Do Anything Page 14

  I tried to carry in firewood a few days ago, as winter is now squarely upon us, but again, Holden wouldn’t hear of it. I’m sure he’s right when it comes to me over doing it, but I’m still not used to having physical limitations.

  Given the recent kitchen disaster, I was glad to take on the responsibility of waitressing during dining hours. One of the things that Bea hates, which comes quite naturally to me, is the bookkeeping. When I volunteered to take this off her hands it seemed to earn me some favor with her.

  Each day I handle the billing on the two remaining guest rooms, as well as all the receivables and payables for the inn. I like it here. It’s simple. I know my job, I take care of my responsibilities, and I have time to write.

  The problem is, in nine weeks my life is going to get flipped upside down. I’ll have a baby. There are choices I have to make. I’m not a citizen here. I can’t hide forever. But being here with Bea and Abner and Holden, it’s hard not to ignore the world that awaits me for the life I have right here.

  “The lunch rush seems to be clearing out,” I say, stepping up to the bar. “Do you think I could take a break? I have a scene that’s been stuck in my head all day, and I want to write it down.”

  Holden looks around the room and nods. “Sure.”

  It never feels like I’m working for him, and I appreciate that. My room and board is free, my meals are all free, but I still have a lot of freedom with my schedule. It’s just as Bea had described: a family atmosphere.

  I climb the stairs. You think I’d be used to the narrow staircase, but each week, as my stomach continues to grow, it is presenting a larger challenge for me. I’m not sure how any woman can embrace pregnancy. It’s like your body is stolen from you—taken over by this entity inside of you that forces you to eat massive quantities of food, pee frequently, and makes basic movements absurdly difficult.

  I leave my door open so I can hear in case anyone needs me downstairs, then sit on my bed. This has been another change. Sitting at a desk to write has become quite uncomfortable for my lower back, so instead I retreat to the comfort of my pillows. Flipping open the notebook, I reread the last paragraph of what I’ve written.

  A throat clears in the hallway. Holden is standing there, his hands behind his back.

  “Oh,” I gasp, startled. “Did you need something else?” I don’t stand … that would be far too much work.

  His eyes shift to the ground and then nervously around the room. I’m stumped. He’s never nervous.

  “Am I interrupting?” he asks at last.

  “I hadn’t started yet.”

  “Can I come in?” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. I wish I didn’t love those eyes so much; it makes it hard to look away.

  “Of course.” I shift, rotating my legs around to the side of the bed.

  He moves swiftly across the room, and I can tell he’s concealing something behind his back. For a moment he hesitates, hovering near me. I catch his scent, and I want him to be closer. I do my best not to reveal this.

  He sits in the corner chair across from me, slipping something behind his back, just out of sight.

  “Is everything all right?” I inquire, staring at him, brows knitted.

  He takes a deep breath and shifts forward in his seat, narrowing the gap between us. “You’ve been back for five weeks now, and I think it’s been going well, don’t you?”

  “I don’t understand … I mean … I guess,” I stammer, confused.

  There’s a pause, and then he swallows hard. “I guess what I’m saying is, this is working out well for everyone. You’ve been a big help with Bea’s work, and it seems like you’re getting a lot of writing done.”

  “Yeah, I have been.” The purpose of this conversation isn’t becoming any clearer to me.

  He sighs before continuing. “I think you should make this permanent.”

  “What?” I exclaim. “I can’t, Holden, I’m not a citizen.”

  “I know, but they’ll let you stay six months without filing anything. I can sponsor you—say that your services have become invaluable to me.”

  “I can’t just stay here forever.”

  “Why not?” He’s frustrated. “Your ex sounds like a real creep. You have a life here I doubt you could get many places. I’m … I mean … you get time to write.”

  “I know, but pretty soon the baby’s going to be here. I won’t be able to help as much, and then it’ll be time for me to go.” I’m touched by his offer, but I know I’m thinking more logically than he is right now.

  “Please, will you at least think about it?” He reaches out to grab my hands, but stops himself, pulling back. This reaction surprises me.

  “Okay,” I say softly.

  He prepares to stand up and stops all of the sudden. “Oh, I almost forgot.” From behind his back, he pulls out the Macbook Air he had given me when I first came to the inn.

  I shake my head. I know where this is going, and I refuse to allow it to happen.

  “Wait a second,” he insists, waving his free hand in the air. “Before you tell me all the reasons you can’t, hear me out. I’m not giving you this with any expectations or strings attached. If you decide to leave and you want to return it to me, that’s fine. I gave it to you because I believe in you, and I think this will help. However, if you want to return it at a later date, I won’t hold it against you. Just please, next time do it with more than a note.”

  “Haha, real funny, man.”

  “No, seriously, I think you’d agree it would be much easier if you wrote your book using this.”

  I bite my lip. He’s right, and I want to accept the gesture, but something is holding me back. He wants me stay here, to live here, to create my life here. If I take the laptop, will it give him hope? Will I be giving into his false delusions that something could ever happen between us? Am I enabling his fairytale? Or worse, would it be the first step in fooling myself into believing there could be a life for me here. Damn it. It’s just a laptop … take it already.

