Released (Caged #3)(65)
“We’ll see you Sunday?” Michael said as he shook my father’s hand.
“Of course,” Douglass responded.
“Liam?” Chelsea walked over and took one of my hands in both of hers. “Will you and Tria join us for Sunday dinner?”
Tria gripped my hand, and I looked into her eyes. I could see what was there—a plea to accept what was offered. She wanted to go. She wanted to see Chelsea and Michael, and she wanted all of us to try to make nice together.
I wasn’t convinced it was going to work nor that it would be worth the effort, but I nodded and accepted the invitation anyway. One thing I was sure of—for the moment at least—was that I didn’t want to just assume. I didn’t want to take anything for granted.
Krazy Katie was gone, but there were still plenty of other things and people who were still here I had neglected over time. I wasn’t even sure where to start, but I definitely wasn’t going to let the past get in the way of the future any more.
I had to think about Tria and what she needed.
When we finally left late in the afternoon, Tria just about had to carry me to the car. It was probably best that Damon and Ryan were helping. They slid me into the back seat, and Tria wrapped the seat belt around my waist.
As I settled back against the seat, I felt heated tears creep from the corners of my eyes. I wasn’t expecting them and didn’t know what I was supposed to do about them. The knowledge that Krazy Katie was no longer sitting on that fire escape ached in my chest, but there was more to it than that, and I wasn’t sure how to cope with the mix of feelings swirling through me.
Krazy Katie had a shit life—a life that was going nowhere. What else would the future have held for her? It’s not like she was going to be the baby’s godmother.
“When my grandfather died, I had my first glass of scotch,” I slurred.
“Did you?” Tria responded with mirth in her voice. “How old were you then?”
“Ten,” I said. “The scotch was three times as old as I was.”
Tria laughed.
“I was only allowed one finger…”—I held my index finger in the air, just in case Tria had forgotten what one looked like—“and when we got home, I couldn’t get out of the car because my legs didn’t work right.”
My head fell to the side and landed happily on Tria’s shoulder. It was soft and warm, so I closed my eyes.
“Can we name the Baby Katie?” I heard myself say.
Tria’s hand crept into mine, and our fingers linked together. Damon’ eyes gleamed back at me from the rearview mirror.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Tria said.
She pulled my hand up to her lips and kissed my knuckles.
I was never one to be sentimental, but the name felt right.
Chapter 17—Make the Choice
Life goes on, as they say.
It was amazing how much a steady routine made the time fly. I worked pretty much eight to five, came home to our little rental house, kissed my pregnant wife on the cheek, and then flopped down on the couch for twelve seconds before Tria started either giving me a list of things to do or began to play twenty questions.
I didn’t really mind.
All I could really feel on most days was relief. Ever since Tria’s doctor said the baby was far enough along that she would have a really good chance of surviving if born, I had been a lot more relaxed. Erin had noticed as well and had been pushing me harder lately.
She wanted another session with my mom, which I hadn’t had since Krazy Katie’s funeral. Though in a scotch-impacted state, I had agreed to Sunday dinner. So far, I had managed to find an excuse every weekend, not that I needed an excuse—weekends actually seemed busier than the weekdays, probably because Tria had become a baby-prepping maniac.
“Do you think the crib will be better on that wall?” Tria asked as I stepped out of the shower, rubbing a towel over my head. “It’s farther from the door, but it’s adjacent to our room, and we should be able to hear her better.”
“We’ll have a monitor,” I reminded her. “Chelsea already bought it, and it looks like one of those things you could use to monitor the space station. There’s even video. We’ll be able to hear her either way.”
With Tria just about ready to start the fall semester again, she was starting to drive me crazy with the nesting preparations. Chelsea wasn’t any help, either—she kept filling Tria’s head with all kinds of things she was going to need when the baby comes.
I mean, seriously? Once I had mostly gotten over the panic of Tria being pregnant—something that happened almost magically the day she went past six months—the reality of it all hit me.
We were having a baby.
We were going to be parents.
What the f*ck did that really mean?
For Tria, it meant having everything in the exact right place before the baby was born, and the rearrangement of the tiny socks in the tiny dresser drawers was of the utmost importance. I thought the whole prep thing was ridiculous. She was going to eat, sleep and shit. What did you need besides diapers, a crib, and Tria’s boobs?
Tria’s boobs…it was going to be damn hard to share them. They had become nicely plump lately, though I had to be really careful when I touched them, or I’d get smacked. But they were so soft…and big…and round…