I probably shouldn’t have sent that text.
It was accusatory and could be used against me. It’s physical proof of my dislike of the father of my baby. But I’m hormonal and so incredibly hurt by Sinclair missing the appointment that I can’t even seem to care.
I wanted him there today, as much as I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t need a partner in this. When the ultrasound tech stuck the wand to my belly and our son’s heartbeat rung out around the dark room, I wished that Sinclair was holding my hand. When his little face came into view, his eyes at just the right angle so he was literally looking at me on the screen, I wished that the man who had helped create him was looking up in wonder. I wished that same man was cupping my cheeks as she read off each measurement, a perfect little boy. I wished we walked out of the office with his arm around my shoulder, and he took me to get the milkshake I was craving.
The tears come now, now that the deep pain of loneliness is seriously sinking in. Back in Florida, I was fine. Or maybe I wasn’t, but I could lock the feelings away. Except now, in Packton, Sinclair is everywhere I look. His family, and all of their inside jokes and love for each other, is everywhere I look. The image of what could have been, of what I could have if we were in love with each other, is staring me in the face constantly.
How am I, an emotional pregnant woman, supposed to handle that? Well, I guess by sobbing on my couch with an open pint of Rocky Road melting in front of me. Because I didn’t even have the heart to stop for my milkshake on the way home.
I’m only two spoonfuls in, flipping through the channels and landing on old Sex and the City episodes, when three harsh knocks rattle my door.
“Frankie, it’s me.”
Sinclair’s voice comes through, and I freeze as if I’ve been caught red-handed. But … I haven’t been caught doing anything. And I also don’t have to let him in. Jackass.
I can’t help myself though, as I stealthily rise from the couch and make my way to the door to see if I can possibly peek out without being detected. Well, as stealthy as a six-month pregnant woman can be.
“Frankie, please open the door. I know you’re standing right there.”
Shit, he does know me better than I thought he does. Sinclair’s deep voice vibrates through my soul, even though he’s standing on the other side of the door.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to let him in, let him have a piece of my mind. I wouldn’t have sent the text if I wasn’t itching for an argument. But since he missed the appointment, purposely didn’t show up, I doubted he would react to the message I sent.
And I definitely didn’t expect him to show up at my house so shortly after.
“What?” I wrench open the door, my emotions getting the better of me.
The deeper I get into this pregnancy, the more my feelings run the gamut. I’m typically a pretty controlled person, and I rarely fight or hold grudges because I just can’t be bothered. But growing a human seems to have set off some confrontation gene that has lain dormant all this time.
“I got the dates mixed up.”
He grips the sides of the doorjamb, looking like he wants to come in and waiting for permission. It’s cold, the October air permeating the flannel pajama set I have on, but I won’t invite him in. I’m too stubborn. I’d rather freeze first.
But does he have to be so devastatingly handsome? His nose and cheeks sport little pink spots from the cold, like he drove over here without letting the car warm up. His dark hair is longer than it has been and tousles in the wind. I hate that I want to run my fingers through it.
Rage flickers swiftly through me. “Oh, come on, at least make up a good excuse. That’s just utter bullshit.”
Sinclair looks at the floor, and I watch as his jaw tics with anger and indecision. Finally, those eyes, the color of the sea I miss so much, look up to meet mine.
“Please, let me come in. I’ll explain. It’s not an excuse, I promise you, Francesca.”
God, he hits me with the use of my full name. He’s good, this guy. And because he knows how to play me like a fiddle, I move back, begrudgingly, but wave a hand for him to come in.
“You better get talking, because my ice cream is melting.” I say it like it’s the most important thing in the world.
I mean, to pregnant me, it is.
“I got the dates mixed up. Today is the twelfth. I put the twenty-first in my phone.” He chews on that full bottom lip, the one I used to taste.
“Why would you do that? I specifically texted you the twelfth. This was important, Sinclair. It wasn’t just some calendar event you could blow off. You missed seeing your son.” I try not to let my voice break.
He shakes his head. “I know that, fuck, I know that. I’m so fucking mad at myself, that I missed that. But I didn’t just screw up the calendar entry. I truly thought it was the twenty first. That’s what my brain saw.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m confused.
“I’m dyslexic. Have been ever since they found it in elementary school. With letters, I’m surprisingly fine. It’s numbers. I just … sometimes they get all jumbled. I’ve done the therapy and the tutoring, even started to work on it myself more as an adult. But there isn’t a cure. I just … I’m fucking stupid. My brain is fucking defective, and I fucked up the date …”
Sinclair is still rambling to himself, but I don’t hear it. Because my heart is breaking, openly weeping. That little boy stands in front of me, the one I can imagine sitting in the back of the class to avoid being called on. The one who made jokes about his learning disability to avoid other people laughing at him first. The one who would stare at homework for hours without being able to complete it.
Spontaneously, I move forward, my arms going around him. I want to comfort him, to soothe the sadness that’s been there since he was a little boy. I don’t account for the belly, so it bumps into his toned stomach as I try to envelop him in a hug. When I realize what I’ve done, touched him in an intimate way while our relationship is still so up in the air, I try to step back.
But Sinclair latches on, burying his head in the crook of my neck and positioning his body around me so that he’s flush against my side. One of his arms cups my belly, the first time he’s touched his growing son.
Air catches in my throat; I can barely breathe from the surprise. From how hard the love I have for him smacks me in the chest.
“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I wanted to see him so badly.” The regret and desperation are so clear in his voice.
We stand there for a full minute, his strong arms holding me while it really feels like I’m the one holding him together.
Sinclair pulls back, the slight loss of contact leaving a hole in my heart. But his arms are still around me; his face is just inches from mine.
His eyes flick down to my lips. I bite my lower one unconsciously as my pulse gallops at my neck. I feel the heat of his palm as it cups my lower belly, and then the other hand raises to tuck into my hair. His fingers lodge in my curls, and my eyes flutter shut. It’s been so long since he’s touched me, really held me, and I feel weak.
I should back away, give my heart time, but I can’t help it. I can’t help wanting his mouth on mine, his body on me. I want him inside me so badly that I ache for him; I can feel how wet I already am.