  I nod, and reach out to take hold of the small, silver device. I set it on the bed next to me and push up off the mattress. Holden is already standing, looking at me, waiting for me to say something. I bow my head and whisper, “Thank you.” Before I realize what I’m doing I’m hugging him.

  Let go. All right, you’ve been holding onto him for too long. Let go of him already.

  We part; he smiles at me, and leaves the room. I stare at the empty hall for a second, before returning to the bed. Flipping open the laptop, I start up the word processor, and at the top, I type: The Luckiest by Annabelle Hart.

  The cold outside is bitter; I avoid it, except to do my necessary chores. I stoke the fire, staring at the embers as they dance. Off to one side a local musician and friend of Holden’s, Leaf, is setting up to play his guitar. It’s been abnormally slow, which I admit I don’t mind. Now thirty-three weeks into my pregnancy, I’m noticing I tire easily.

  I sit in one of the high-back chairs, open my laptop, and continue writing on my manuscript. It took a solid week to transfer my handwritten work into digital format. I didn’t mind; it gave me a chance to change things and make it stronger. In a way, it got me even more excited about the story. It feels like it’s really coming together. It’s odd, but sometimes when I read over things I’ve written, I find myself staring and asking, did I do that? It’s an intoxicating feeling, and I don’t want it to end so I write more. In fact, I’ve been hitting ten thousand words some days.

  “Evening, beautiful,” I hear Holden say. Looking over the top of the screen, I see him sitting in the chair across from me.

  I blush and smile back. “Hi.”

  Even though I know a relationship with him would only complicate both of our lives, it doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy his occasional flirting. Something else I’ve learned about being pregnant: when you have a watermelon-sized stomach on the front of you, it feels fantastic to have a hot guy compliment you.

  “So are you ever going
to tell me more about this story you’re writing?” he inquires, and I feel his eyes on me.

  I freeze, shifting in my seat. He was the one who encouraged me to write from the beginning, but it never occurred to me to allow him to read what I wrote. I let Marissa read my last piece without a problem. I’d been emailing Kenzie bits and pieces of The Luckiest, so why hadn’t I let him read it?

  My heart starts racing. He sees things about me few do. If I let him read it and he hates it, I’m not sure how I will handle that. He bought this laptop with the sole purpose that I’d be writing novels with it. I just don’t want to disappoint him.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  “I’d love to get a look at it, Belle.” How is it I’ve been around him so much, yet when he calls me Belle it still makes my stomach flutter?

  “It’s not ready,” I explain. I suppose this is true. Before I let anyone besides Kenzie read it, I’d planned to polish it.

  “When will it be ready?” he presses with a smile.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how far are you?”

  “I think it should be done in a few more chapters.” There is a bit of excitement in my voice.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been writing every second I get.”

  “I know.” He grins. “I like it when you write down here. I get to watch you.”

  “You watch me write? That’s kind of creepy.”

  He laughs. “I suppose. But it’s really fun to see the faces you make.”

  “I don’t make faces when I write,” I huff in defense.

  He laughs some more. “Oh yeah, you do. Sometimes you have this smirk … I always wonder if you’re writing naughty bits.”

  “Hey!” I start laughing right along with him.

  “Is it funny because I’m right?” he asks, leaning in with a devilish grin.

  “It’s funny because one of the chapters I skipped over writing was what you might call a naughty bit. I couldn’t bring myself to write it.”

  “Perhaps you just need a little research,” he growls, one lip lifting up wickedly.

  “Holden!” I squeal in protest, though now all I can think about is that exact thing—researching a steamy scene for my book with him.

  Leaf strums at his guitar a couple times to ensure it’s efficiently tuned, then begins to play a song I’ve never heard before. The sound of the music drowns out my laughter.

  Holden stands, extending a hand in my direction.

  “What?” I mouth, assuming he can’t hear me.

  He leans in close, his lips touching my ear. I shake for a moment. “Dance with me.”

  He pulls away, and I immediately begin shaking my head. One of the more recent developments of this child-growing exercise is that I’ve developed a waddle. It might be the most unattractive thing imaginable.

  In a flash, he takes the MacBook out of my hands and places it on the side table. I’m still frantically shaking my head, but this doesn’t deter him. He grasps my hands and pulls me into a standing position.

  “I can’t,” I shout over the noise of the pub.

  “You can,” he disagrees and pulls me a few feet away from the chairs. My stomach is so large making dancing face-to-face awkward and impossible. My face goes flushed, and I resist the urge to laugh.

  He guides my body, and I’m now helpless, unable to resist. He turns me to the side, and we’re in a tight embrace. I start to giggle. I can’t help it. I feel my belly pressed against him, and I can only imagine how ridiculous we look. He doesn’t seem to care. The smile on his face is from ear to ear.

  The Holden I knew when I first came back was hurt. He was sad. There was a brokenness I had caused in him. This, though? The man I’d seen reemerge in recent weeks, was none of those things. He was the Holden I’d first met. The man who exuded curiosity, wonder, and joy.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he whispers in my ear.

