Page 44 of Tiny Precious Secrets (The Brothers of Calloway Creek The Montanas #4)

Allie

Every morning, as if by instinct, the very first thing I do is hold completely still and wait for the babies to kick.

Some days I don’t have to do this, because at seven months pregnant, it’s not unusual for one or both to be moving during the night and into the wee hours of the morning.

Sleep has become harder to come by with two little ones vying for space as it becomes tighter and tighter.

But I’m not complaining. I’ll never complain.

The second thing I do is look over on the dresser where the brand-new urn with Christopher’s ashes sits atop a mirrored tray.

His name and the outline of his tiny footprint are engraved on the front.

Next to it, also on top of the mirror, is the picture of Christopher and me that Asher printed four weeks ago after we ate Christopher’s entire birthday cake.

I stretch my arm across the empty side of the bed, missing Asher. Pulling his pillow close, I inhale his scent. It’s a mixture of his manly body wash, laundry detergent, and something that’s just pure him. Can other people smell it, I wonder, or is it some sort of pheromone meant only for me?

More and more lately, I’ve come to believe Asher is right.

That we’re meant to be together. That even if it weren’t for the babies, we’d have somehow ended up with each other.

Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday.

He often says he feels like he knew me before he met me, like something from an old love song.

I thought he was just being romantic. But in the back of my mind, far beyond the reaches of my mortal memory, I feel he’s onto something.

I may have been spiritual before Christopher, but I’ve never been a religious person.

And I never thought everything happened for a reason.

What reason could there possibly be for Christopher having a rare chromosomal anomaly?

For Addison losing her leg? For Ava and Trevor not being able to conceive?

And there sure as hell couldn’t be a reason why Dallas lost his wife and son in a tragic accident.

But this—Asher and me—it niggles away at me that there is a reason for it. And it goes beyond the babies.

Smiling when an elbow or knee jabs me, I poke back. It’s near the top of my stomach by my ribs, so I know it’s the boy. The boy. That’s how I’ve come to think of them. The boy and the girl . Because somehow, in my hormonal stupidity, I’ve made others responsible for naming them.

It’s hard not to roll my eyes at Bug’s outlandish suggestions.

I think she’s suggested the names of the entire female cast of Game of Thrones, Dune, even The Hobbit.

I never react, which is why she hasn’t done it as much lately.

A few weeks ago, when she suggested Khaleesi, I simply asked her if the baby girl was going to be the queen, would that make her the princess?

She stomped away, not at all getting the reaction she’d hoped to get from me.

I have all the confidence in the world that Bug will come up with an appropriate name. And despite Asher’s disapproval of the whole situation, I’m dead set on being true to my word and going with whatever she ultimately decides.

Confident after feeling several rolls, kicks, and punches from all sides, I get out of bed, put on my robe, and barely make it to the toilet without peeing all over myself.

I love being pregnant. But one thing I won’t miss is having to run to the bathroom every thirty minutes.

I stare in the mirror, replaying the words that just flew through my brain. I love being pregnant.

This is what most women experience. The joy and anticipation. The bonding with a baby or babies they know won’t be ripped away from existence and reduced to ashes in a jar on their dresser. This is what makes life worth living. And I leave my room with a smile.

My good mood is soured when I enter the kitchen to see Darla sitting on a bar stool slumped over a cup of coffee.

I raise a brow. “Drinking coffee now?”

“I’m in high school, so yeah.”

I don’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. I’m sure if I did, we’d end up in another meaningless debate or with her storming off like she normally does.

She’s been in school for two weeks now. She rarely talks about it.

She leaves the house at seven fifty-five every morning without ever needing to be woken up.

She returns at six after soccer practice, because thank the Lord for small favors, Christian was right and she made the team.

I fear if it weren’t for that, she’d be home by three thirty, back in her room on the phone to Mel. Or maybe texting Christian.

I get eggs, milk, and bacon from the refrigerator. I don’t bother asking if she wants any. I know what her answer will be. ‘Whatever .’ I just make breakfast and set it out without any fanfare. Sometimes she eats it. Sometimes she doesn’t.

Waiting on the bacon to cook, I watch as Darla gets a Ziploc bag from a drawer, throws in a granola bar and a banana, and tucks it into her backpack.

