Page 43 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Ryan

“Hey, Martine. It’s just me ... again. I’m sure we’ll catch up at some point! Or maybe not,” I mutter as I hang up, trying not to feel despondent.

Twenty weeks, I think, catching a glance at myself in the darkening window.

That’s more than halfway. I look like I’m majorly bloated.

The garden beyond is still barren and gray as I rub my hand over my little bump, kind of like when I have a stomachache.

But this is no fart, I think to myself as I turn away from the window.

My professional life, however? That seems to be nothing but stale air. I can’t even get Martine to return my calls, which might be less to do with work and more that, outside the office, we’ve found we have nothing in common.

I knew looking for a job while pregnant and here in the UK and on the wrong visa would be difficult, but I didn’t think it would be impossible.

I assumed I’d make it work, that I’d dabble in freelance.

Maybe make some independent trades on behalf of some old clients I’d kept in contact with, those I’d made money for in the past. I’d built a pretty solid network in the States.

So why the hell can’t I get anyone to take my calls?

I heft myself onto a stool and scroll through my sad call log.

Could Pete have had a hand in this? The asshole was pretty pissed when I handed in my resignation.

I like to imagine he pisses green every time he thinks of me being in London.

In hindsight, he did seem to think my success came at a cost to him. Fucking men.

“Sorry, bean.” I press my hand over my stomach in apology. I know Matt and I both joke about the sex (of our child, not the sex that got us here), but I’m aware there might be a boy growing in here. It’s a distant possibility, I feel. But it warrants consideration.

“I don’t really care what you are, as long as you’re healthy,” I find myself saying.

“And I’m doing my best to make it so, taking all the advice, vitamins, and shit.

And when you get here, I’ll do all I can to make you happy.

And keep you safe.” I feel a sense of ease and contentment as I run my hand over my bump.

A kind of warmth that gladdens my heart.

And contentment is better than all that other stuff.

The fear and the worry. The stress from thinking about what might happen if I can’t get a job later, when the baby is here.

When I overtax my brain imagining how things might be if I’m forced to go back to the States, knowing Matt won’t ever be a real dad if I do.

The weight of responsibility and pressure feels immense.

I mean, how would it even work if I went back?

I know I’d get something, even if my contacts aren’t answering my calls right now.

Put me in a room with one or two of them, face to face, and I’ll work it out.

Win them over. Make them remember. But what then?

A nanny and a job that means I’m not there to feed her breakfast or tuck her into bed.

A weekend mom, at best. Or maybe I’d have to fight to be in her life at all.

Would Matt contest my leaving—take me to court to prevent that reality?

And who would blame him for putting the needs of his child first?

Not me, because he’s a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known.

So much for doing my best—I realize my thoughts are a mess and I’m gripping my phone so hard that my wrist hurts.

I set it down and press my fingers and palms to the cool marble to ground myself.

I breathe in, expanding my lungs to capacity, before letting the air out slowly. “In ... out ... in ... out.”

“ Name five things you can see. ”

I glance out at the garden. Gray skies and ripples in the surface of the pond. A crow sitting in an oak and a willow’s branches sweeping the ground in a low lament. I look down at my feet. Can’t see them, so that doesn’t count. My bump. New life. I rest my hand there.

Four things I can hear. The low hum of the fridge and the pad of my feet across the kitchen. The sound of water hitting the sink as I turn on the faucet, and the distant rumble of pipes. The sweet symphony of a home.

Three things I can touch. The cool porcelain of the Belfast sink and the sensation of cold water running across my skin. The squish of a natural sponge.

Two things I can smell. I close my eyes and inhale. Coffee grounds and the lingering scent of toast. Matt’s breakfast, I guess.

One thing I can taste. Both of those things in his kiss.

I wish.

I open my eyes, give a sigh, and redirect my thoughts once more. Away from Matt this time.

I have money and time. I’m comfortable and stable. What will happen will happen anyway, whether I stress about it or not. I just need to keep my head in the game. Be positive. Keep busy. Make sure my baby isn’t swimming in cortisol.

So it looks like I’m about to book a cookery class.

Unknown Number : Hi Ryan, this is Letty, Matt’s sister. I hope it’s okay that he gave me your number. I’m in the area and wondered if you were home.

Home. Yeah, I guess I am home. My temporary home. I hate the addendum, that intruding thought. But it is what it is. It is what it has to be right now.

