When I mentioned the idea of a baby shower to Laurel, she immediately went crazy planning it—even though at the time I still wasn’t sure if I wanted one. But she’d hear none of it, insisting that I had to have one, and she knew if our roles were reversed, I’d be organizing one for her. She wasn’t wrong.
The baby shower is being held at a swanky restaurant in Manhattan. Beckham’s parents insisted. I didn’t think the splurge was necessary, since they rented out the whole restaurant, but who was I to tell them what to do with their money? It’s not like they’d listen to me anyway.
“Do I look okay?” I turn away from the mirror, fixing one last piece of hair that insists on sticking straight up.
Beckham steps around the corner, holding a gray T-shirt in front of his chest. His nice, sculpted chest immediately has me drooling. Since living with him, I’ve learned that he works out a lot at his building’s gym and that he utilizes their indoor pool for laps almost daily. That hard work has certainly paid off. His body is basically a work of art.
It’s May, and I still haven’t been cleared for all activities and sex is still off the table, but I am finally allowed to be on my feet more. Thank God. Every day, Beckham and I have been walking down the street to a café for coffee. It gets me out of the apartment, and I manage to get a little bit of exercise in. I feel like I’m going to have a hard time regaining my strength after the baby is here.
“Did you seriously just ask me if you look okay?” He tugs the shirt on and hides his half-naked body from my greedy eyes. “You’re always beautiful, honeybee, you know that.”
“I don’t need you to flatter me, but thank you.”
He cups my cheeks in his hands and places a chaste kiss on my lips. “You’re stunning, Lennon. Truly. I think we both know I’m brutally honest enough to tell you if you looked like shit.”
I laugh, because he’s right. Standing, I smooth my hand down my belly, which has grown to a size I didn’t think was possible. The baby could come most any time, which is crazy to think about. Anywhere between now and the start of June, just two weeks away. If I make it to June, my doctor wants to induce me, rather than letting me get to full term, because of the preeclampsia.
“I like the yellow dress,” he says.
“I have no idea what Laurel has planned. She just told me to wear yellow.”
“She told me too,” he admits with a sheepish smile, “but I don’t own anything that color.”
I pat his chest, walking by him. “Of course you don’t. It would be way too happy of a color for your dark soul.”
His eyes glimmer with amusement. “I’m so happy you get me.”
I love when he jokes with me. As much as I was against the idea of moving in with him, I think it’s been the best decision for us. I’ve gotten to know him so much better because of it.
An open and honest Beckham Sullivan is almost too much for this world. He’s scarily perfect, at least for me. We still haven’t had a talk on what we are exactly, if we’re a real couple now, or still playing pretend. I think we’re both avoiding the conversation, afraid of what the other might say.
It doesn’t take us long to finish getting ready. I’m both excited and nervous. A little sad, too, since none of my family will be in attendance. My brother has stopped trying to contact me. I’ve decided it’s better that way.
There are some people you don’t need in your life. Blood or not.
Beckham drives us to the restaurant, a surprising stirring of nerves in my stomach. It’s silly that I feel worried about this at all.
“How’s your dad today?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
I’ve been by the care home three times now with Beckham to see his dad. I hate witnessing what it does to Beckham, watching his biological father deteriorate before his eyes, but I also know he’s glad to have had this chance to be with the man, and I’m thankful he decided to share it with me.
Beckham parks near the restaurant in a parking garage, then eyes me warily the entire walk. I don’t know whether he’s worried since I haven’t been moving much or if he thinks my water might break. I’ve tried to tell him it’s not nearly as crazy as movies make it out to be and that many first-time mothers don’t even have their water break naturally.
Has he listened?
No.
Everything I tell him goes in one ear and out the other.
The restaurant looms ahead of us, and Beckham grabs the door when we get there and ushers me in first. The main interior space has been transformed into a yellow, white, and cream theme with little bees.
Beckham’s lips touch the curve of my ear, his hand light on my waist. “I told them to do something with bumblebees.”
I smile up at him, pleased that he had some hand in this. “This is . . . wow. It’s perfect.”
The restaurant prepared a buffet that’s laid out on a long serving table with a balloon arch behind it that matches everything. Fresh flowers cover nearly every available surface. Everywhere I look, no detail has been forgotten. Even the cupcakes have some sort of candy on top that looks like a honeycomb.