I get money from my purse. “Here.” I put twenty dollars on the table. “In case your dad forgot to give you lunch money.”

She looks at it but doesn’t take it. “Nobody pays with cash. He puts money into an account at school. Believe me, there’s plenty.”

I cock my head. “You don’t like school food? I don’t remember it being particularly horrible.”

She shrugs. “Don’t know. Haven’t tried it.”

I stir the eggs, not wanting to seem overly interested in the conversation because that will usually put an end to it. “Well, if you do, just don’t try the pizza. Anything but that. Unless it’s a Tuesday and they order in bulk from a pizza chain. Do they still do that on Tuesdays?”

She shrugs again. “Don’t know. I’ve never been in the cafeteria.”

“Never?” I turn as my eyes bug out. Then I catch myself and spin back around, making myself busy so I appear much less interested than I actually am.

She doesn’t answer, and I don’t dare push. I just put out the food and start eating.

“It’s pointless to go. Christian and I don’t even have the same lunch. He has lunch A and I have lunch B. School pretty much sucks all around because we only have one class together.”

“If you don’t go to the cafeteria, where do you eat?”

“Courtyard mostly. But when it gets cold I’ll be scoping out other places.”

“What about the girls from the soccer team? Can’t you eat with them?”

She scoffs air through her nose. “Right. Those.” She takes a strip of bacon and shoves the entire thing in her mouth. “They’re still trying to decide if they like me.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. They just need time to warm up to you. Because I’m here to tell you, anyone who knows you will like you, Darla.”

She stands, puts her coffee cup in the sink, takes another strip of bacon, and walks out the front door with her backpack.

Damn . I crossed the line into giving parenting advice. I should know by now how anytime that happens, she puts up the wall I’ve yet to penetrate.

We’ve had a few conversations. Mostly about things that don’t matter much.

Like when we’re breaking ground on the pool or how Charlie did at T-ball.

Conversations may be a stretch—it’s more like we share a few sentences here and there.

But one thing I’ve noticed is that she has been more respectful.

Quiet and disengaging, but civil all the same.

It happened after I fell into her room. I think she still feels guilty over it.

I never told Asher, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t give me as much push-back as before.

I finish breakfast, clean up, and go to work, glad that it’s Thursday and Natasha is running the wedding this weekend. Because I’m definitely getting too big, too scatter-brained, and too damn exhausted for such large events.

~ ~ ~

After a long day at work, I go right from the garage into the bedroom, only stopping to pee before I collapse on my bed and fall asleep before I can even think.

Ninety minutes later, feeling more rested, and with my ankles almost back to normal size, I change out of my work clothes, put on something more comfortable, and waddle out into a dark kitchen.

There’s no sign of Bug having even been here. No backpack in the corner. No cookies missing from the platter. But it’s almost seven. She should have been home by now.

I go back to the bedroom and get my phone. It’s now when I see the text.

Darla: Spending the night at Aunt Marti’s.

It’s not an unusual occurrence. Not even for a weeknight.

And it happens at least once every time Asher is away, so I don’t really have a problem with it.

Not that there’s anything I could do if I did.

I just wish she didn’t feel the need to escape this house when her dad is gone.

Maybe once the babies come she’ll want to spend more time at home.

Me: Thanks for the text. Your dad will be home by 4 tomorrow.

There’s no reply. Not even a thumb’s up. I wasn’t expecting one.

Still, I sit and stare for a moment, wishing the three dots in the bubble would show up and just once she’d acknowledge my text.

A short time later, I’m sitting at the table, pushing my dinner around my plate.

It’s not like there’s room in my belly to fit any more.

It seems like if I eat more than a few bites of food, I get intense heartburn.

Which is why I feel like I’m constantly eating just to get enough calories.

But this time, my being pregnant is not the real reason for the food pushing.

I’m concerned about Bug.

More than once last week, I heard her telling Asher she doesn’t fit in. How she still feels like the new girl and thinks she always will.

I hate to bring it up to her again, but I feel it’s her that’s the issue. She’s putting out the wrong vibes. And sitting by herself in the courtyard is not exactly an invitation to be approached.