Me : Hey Letty. It’s good to hear from you. I am home, actually.

Letty : Fancy some company? A party of two.

Me : Sure! I’d love that.

Letty : Great! See you soon.

And she must have really been in the area, because five minutes later, the doorbell rings.

“Hey!” Letty gives a little wave from the doorstep, her arms laden with shopping bags.

“Mommy has a key,” Clodagh says, appearing from behind her mother. She trots up the steps, and her head quirks as she stares up at me. “But she didn’t want to use it.”

“It didn’t feel right,” Letty says with a shrug as Clo skips into the hallway. “There’s an intercom, you know? In case you get visitors you don’t want to see.”

“All visitors are welcome.” I have nothing else going on. “Shoot,” I say, stepping back from the door. “Where are my manners? Come on in.” Don’t be weird, Ryan!

“Thanks,” she says with a grateful look.

I close the front door as Clodagh begins to skip around the antique hall table.

“We used to live here, you know,” she says. “And Mommy used to buy flowers to put on the table.”

“Ryan is too busy for that, honey.”

As I tear my gaze from the silver urn, her mother shoots me an apologetic look.

“I guess I could buy flowers,” I say. But I won’t, because this isn’t my home and I need to remember that.

“Just don’t expect Matt to notice,” Letty says. “I’m desperate for a cuppa. Shall we put the kettle on?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Still holding her shopping, she bustles her way down to the kitchen area as Clodagh and I follow.

“You don’t mind, do you?” She drops her bags to the counter, her glance pensive as Clodagh throws herself over the sectional, dragging her little backpack with her. She begins to unpack the contents.

“No.” Mind what? The shopping? The tea? Her dropping in? I don’t mind any of it. “I’m really happy to see you.”

Letty looks relieved, her expression relaxing instantly. “It’s just, I know you and Matt aren’t together, but this is still your home, and I don’t want to intrude.”

I laugh a little at that. “This house is huge. An army could march through it, and I probably wouldn’t notice it.”

“Well, that’s true.” She moves toward the kettle before taking it to the sink. “The huge thing, at least.”

A few minutes later, tea is made and we’re sitting on the sectional.

“So,” Letty begins. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m good. All good,” I say, resisting the urge to touch my stomach. Lord, I’m turning into one of those women.

“And Matt? How are you two getting along?”

“Good. Really good.” All the good s. God, I’m such a liar, because sometimes, I am so very far from good. But it’s not as though I can just say: I think your brother’s great, but I’m scared of commitment. Scared of the future. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to have sex with his face.

No, not saying any of that.

“Matt’s a really decent guy. One of the best,” she says.

She lifts her tea and takes a sip. “I know he’s my brother and I’m supposed to be in his corner, but if he was a shit bag, I really would tell you.

Before you had the babe.” Her eyes dip briefly to my stomach.

“The way I look at it, some people don’t deserve to be in their children’s lives. ”

Her ex, I guess she means. Matt told me she’s in the middle of a nasty divorce; that’s why she and Clo were living with him until recently.

“Yeah, I get that,” I say, pulling on a thread at the hem of my sweater. I know it, even.

“Do you have friends here? In London?” She tightens her grip on the teacup handle, and a little liquid sloshes over the rim. “Balls,” she mutters, swiping the droplets from her pants. “You don’t mind me being a nosy old baggage, do you?”

“No. And no, you’re not.” Old, at least. I give a little smile. “I guess I haven’t been here long enough to make friends.”

“I’ve made friends,” Clo pipes up, looking up from her coloring book. “I have lots of friends at school.”

“Aren’t you a lucky girl.” Gosh, she’s as cute as a button.

“I’ll be your friend, Ryan. We can be family and friends at the same time, can’t we, Mommy?”

“Of course, honey.”

Clodagh returns to her pencils, and we both watch her for a minute or two.

“It’s tough when you move, I know.” Consternation knits Letty’s brows. “It can be hard to make friends and stuff. But once the baby comes, you’ll have baby groups and other mommy things to keep you occupied.”

“And work. I hope.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, that’s important too. A sense of self. Because it’s easy to lose yourself in motherhood. Oh,” she says, putting her huge teacup down. “I forgot. I brought you something. Just a little thing.” She kind of pauses. “You’re not superstitious, are you?”

“I’m way too practical.”