I’m so busy taking everything in that I miss Laurel barreling toward me until her arms are thrown around my neck.
“Happy baby shower!” she shrieks, letting me go to pass me a drink from a nearby table. “Is that what people say? ‘Happy baby shower’? I don’t know.” She shrugs, handing Beckham a drink too. “Come on, come on. You two are the guests of honor, after all.”
She ushers us to a table with just enough room for the two of us. Along the way, Beckham’s mom stops us, giving each of us a hug and planting a loud kiss on his cheek that has him saying, “Mom.”
Some of the faces in attendance I don’t recognize. I suppose I should be bothered by that, but I’m just thankful that anyone wanted to take time out of their busy lives to celebrate us.
Beckham’s mom takes my hand and pulls me away from the others. He lifts a brow in question. I shrug, not sure what she wants.
“I wanted to ask you how you are?”
“Oh.” Her question isn’t exactly odd, but it still catches me off guard. “I’m good.”
“I just wanted to say I’m so sorry about your parents, sweetie. How they’ve treated you . . . both of you.” She looks over my shoulder; no doubt Beckham is lingering somewhere behind me. “I’ve tried talking some sense into Diedre, but it’s been to no avail.”
“It’s okay.” I squeeze her hand lightly since she hasn’t released her hold on mine.
“They should support you,” she insists. “They should’ve been here. We invited them.” That bit stings. They knew about my baby shower, and they just didn’t come. I know it’s better that they aren’t here, who knows what kind of drama they might have stirred up, but even knowing that, it still hurts. “I guess what I really want to say is that I’m sorry they are the way they are.”
I don’t bother saying it’s okay this time, because in reality it’s not. But I’m learning to deal with it and move on. They’re not worth my heartbreak.
“Thank you.”
She pulls me into another hug, one I sink a little deeper into. She’s a good woman. I’m so happy that Beckham found a home with her and Richard.
“Games!” Laurel claps her hands together to get everyone’s attention. Beckham’s mom releases me, giving me a reassuring smile before I take a seat at the table. “Let’s play games first. I found all these on Pinterest, so they better be good.” Laurel whispers the last part so only I can hear when she passes by me. “First up, everybody, we have the water-breaking game—at least that’s what I’m calling it. I’m going to pass out these small cups with a baby frozen in them—okay, that sounds bad, but it’s a fake plastic baby, I swear.” I stifle a laugh. I can’t help but be amused when Laurel goes off on one of her tangents. “Keep an eye on your baby throughout the festivities, and whoever’s baby comes free from the ice first will shout out that your water broke. Got it?” She waits for a collective agreement, then proceeds to pass out the cups, even giving one to Beckham and me.
He turns the clear cup around and around, staring at the small naked plastic baby trapped inside. “That thing is terrifying.”
“Don’t let Laurel hear you. She had fun doing this.”
Seriously, I think the girl could have a future in party planning if she wanted.
Beckham mimes zipping his lips shut, then sets the ice-encrusted baby as far away from him as possible.
“It’s not going to hurt you.”
“Are you sure about that? They’re freaky looking.” He points at my baby in front of me, face up, eyes black beneath the ice. “Look at it. It’s disturbing.”
“Be nice.” I set my cup aside like he did. With the amount of water that’s frozen around it, I’m not sure anyone’s is going to “break” before the shower ends.
Laurel, playing hostess, points out another game where everyone can guess how many Honeycombs—the cereal kind, not the real stuff—are in a jar.
“I have prizes for the winners,” she singsongs, “so if you need motivation to participate, there you have it.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she mock-whispers, “There are guy-themed prizes as well, so don’t think just because you have a penis that you’re excluded from this.”
The next game is one where people have to cut a string at the length they think would fit around my stomach. I’m mildly offended by how big people think I actually am. It’s an insult to all pregnant women everywhere. I’m carrying one child, not five.
The person who comes closest to guessing right is Beckham’s mom, who accepts her prize with a gloating victory dance.
There’s a break from games to eat. I pile the food onto my plate, eager to try a little bit of everything the restaurant whipped up. When I sit back down, Beckham has a laugh at my comically overflowing plate.
