7 Months Later

Chapter 1

Jensen

 

A breeze shoots through BAR NAME as some new patrons enter. They’re a yuppie looking couple— she’s got a dress and heels on and he’s wearing a business suit.

“These two look a little out of place in this dive bar,” I whisper to Larson.

He and I have been friends since we were SEALs together. Now we’re both in the Desert Dogs motorcycle club.

“I don’t know,” he says, not bothering to whisper back. Whispering isn’t Larson’s style. “Albuquerque has gone a bit too uphill for my tastes.”

I can’t resist laughing.

“What’s on special for happy hour?” the female asks.

Jeff, the bartender, looks both of them up and down before answering, “Same as always,” with a shrug.

“Do you have any martini specials?” she asks.

Now Larson and I both laugh, and Jeff glares at her like she has three heads.

“We got well whiskey with a coke back for three bucks, or Bud Light for two bucks.”

The woman suddenly looks around as if realizing this bar isn’t the kind of place she thought it was. Her eyes take in the many current and former service members stationed at Kirtland Air Force Base who like to come here to unwind after a day of training, and of course, all the MC members who ride our bikes here.

“Should we go somewhere else?” she asks her husband, with uncertainty and a hint of fear plastered all over her face.

“Might as well have a beer,” he says, nodding at Larson and me and then sitting down at the bar.

“Great,” Larson mumbles. “I sure hope this fucking place doesn’t change too much.”

He wants BAR NAME to remain exclusively a biker’s dive bar. But much to his dismay, ever since the city has decided to “gentrify” the area, more and more newcomers pop in, oblivious to the fact that this has been our turf for a long time.

“Don’t worry, it’ll always be our BAR NAME,” I tell Larson, and Jeff gives me a thumbs up from behind the bar, as if he’s agreeing with me without being allowed to say so.

They probably gave Jeff some kind of talking to about being more welcome to newcomers. Last week he threw one of them out for asking where the bloody mary bar is. That was after he answered, “Down the street and two blocks to the left, at the Brunch Bar where all the Mommies are dining with their kids in toe. Isn’t that the hipster way?”

“Some bars will always be like a second home,” I tell Larson. “Especially when what’s going on at your own isn’t great.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Larson asks, lifting an eyebrow at me.

I shake my head.

“That sounded worse than it is,” I tell him, hurrying to clear things up. “It’s just that Riley is super pregnant and…”

“Has constantly raging hormones?” Larson guesses.

“Hey,” I tell him, upset that he’s disparaging my wife. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Sorry,” he says, shirking back onto the bar stool. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

“I know,” I tell him, instantly softening.

I should have realized he didn’t mean anything bad by his comment. Larson has had plenty of experience with a pregnant wife and was probably trying to offer his help in that department. Which is kind of him to do, since after everything that happened with Larson’s family, I know he rarely likes to even think about that period of time in his life.

I sigh.

“I appreciate the help.”

Larson shrugs. Knowing him, he’ll brood for a while and then get over it. He has a dark past and some skeletons in his closet but he’s a good guy at heart, especially considering the hand life has dealt him. He’s also a loyal fellow SEAL for life, and a good friend.

I think about elaborating on what I mean about problems at home but I’m regretting ever bringing it up to Larson. There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t remind him of his own troubled past. Plus, I don’t think it’s really fair if I tell Larson what’s been up before I tell my own wife.

“Come on,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Spit it out. What’s the problem.”

I guess there’s no getting out of spilling my guts to at least some extent. That’s what’s so great about Larson. He’s always so fucking understanding and helpful, even though his own life is so shitty.

“Oh, it’s just… you know. Riley is nine months pregnant and about to have our first child. I’m so nervous of something happening, or of anything stressing her out, that I find it hard to…”

“Communicate?” Larson guesses.

“I guess so,” I admit.

It sounds silly when I put it that way. I know my wife isn’t some dainty flower just because she’s pregnant. She’s a strong, heroic woman— with gorgeous curves that have only gotten more beautiful throughout her pregnancy. Her body is capable of carrying and delivering a human being. Yet, I turn into a wimp about anything that could possibly upset her.

“Look,” Larson says. “Whatever’s going on, just talk to her about it. Sometimes people get anxious about stuff, I get that, but it doesn’t do any good. It won’t change the outcome except maybe to make it worse. Believe me. I know.”

“Thanks, Larson,” I tell him, seriously grateful.

Tragedy has made Larson wise beyond his years. I appreciate him sharing life’s hard lessons with me.

The woman beside us puts a hand on her husband’s arm and says in a high pitched, whiny voice, “Can we leave yet? Happy hour’s almost over and I want to grab a cosmo at Fig Bar before it ends.”

Larson rolls his eyes, as does Jeff, but her comment prompts me to look at my phone. It’s after five o’clock.

“I’m gonna head home,” I tell him. “You coming?”

Larson looks down at his half empty beer and shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ll hang out here for a while before hitting the road.”

Larson doesn’t really have a home, but I do, and I’d best be getting there. I’ll already be on my bike in rush hour traffic. One of the great things about teaching pararescue courses on the Base is that I start early and finish early, usually beating the bottleneck traffic if I want to go grab a drink after work. But today I’d been hesitating to leave, putting off heading home.

