Bad Seed

Delia

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks. I found myself going to my apartment less and to Drake’s house more. I spent time with Elsie on the weekends, getting to know her and her idiosyncrasies more each week. Tammy taught me things about autism and how to handle it, thinking if I was better equipped to handle Elsie at her worst, I could better enjoy her at her best. Drake had officially dubbed Pixie as ‘my horse,’ and because of that I was out on the farm more. Mucking her stall out and feeding her on a schedule. Riding her regularly and taking her for walks around the ranch.

Gradually, I came to know the place very well as my pregnancy continued to progress.

I spent my nights curled up to Drake, and my mornings making love to him in the shower. We ate breakfast together, talked during lunch, and always made plans for dinner at his house. Every time I had to wash an outfit of mine I was wearing, it got conveniently placed in a drawer in his room that suddenly didn’t have any clothes in it.

Eventually, the apartment became almost a waste of money.

Because of me staying over more, Drake had stopped harping on me about work. He accepted the fact that I wasn’t willing to slow down my life until a doctor told me I needed to. He still fussed over me and made me drink way more water than I would ever need, but it was a compromise I was willing to make. Every time he wrapped his arms around me, one of his hands would drop to my budding stomach.

There were times when he wasn’t happy I was heading into work. Times when he wanted me to call out but I refused. Sometimes I looked ‘too tired’ or ‘like I was about to be sick’. Panic would wash over his face, a look of absolute fear. Every once in a while, he would try to exert his control, and I would find ways to calm his mind.

Because that was what it was all about—those days when he was craving and needed to latch onto something he knew to be familiar.

In the midst of all of it, at some point I had stopped fighting him. I stopped fighting my urges for him and started initiating sex. I stopped being embarrassed by my need for him and gave into more of his sexual demands. I enjoyed how he commanded me in bed. I enjoyed his knowledge of my body. I enjoyed the times he pinned me to the shower wall or bent me over the kitchen counter. I enjoyed the times when I woke up with his tongue between my legs.

I also enjoyed the times when he would slide in from behind at three in the morning when he simply couldn’t wait.

In stopping all of the fighting, I had also stopped trying to fight what I felt for him. I stopped trying to convince myself that this wouldn’t work. I stopped comparing us as a couple to my parents and started seeing the reality of the situation. I started seeing how hard he worked, how much he had grown, and how we both had changed for the better because of what we had been through.

I started imaging what we would be going through together once this child was born.

In the midst of it all, I stopped fighting against falling in love with him. I allowed my eyes to linger and my mind to wander during my workday. I acknowledged the flutter in my heart whenever he came in from the field and undressed me with his eyes. I stopped fighting the need to roll into him at night and toss my leg around his naked hip.

But most of all, I stopped comparing him to my father.

My love for him was there. Every morning when the sun rose and his morning breath woke me up. Every time he pinned me to a wall and pounded my imprint into the paint. Every time his hand migrated to my knee whenever we were eating dinner together—it was there. It was full and bright and shiny.

And scary as hell.

But I wasn’t backing down. Loving Drake was the most exciting thing I had ever done in my life. Being around him fulfilled a part of me I had long neglected. I had closed myself off to the notion that anyone could love me the way I needed to be loved. And it wasn’t until I met Drake that I understood how lonely I had become.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout him again?” Stacia asked.

“Sorry. Sorry. Um—what were you saying?” I asked.

“Nothin.’ Just saw you starin’ off into space. How’s that paperwork comin’ along?” she asked.

“It’s coming. Mr. Hart approved my four-month plan for my first patient, so I’m putting it in writing officially, so we can go over it in his session next week.”

“Ya know, if that patient goes well, he might start givin’ ya more.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. It’s what I want to do. I want to help people through this time in their life. I want to help them plant their feet firmly on the ground and feel like they can do this. I don’t want sobriety to be such a chore. Not if it doesn’t have to be.”

“That Drake is one lucky man,” she said. “He’s got you helpin’ him with all that. And for free!”

I grinned at the sentiment as I went back to typing.

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “What are you doing Friday night?”

“Cookin’ dinner, then snugglin’ in for a movie with the man. Why? What’s up?”

“Think the man would let you off your routine for a night? Drake’s playing a small venue in town and I could easily get my co-worker in,” I said.

“Ooh, he’s gonna have to, honey. I ain’t missin’ none of that,” Stacia said. “You can consider me there. What time?”

“The concert’s at eight at the Mercy Lounge.”