Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(68)

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“When is your door not actually a door?”

I’m almost afraid to ask.

“When?”

“When it’s ajar.”





Chapter Eighteen


Lainey





After six weeks, I’m still not used to bed rest. I don’t think it’s something you’re supposed to get used to.

I have become accustomed to how hard it is—that’s not surprising anymore—the yearning to run and jump and dance is a constant hum, like background noise. That steady familiarity makes it seem like it’s a little bit easier.

And then there’s the joy—that helps too. Every day that I stayed pregnant was a day closer to my baby being born healthy and strong. And now I’m just four little weeks away from the finish line—there’s a lot of joy in that.

The nursery is almost done. I sit on the floor, propped against pillows, recording Erin as she arranges things at my direction. Dean painted this room—the cream walls and chocolate-brown accents. He bolted the bookshelves to the wall and set up the rocking chair and changing table just where I wanted them. He’s held off putting the crib together, so as not to jinx us. I’m not usually a superstitious person, but with our little guy or girl so eager to make an appearance, I figured staving off any bad luck where we could wouldn’t hurt.

Erin hung a framed needle point that I stitched and some pretty black-and-white photos of the lake and the clouds on the wall. And I like that it’s my sister putting these final touches on when I can’t.

“Those go on the top shelf,” I tell her.

She gazes down at two white sock-bunnies. “You really made these—from socks?”

“Yeah, it’s easy. I’ll text you the video.”

She sets the furry friends on the shelf and then comes and sits beside me.

“So how are you feeling?”

“Like Jabba the Hut. No—like if Jabba the Hut and a whale had a baby—it would be me. That’s how I feel.”

Erin laughs. “You’re a lot prettier than Jabba.”

“Kind of a low bar, but thanks.”

Our laughs die down and then, quietly, I tell her what’s really been on my mind.

“I miss Dean.”

“Miss him? You’re living with him, Lainey.”

“I know.” I pick at the fibers of the dark beige throw rug. “But we haven’t been . . .”

“Getting any? Giving any? Doing it?”

I chuckle and point to my stomach. “Doing it isn’t an option for me. But no, I haven’t been with Dean like that since the Kelly thing, and I miss it. I miss him.”

It’s a deep, yearning, painful need. I ache for him. To feel the way his muscles ripple beneath my touch, the way his fingers dig into my flesh because it feels so good and he just can’t help himself, the way he goes hot and hard in my hand, the way he groans my name.

“I believe him, Erin. Even if he wasn’t doing all the things he’s been doing the last few weeks—I would still believe him. Because I trust him. I’ve trusted him with everything since the moment I met him. It just is. And I’m done being worried about if that makes me stupid.”

“You could never be stupid.” Erin plays with my hair. “Trust yourself to trust him. And then tell him, and put the guy out of his misery.”



~



Once Erin goes home, I’m on the couch in the living room with Jason. He’s watching TV and I’m planning tomorrow’s projects. I look over at him and I can’t not smile, because he’s growing up so good—strong and handsome and smart. And the move here to Lakeside and everything that’s come after has been wonderful for him—for both of us.

And that’s when I know we need to have a conversation.

“Can I talk to you a second?”

He pauses the television. “Sure. What’s up?”

I look at my son, and I give it to him straight—like the adult he almost is.

“I love Dean, Jaybird. I’m in love with him.”

Jason glances down at his hands and for the first time in his life, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I’m not sure if he even knows. The anger that was so prominent all those weeks ago has faded. And now what seems to remain is a cool, cautious, distrust.

I cover Jason’s hand with mine, and his eyes rise back to my face.

“There’s so much about Dean to love. He’s smart and funny and talented—and he’s good, and real, and he cares about us, Jay. You have to see that—he’s doing everything he can to show us, to take care of us . . . all of us. And I think you love him too, and that’s why it hurt so much when it seemed like he’d cheated. But I don’t think he did. I believe him, Jay—I believe that it happened like he said it did. And I think if you take a step back and let go of some of that hurt and really look at everything, you’ll believe it too.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. You have every right to feel what you feel and think what you think. But I don’t want you to go through life afraid to trust yourself or someone else. Afraid to take a chance. I don’t want you to talk yourself out of taking the risk of letting yourself love someone, and of letting them love you.” My voice goes soft and a little choked. “Because love, Jay, real love—the kind of love that slams into you and holds on even when you don’t expect it—it’s so worth it. It’s worth everything.”