Amanda’s mother was a different matter. Jacqueline Winslow-Sinclair took to me like a duck to water, told me I was the best thing to ever happen to Amanda. “She laughs more with you,” she’d commented one time during a particularly long Skype chat between us when Amanda was still in Australia with me. “You bring out the adventurer in her. The sense of fun. I haven’t seen that since she was a little girl.”
Chase had spent every Skype session coming up with different names for me. Those fun sessions had made me like her family a lot. Of course, at that time, I’d only had limited interaction with Charles. I’d thought he was too busy to get involved. But now . . .
How had they reacted when Amanda told them she was pregnant? Had they supported her? Had they been there for her? Chase was around. That was something. But what about Charles and Jacqueline? Had they helped her during the pregnancy? The birth?
An image filled my head – Amanda in pain, straining, crying, her face red, her eyes closed, her hair damp with sweat. I’d never witnessed a birth before, but Hollywood had shown me what giving birth to a baby was like, and it wasn’t fun.
Hot anger rushed at me again, unexpected and jarring. The birth of my son and I hadn’t been there. I was a father and I still had to rely on movies and television to tell me what it was like. I know Amanda regretted that, but it didn’t take away what I felt now.
It wasn’t until soft fingers touched my jaw that I realized Amanda was no longer crying into my chest. Instead, she was looking at me, an unreadable expression in her eyes. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
Letting out a slow breath, I relaxed my hand on her back – when had it become a fist? “I’m planning Tanner’s free weights sessions. Reckon I’ll get him started with some core work to get him on his feet fast.”
I grinned. My woeful attempt at humor, however, didn’t make Amanda laugh. She looked at me, her expression growing more closed off by the second. A frown knitted her eyebrows.
Okay, flippant wasn’t the way to go here.
“Hey,” I said, smoothing my palm over her back to draw her closer to my body. “It’s going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. For you and our son.”
Our son. The words felt both surreal and wonderful on my tongue.
She closed her eyes and returned her face to my chest. There were no tears this time, just a stillness borne from the need for connection.
“Where is he?” I asked, looking around her home. A part of my brain wanted to snag on the fact there was no evidence of him here, but the rest of me wanted nothing more than to think about how incredible it was going to be to be a father. To be a family. “Is he with your mum and dad?”
“He . . .” She curled her fingers against my chest. “No, he’s not with Mom. I . . .”
Silence stretched between us.
“What did your mum and dad do?” I asked when I couldn’t handle it any longer. “Have they helped?”
“Very much so,” she answered without looking up. “And Chase has been incredible. I don’t know how I would have sur . . .” She faded off again.
“Tell me about him,” I said when she didn’t finish. “Does he have my stunning good looks?”
She laughed. The sound was a curious mix of joy, pride and something sad. “He does. And your strength. He damn near broke my ribs with all his kicking during the pregnancy.”
I chuckled. “That’s my boy. A footy player in the making.”
Amanda pulled away from me and grinned. “Did you just say that’s my boy?”
“I did. Watch out, I can feel a lifetime of dad jokes ready to spill forth as well.”
She laughed. And yet, even as her face transformed, I could see the emotion still didn’t quite reach her eyes. What else was going on in her head?
“Was it an easy pregnancy?” To be honest, I was floundering. What I wanted more than anything was to see Tanner. Hold him. But I also wanted Amanda to know I truly was here for her. That I was where she needed me to be: with her.
She shifted on the floor, repositioning herself so she was less fetal position, more companionable leaning. “Two words. Morning. Sickness.”
“That bad?”
“Hell, yeah. I threw up every morning. Every morning. I’d open my eyes, put my feet on the floor and before I could even register it was morning, I’d hurl. I lost twenty-two pounds before the end of the first trimester.”
“Whoa.”
Amanda laughed again, but this time her eyes reflected the sound. “Whoa is correct. I was at Mom and Dad’s during it all. Chase held my hair back so many times I think she was ready to shave it off. Thankfully, it went away like someone flicked a switch on the second day of my second trimester. After that it was smooth sailing.” She gave me a skewed grin. “Except for a weird craving for Vegemite – which was thoroughly gross – and all the kicking. I know you told me you were some kind of football freak and had the chance to go pro when you were a teenager, but I cursed you more than once during the last few months when it felt like Tanner was attempting to do a kick-off.”
I burst out laughing, tightening my arm around her as I did. “Okay, babe,” I said, “I know footy is a foreign language to you, Australian footy even more so, but do a kick-off?”
“Hey.” She pulled an indignant face and punched my bicep. And then winced and shook her hand.
I grinned, drawing her back closer to my chest. Now I’d got a serious taste of how incredible it was to hold her that way again, that close, I wanted her there as often as possible. A warm wave of anticipation and delight washed over me at the thought of sitting this way, not just with Amanda, but with Tanner. Of holding him in the crook of my arm, watching him sleep . . . or fart . . . or poop.
What? I’m a guy. Farts and poop hold significance to us. And when it’s a guy’s own flesh and blood doing the farting and the pooping . . .
Something told me I was going to be awesome at this whole dad thing. I mean, I was already grinning with pride at the thought of Tanner farting. What would I be like when I was actually there when he did one?
“What else?” I prompted, the thought making me grin some more. “Tell me more. When do I get to meet him? Is he standing yet? Saying any words?”
The questions tumbled out of me. I couldn’t stop them. I was on a post-I’ve just discovered I’m a father high. With every question I asked, I imagined that squishy little baby I’d pictured earlier gurgling and giggling away at me. Pictured him crawling toward me with focused determination. Saw him toddling toward me on chubby legs, wearing nothing but a nappy, or diaper as they call them over here, and a singlet that said Sun’s Out. Guns Out.
See what I mean? Post-I’ve just discovered I’m a father high, big time.
Euphoria and excitement joined my anticipation and delight. I didn’t try to repress them. I welcomed them. Life gives us what we can deal with. And I was dealing with this.
I know it probably made no sense, but I was genuinely happy.
“Does he know what I look like?” I went on, before Amanda had a chance to answer any of my previous questions. I felt like I was thrumming. I hadn’t been this pumped since walking out of the bank after my first preliminary meeting with the manager. “Has he seen a picture of me? What’s his favourite food? Does he have one? Where is he now?”