He cuts me off when his arm shoots out and his fingers grab onto my bicep. They not only grab onto it, his fingers dig into the meat of my arm.
I feel them dimpling my flesh as he bends down over me, his eyes fraught with something that I can’t place, that I haven’t really seen on him. “You will never ever talk to my father.”
“What?”
“Not ever. You won’t even say his name, you understand?”
“Reed —”
“Do you understand, Fae?”
I nod before I can even think about it. “Yes.”
His fingers still don’t let up. In fact, he comes down at me even more. “My father has nothing to do with this. With you. He’s not going to touch you. He’s not going to even look at you. I won’t let him. Not again. So you’re going to put this thought out of your head and you’re going to let me handle everything. Say yes if you understand that.”
The violence in his words, the fierceness, makes me want to say yes. But more than that it’s something else, something far needier than his ferocity.
Something that begs me to agree with him right now.
Like if I don’t, it will destroy him.
“Yes.”
He nails me with his gaze for a few seconds, as if checking whether my acquiescence is genuine or not. When he’s satisfied with it, he straightens up, letting me go. “Now lock the door after I leave.”
Back at Bardstown High, I was fascinated with his legs.
His thighs.
The strength in them. The way his muscles bulged when he walked or ran. The way his strides were long and languid and authoritative, sexy.
I’m still fascinated by them, his legs.
But I’m more fascinated by his hands now. His fingers.
They are long and thick with rough, knobby, masculine knuckles. He’s also got blunt square-shaped nails. The veins that run on the backs of his hands, going up to his wrists, are thick and bumpy.
And then there are his forearms. Muscled and moon-kissed skin with a dusting of dark hair that thins out as you go up while his muscles become thick and hilly and strong.
These are the hands that hold back my hair when I throw up. They rub circles on my back as I’m heaving over the toilet bowl. These are the hands that then bring me saltines and ginger tea.
He also warms up my dinner every night after school because my tiredness knows no bounds.
Before, he could pick me up and drop me off and leave, but now things have gotten so bad that he stays.
He has to.
He has to come inside the house that he arranged for me to live in.
He has to stay with me all through dinner, which if I’m very lucky I get to keep inside. Then he has to stay while I do my homework on the couch — he usually does his work from the office that he hates — or try to. Because I always end up falling asleep in the middle of it.
Then with those same arms, he carries me to the bed.
And sleeps on the couch.
To do everything all over again the next day. Because he wouldn’t let anyone else do this for me. He and my brothers had an argument about who’d watch over me. But there was no contest.
Reed Roman Jackson won that one with one fiercely spoken statement. “She’s carrying my baby in her body. So I’ll be the one taking care of her if her body is giving her a hard time.”
Anyway, these are the hands that I hold on to when I go for my doctor’s appointments.
Like the first time, Reed doesn’t let me hold on to the examination table. He makes me let go of it and wraps his fingers around mine. He lets me dig my nails into his skin when things become uncomfortable for me. He doesn’t even flinch under the force of my grip, simply keeps his eyes on me and lends me all his strength.
And he always asks for copies of the blurry ultrasound pictures.
Of her.
That he then puts into his pocket with those very hands.
With those hands, he makes lists of questions he wants to ask our doctor. And those same hands curl into fists when her answers remain the same for the next couple of appointments.
My raging morning sickness will hopefully vanish when I enter my second trimester. It’s normal for me to feel tired and lethargic as my body changes and yes, second trimester should be better than the first.
And it is.
God, it is.
When February comes around and I enter my second trimester, I start to feel normal.
I start to feel like a human being. The days aren’t blurry and I’m not so tired anymore. I can bear the school days, the homework, the snickering, the looks, which still haven’t faded.
But it’s fine.