  I pull away and look in his eyes; there’s a sparkle to them, and I want to go for a swim in the vast blueness. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. He breaks our dancing, and holding my hand, he pulls me toward the kitchen. At the last minute, he darts to the right, pulling me into the storage room.

  The music follows us until he closes the door, and suddenly all the sound is muffled except for our heavy breathing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask with a sideways glance.

  “Do you remember the day you were upstairs cleaning, and I kissed you?” he asks.

  My heart stops in my chest. I realize I’m not breathing. Am I going to fall to the floor, completely deprived of oxygen? And then, as if paddles full of electricity hit my chest, my heart begins to beat again. In fact, it’s racing, and I gasp for air. I can’t say a word. I just nod my head. He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me. Oh, dear God, he’s going to kiss me again.

  “Everything changed for me that day,” he continues.

  The conversation is making me uncomfortable, so I do what I always do in these situations: I try and break it up with humor. “Well, I know I’m a good kisser, but I don’t know if I’d call it life-altering.”

  He grins at me. One of those where I know he’s thinking how adorable I am. It makes me blush, and I shift my gaze around the room. Anywhere but in those eyes.

  “No, goof,” he continues. “I felt inspired. Here you are, your life is in chaos …”

  “Thanks for noticing,” I joke again.

  “No!” he exclaims. “I’m serious. You have so much going on right now, yet you managed to find the courage to do what you love. You’re writing that book.”

  “It’s not that big a deal, and I wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t encourage me,” I say.

  “Well, I think it’s a huge deal,” he chimes. “And I ended up creating a new brew because of it. That night after we kissed, I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t get you off my mind so I got up and went out to my brew shed.”

  “Please, don’t continue this story if you did inappropriate things in a shed.” Damn it, Annabelle. Shut up already; you’re not funny.

  He pauses, flashing me a surprised stare, and then tripping over a few words continues. “Uh, no … I … I went out and brewed a new batch of beer that was inspired by you.”

  “What?”

  He steps to one side, revealing a keg that was hiding behind him. On the top of it is a sticker that reads, the luckiest brown ale.

  I lunge forward, shoving him hard. "Shut up!" I exclaim in excitement. "You did not."

  “I did. Now, I know you can’t try it until after the baby comes. But I wanted you to see what you do to the people around you.”

  I place a hand over my mouth. Damn it! Am I going to cry? The man brewed some damn beer, and I think it’s going to make me cry. It must be the baby. Don’t cry, Annabelle!

  There’s a sharp kick inside my stomach. I clutch at my belly, expelling all my air.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, stepping forward and grabbing my arm. His excitement bleeds away into worry.

  I laugh. “Yeah, the little bugger just likes to remind me she’s here.” Without thinking, I take his other hand and place his open palm on the curve of my stomach. I watch his face, waiting for the baby to make her presence—

  There she is. This time it isn’t sharp. It’s the smooth glide of her heel across my skin. His eyes double in size. “Oh my God,” he breathes the words.

  “I know.” I nod. “I know.”

  I’m sitting at the bar, flipping through the pages of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It was a gift from Bea, and I’ve been obsessing over the information since I received it. I’ve come to the conclusion that this is probably information women shouldn’t know before they give birth. I’m perfectly ready to refuse to go through with the entire ordeal at this point.

  I’m thirty-four weeks along, but that isn’t the chapter that scares me. What’s terrifying me is the end of the book. The actual birth pr
ocess doesn’t sound like a positive experience whatsoever. What I can’t figure out for the life of me is why, after women have one child, would they ever go and get pregnant again?

  “What’s it say is happening with the kid right now?” Holden asks, leaning on his forearms, twisting his neck so he can better see the pictures.

  I flip the pages, finding the correct section and read out loud. “Your baby is weighing in somewhere around five pounds and could be as tall as twenty inches. The vernix, or white coating protecting your baby’s skin, is getting thicker.”

  “Yum,” he groans.

  “Hey, you’re the one who asked.” I laugh, skimming my fingers across the page, trying to find where I left off. “Some baby-related developments include, tiny fingernails, and for boys, the testicles are dropping into the scrotum.”

  “Aw, if it’s a boy, he is becoming a man this week.” Holden laughs.

  I close the book and stare into nothingness. “Don’t tell Bea, but I think this might be the worst gift I’ve ever received.” Then I join him in his laughter. A minute passes, and I fall silent. The words from the birth chapter keep going through my mind.

  Knowing that in six weeks this life is going to be here is starting to freak me out. I can feel myself slipping into a panic attack every time it crosses my mind. As I read through the birthing section, it explains that I should be making a birth plan, managing my labor pain, and lays out all the things one needs to know about C-sections. C-section? The thought of this has never crossed my mind … until now. A blade slicing through my abdomen while I’m awake.

  Without a word, I shove my book to the side of the bar and walk over to the supply closet. I step inside and close the door behind me. The last thing I want is for the patrons to see me starting to hyperventilate. I desperately need a moment away in a cool and calm environment. I lower myself onto one of the crates, inhaling deep and then pushing all the air from my lungs.