasn’t just in the fridge.”
Dad glares at her with fake horror while the rest of us laugh at his expense.
“I’ll have you know, this body is a temple,” he says, patting his rounded belly.
“I’m not arguing about that, dear,” Mom quips before turning to the oven to check on something.
“Hey, lovebirds. Did you enjoy your night?” I ask, heading toward Linc and Parker, who are sitting at the dining table together, while Bea goes to see Mom.
“It was great,” Parker says with a smile.
“What about you? Good night? You certainly slipped out early.”
I glance over at Bea as she laughs at something Mom just said, and my heart thumps hard against my ribs.
