I head into the walk-in closet, passing him on my way; he’s coming into the bedroom with a bottle of water in one hand, a beer bottle in the other. He’s in navy blue jersey sleep pants and an AC/DC sleeveless t-shirt.
“Everything okay?” he asks as he sets the drinks down, then puts a knee to the bed and grabs the remote, getting comfortable.
“I’m just getting dressed,” I say. “Then I’ll be heading to bed.”
When I emerge from the closet with an armful of sleeping clothes, I dart back into the bathroom to change and put on a fresh pad so that I can watch for further spotting.
I rub some curl cream through my damp hair and lift my favorite lotion out of the drawer in the bathroom. I bought it in Italy and my skin has been missing this.
Once I’m back at my usual side of the bed, I grab the water he set there for me and stuff my cell into my purse and loop it over my shoulder before heading toward the door.
“Where ya goin’?”
“To the guest room,” I say.
“No,” he denies.
My eyebrows jut up in response, but he just stares at me.
“Then are you going there?” I finally ask, jerking my thumb toward the door.
“No,” he says, then pats the bed.
My eyes roll, but before they’re done rolling, he’s moving impossibly fast in my direction and scooping me into his arms.
“Killian,” I squeak.
“Violet,” he volleys with an eerie amount of calm.
He’s not joking. Not smiling. He looks ready to throw down over this. And I’m tired. And traumatized. I don’t want to fight right now.
He throws the comforter back and gently sets me down, taking my purse off my shoulder and setting it on the floor before he rounds the bed, gets in and hauls the blanket up over us both. He flicks his lamp off and fixes his eyes on the news show on the television while downing the rest of his drink back in one gulp.
Defeated, I lay back on the pillows, then turn my back to him and close my eyes.
This bed is a hundred times more comfortable than the twenty plus year old bed in the doll room at Grampa’s.
And my pillow smells like Killian has been using it. And that smell has become my favorite. My heart hurts at the truth of that thought, at the possibility that while I’ve been gone, maybe he’s been sleeping on my pillow trying to catch my scent.
Despite the pain, I stifle a yawn and it takes no more than a minute before my eyes are drifting shut. The TV gets shut off, plunging us into silent darkness.
The blankets shift and then he’s spooning me, sliding his hand under my pajama shirt and gliding it across my bare belly, where it rests.
Tears pool, stinging my eyes as I stare off in the darkness.
His lips touch my shoulder and one of those salty tears escapes.
Am I weak right now for not pushing him away?
“I don’t like sleeping without you,” he rumbles gruffly into my hair, making goosebumps emerge. “I don’t wanna sleep without you. I love you so much. And I already love this baby. It’s all gonna be okay. I’m gonna make it so it’s better than okay. I fuckin’ promise you that.”
He leans farther over and kisses the side of my mouth and then settles in behind me, rubbing my stomach.
More tears roll down my face. I wipe them away with my sleeves and squeeze my eyes tight.
And I miraculously fall asleep.
21
Killian
I jolt awake to the terrible sound of my wife puking. It sounds like she’s puking hard. It’s five forty-five in the morning. And the time means I’ve slept more hours straight last night than I have in over a week.
It’s not easy to reconcile that vomiting is a good thing like the doctor said. She sounds like she’s having it really rough in there. I head out and get some water from the fridge and come back to the sound of the tap running. I go to the bed and grab her phone out of her bag and cancel this morning’s alarm, then I tap into her contacts and send a text message to Shara.
Shara, this is Violet’s husband. She’s sick and she won’t be in this morning. Please phone when you get this message. Call this number. I’ll watch for your call.
I hear her puking again. Fuck sakes.
Ten minutes go by, and it’s been silent for about five, so I knock on the door.
She groans in response, so I open it, feeling panic spike at the sight of her lying on the bathroom floor.
“Violet!” I rush to her. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I’m okay. I just can’t stop barfing, so I’ll just stay here. Can I have a pillow?”
I carefully lift her and carry her to the bed. She doesn’t protest, just flops listlessly.