“Are you having fun?” Laurel balances a plate in her hand, stopping beside my chair to chat.
“This is amazing, Laurel.” I give her arm a light squeeze of thanks. “I so appreciate you doing all of this.”
“Beckham’s mom helped a lot. Not only did she pay for everything, but she wanted to be here to help with setup too.”
“Thank you. You’re already the best auntie to this baby.”
Her eyes light up, then get watery with tears. “I get to be called auntie?”
“Laurel.” I gasp, forgetting about my food for the moment. “You’re my best friend. That automatically gives you aunt privileges.”
She sniffles, wiping a tear away. “I’m going to be the best aunt ever to your little baby. Just you see. I’m going to spoil them silly.”
She walks off then, possibly in search of a tissue.
“She’s not pregnant, too, is she?” Beckham’s question surprises me. “She seems pretty emotional today.”
I gape at him in horror. “A woman can be emotional and not be pregnant.”
He throws his hands up in surrender, his face the picture of innocence. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You’ve already dug your grave, buddy. Stay there.”
He ducks his head with a chagrined smile and digs into his food. Good. As long as his mouth is full, he can’t say anything stupid.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. By the time we say our goodbyes, I’m in a sugar coma from the two cupcakes I had back to back. In hindsight, that was way too much sugar at one time, but they tasted so good I couldn’t stop at one.
My eyes are heavy on the short drive back to the apartment. I want to take this dress off, shower, and go to bed. I’m pretty sure I’ll be zonked the moment my body touches the mattress.
“Did you have fun?” I ask Beckham, my head heavy against the headrest.
He signals to change lanes. “More than I expected.”
“That’s good, I guess.”
“Did you have fun?” he volleys back.
“Yeah, but now I’m exhausted.” I stifle a yawn.
“Laurel sure knows how to throw a party.” He chuckles, glancing at me practically melting into the seat.
“I didn’t know a baby shower could be such a rager.”
“Or that Brendan could go so low in a conga line.”
I snort, poking his side. “You mean limbo?”
He shoots me a puzzled glance as we pull into the apartment’s underground parking garage. “Isn’t that what I said?”
“No,” I say, laughing harder. “Definitely not.”
In the elevator, I lean against Beckham. “I’m so tired,” I groan, letting my eyes drift shut momentarily. “And my body aches. This is the most I’ve gotten out in so long.”
His lips press tenderly against the top of my head. “Do you need help showering?”
I can’t help but grin up at him. “Just say the real reason you want to help—you want to see me naked.”
He snorts, seeming surprised by the sound. “I always want to see you naked. That’s a given.”
The doors slide open onto our floor, Beckham wrapping an arm around my side as we walk.
Inside, we’re immediately greeted by the two ginger cats, both demanding cuddles and treats.
“Ugh.” I wince, pressing a hand to my back. “My back is killing me.”
“Want me to rub it for you?” The fact that he’s dead serious makes me smile. He’s been incredibly generous with all the back massages and foot rubs.
“After I shower.” I pull my hair to the side, off my neck, and turn around. “Unzip me?”
He slides the zipper down, his warm knuckles grazing the skin of my back. I shiver, which elicits a chuckle from him. He kisses the curve of my neck, then lightly swats my ass.
“Get in the shower. I’ll be there in a minute. I’m going to feed the cats.”
Waddling down the hall, I use one arm to hold the dress to my front. I don’t know why I’m bothering with modesty—it’s not like he hasn’t seen everything there is to see—but considering sex is off the table and I’m exhausted anyway, what’s the point in trying to be coy?
The shower warms up quickly and I step inside, letting the water uncoil my stiff muscles. Beckham doesn’t appear, and it doesn’t take that long to feed the cats, so I start to get a bit worried. After squirting some of my soap onto my loofah, I suds up my body, the bathroom soon filling with the scent of rose. I’m rinsing my body free of bubbles when Beckham steps into the bathroom.
I take one look at his crestfallen face and know something is majorly wrong.
“What is it?” I ask through the glass.
He opens the door, stepping inside still fully clothed. His eyes are red, tears streaming down his face, now mixing with the spray from the shower. “My . . . uh . . . my dad just died.”
“Oh baby.” I pull him to me, and he lays his head on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me.
Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but hold on to someone. Just be there for them.
So that’s what I do.