That’s really not fair to Riley. Larson’s right: I have to communicate with her so we can fight problems together head on. Plus, I miss her sexy ass and gorgeous face.

Chapter 2 – Riley

 

“Awwww. Oooooooh.”

These sounds seem involuntary when looking at the tiny blue baby clothes spread out around Jensen’s and my living room. Monica and I can’t help but make them every time we pick up a little onesie or a cap and booties.

“These are all so cute,” Monica coos. “James, look at this!”

She holds up overalls featuring a cartoon dog playing baseball for her son James to see. But he doesn’t pay her any attention. He’s busy playing with Monica’s niece and nephew, whom she is babysitting. At nearly two years old, he has mastered the art of running around, or at least trying to although his legs are still sometimes shaky underneath him, giving me new insight as to why they’re called “toddlers.”

Periodically Monica has been showing him an outfit and saying, “James, this was yours when you were a newborn, and now it’s going to be your cousin’s.”

Her voice has had a bittersweet tone, as she’s no doubt remembering the tiny baby she used to hold before he became a squiggling, wiggly toddler. A few times, James has cooed as enthusiastically as his mother— but that was because he wanted apple juice or goldfish snacks, not because he shared her interest in his old baby clothes. Mostly, he has just scrunched up his nose and said, “Mama, I go play!” before heading back over to where Becky and Mason Jr. are stacking blocks and playing tag, in some weird sort of combination game they seem to have just made up on the spot, as children often do.

“Yeah, good idea, you just keep playing,” Monica tells James. “It’s nice that your cousins are helping to entertain you so I can help your Aunt Riley get all of these adorable clothes ready for… does he have a name yet?”

She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye when she asks this. Jensen and I had already told everyone we’re not naming the baby until we see what he looks like, but that doesn’t stop them from repeatedly asking us if we’ve changed our minds.

“No,” I tell her, resolutely. “And if I do, you know you’ll be the first to know. You deserve it, as Baby Room Preparer Extraordinaire. “Thank you so much for coming to help me sort all of this stuff.”

My baby shower had been a couple weeks ago. People from all different stages of my life had come to it, including my best friend Brynn from law school, and even some of my former co-workers. I had gotten so many presents it seemed overwhelming. Plus, anyone with children, such as Monica, gave me hand me downs too. I appreciate those even more than the new gifts because they hold sentimental value. It’s just that I seem to have nowhere to put any of this stuff.

“No problem,” she says. “Isn’t it obvious how much I love going through baby stuff? I can’t wait to go hang all of this stuff up in his nursery, and put his tiny little sweatpants in the drawer of his diaper changing station…”

I laugh as she gestures at the piles of folded clothes on the couch, which are to be put away in drawers, as well as the outfits hung carefully on their baby clothes-sized hangers. They’re ready to be put in the baby’s room, and as I feel a not so subtle kick against my stomach, I realize that he’s pretty ready to be put there, himself.

Then I feel a tightening and a rumbling in my stomach, a strange sensation that at first I think must be a contraction. I tell myself it’s only Braxton Hicks. My doctor had told me they can seem alike but that I’ll know when it’s the real thing.

“Well, without you, I don’t know how I would ever do it,” I tell Monica, reminding myself to return to the task at hand as I pick up a flannel jacket and hang it on a hanger. “I’m no good at organizing.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she says. “You’re a lawyer.”

“Yeah, but until recently I’ve had legal assistants to help me file and find things,” I laugh. “Plus, it’s just different…”

I shrug, and trail off.

All my life, I’d been good at preparing to be a lawyer, and then for trial. I’d gone straight from kindergarten through law school to my job at the law firm and I was used to putting in long hours for work and trying to anticipate and counter any arguments from opposing counsel or any question judges might have about why my client should win the case.

But when it comes to having this baby, I feel horribly unprepared. I’d never even really thought about having children or fulfilling domestic duties. It seems foreign to me, although I’m excited about it and I love the life I have with Jensen. Having this baby feels like the next natural step but actually getting there feels difficult. Especially with how Jensen has been acting lately.

“Riley, are you all right?” Monica asks, as if reading my mind. She’d lowered her voice after looking towards James and back to me. “I know that these final months of pregnancy are hard, but you seem a little… depressed, maybe?”

I shrug, embarrassed.

“It’s not that I’m depressed,” I tell her. “That’s not it. Overwhelmed and a bit fearful, maybe.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” she says, pursing her lips resolutely.

“And something’s just been ‘off’ about Jensen,” I confide, wanting to cry almost as soon as I say it.

Oh shit.

Now that I voice my concerns out loud, I realize how worried I’ve been. I bite my lip, trying hard not to cry.

Tears fall down my face, involuntarily; I want to stop them, but I can’t.

I didn’t even realize how serious of a problem Jensen and I might be having, until I finally told someone. While I’m glad Monica is supportive, I almost wish she had never asked the question. Part of me doesn’t want to have to face the truth… not that I even know what the truth is.