Cruel Beloved

Whiskey pushes me toward the door. “If you’ll excuse us, she needs to sleep.”

My mother scoffs but lets us walk away.

My father’s hand lands on Whiskey’s shoulder, halting him. “You look after her. I mean it. That shit you pulled to get her isn’t acceptable.”

“I will,” is all Whiskey replies, then pushes me along. Once we’re inside, he lifts me up and carries me to our old bed, laying me on it.

“I didn’t know they were going to be here,” I tell him once the front door is shut.

“I know. I told them.”

Well, that takes me by surprise, but I don’t comment on it.

We aren’t meant to be staying here, but he climbs in behind me anyway, pulling the covers over us and rubs my back until I pass out.

And when I dream with my hand in his, I dream of him.

35

Carla

Six months later.

We’re inseparable, and I’m extremely needy. Of him and his time. I want him near me every second of every day. I love him with my whole heart. This man has stolen it, and proved himself to me over and over again by constantly showing up, and being there for me better than anyone else has ever been.

I had to stop work. My feet swell, and Whiskey wants me to rest, but in doing that I need him more. His company seems to be the only thing that soothes me. Makes me calm when I’m hectic. Because thinking about the impending birth gives me anxiety.

Emma and Barry have moved into the apartment that I shared with Emma, and Whiskey and I are in his apartment. The baby’s room done and ready right next door to us.

My mother and father have been around more, which comes at a surprise to both Whiskey and me, because if I wanted to see my father before, I had to make arrangements, and now they come over all the time.

Tonight is a celebration for my father’s birthday, and I’m struggling with what to wear.

Whiskey finally comes home from work, and his arms immediately wrap around my waist. “How are my beautiful girls?”

“Tired and missing you.”

He chuckles in my ear then nips it. “I’ll take time off soon, I promise.”

I groan as I reach for a red dress that’s stretchy enough for my round belly. Handing it to him, he helps me into it, then does it up. He kisses my shoulder before he steps away undoing his tie and replacing it with a red one to match what I’m wearing.

“Do I have to go,” I whine.

Whiskey has been so good. Better than good. I can’t get enough of him.

“Yes,” he kisses my nose, then grips my hand as we leave.

My mother greets us first, wrapping her arms around me. Then she kisses Whiskey on the cheek before pulling away. She still isn’t his biggest fan, but since he has been including them in all appointments with the baby, she has warmed up to him.

My father yells my name with a wine in his hand as he walks his way toward me, then he hugs me. Yeah, he’s become a hugger, which I never expected from him. So, I hug him back before he shakes hands with Whiskey.

“Sixty and about to be a grandfather,” he says, smirking. “Couldn’t be happier.” And I believe him when he says that. Because for some reason, I believe he will treat my daughter differently than he treated me. He announced his retirement a few weeks ago, and I can see the heaviness that has lifted now. I see it in my mother as well.

“We found out the sex,” Whiskey says, smiling. He pulls out an envelope and hands it to my father. “Happy Birthday.”

My mother goes to snatch it away, but my father manages to get it first. “Is it in here?”

I nod at his excitement. He turns to my mother. “You can find out after me.”

She pokes her lip out as he opens it, and when he does, he smiles, then looks at me. “She’s going to be as beautiful as you are.”

“A granddaughter?” my mother asks, a tear leaving her eye. I didn’t know she could cry. I guess I’m proved wrong.

“The best birthday present ever,” my father says as Clinton walks over. I haven’t seen him since he told me the truth about Whiskey.

Whiskey straightens when he sees him and grips my back. I told Whiskey it was Clinton who told me, and he hasn’t seen him since.

“I see it worked out,” Clinton says, nodding to my belly.

“Not without your help, that’s for sure,” Whiskey says. “If your little stunt had gone sour, I would have ruined you, Clinton.”

Clinton’s eyes leave my belly, and he nods before he turns to step away.

“I think we should mingle before we head off, don’t you?” I say, moving Whiskey’s eyes to me, to which he gives me a quick nod.