Pretty Little Mistake

Fuck bed rest. It’s mid-March, and I’m over this. This baby isn’t due for another two months. I have weeks of this left, because despite my numerous appointments, every time they say I need to keep doing what I’m doing. I’m going stir crazy, downright insane. At least I have been given a longer amount of time that I’m allowed to be on my feet throughout the day, but it’s still not much.

Manhattan is the worst place in the world to be put on bed rest, since you have to walk everywhere.

It’s for the baby, I remind myself. That’s the only thing getting me through at this point. Mothers deserve a round of applause for bringing babies into the world. This shit is hard and not for the faint of heart.

It’s a cool day, but I sit outside on Beckham’s balcony anyway, inhaling as much fresh air as I can get.

“You, little nugget, are trouble,” I tell my stomach. The baby kicks in response. “You just want to keep Mommy on her toes, don’t you?” Another kick. I smile to myself.

Sometimes I find it hard to find joy in these little moments, since there’s so much I can’t do. Beckham reminds me I’m growing a human, and therefore, I’m doing plenty, but in the back of my mind, it doesn’t feel like enough.

It’s like the interviews that will go to print for the May issue. I’ve been having to conduct them via Zoom instead of getting out there and meeting these women in person. The most I get out of the apartment is doctor’s appointments or the one time Beckham gave in to my pleading and took me out for breakfast.

My phone rings, and I already know who it is.

My brother.

He’s been calling all week, and I’ve been ignoring him.

The only time the phone has been answered is when Beckham picked it up and promptly told him to leave me the fuck alone. Not exactly eloquent but to the point, and I appreciate that.

The call cuts off, a text message popping up on the screen a moment later.

Hunter: We need to talk.

I don’t want to talk to him, but I also want to talk to him. It’s quite the conundrum. He’s my brother and I love him, even if he’s a big idiot.

But I don’t reply.

I need to see more effort from him than just endless phone calls and a cryptic text message.

Starting to feel the chill, I head inside to find Cheddar and George Sanderson snoozing on the giant cat tree—a purchase from Amazon. There are lots of online purchases overflowing Beckham’s apartment. Turns out I’m a boredom shopper.

Boxes of diapers crowd the space beside the front door—once I read about how many diapers babies, especially newborns, go through, I panic purchased a ridiculous amount. But the idea of running out in the middle of the night terrifies me.

I settle myself back on the couch and pick up the latest book I’m reading. That’s been another source of endless online purchases. Paperback books are stacked in the corners of the living area and Beckham’s bedroom. I still can’t seem to make myself think of any of this as being mine—ours.

Since Beckham is gone for another hour or so, I occupy myself with reading. I haven’t kept count, but I’m fairly certain I’ve read at least fifty books since my bed rest started. It isn’t long before the cats abandon their perch on the tree to snuggle with me on the couch. I’ve always heard about cats being standoffish, but not these two. They rarely leave me alone for long.

Beckham arrives a little while later with a clatter of keys and a curse when he drops them outside the door. He finally enters the apartment, hair windswept and his nose red from the cold. He carries five grocery bags, dumping them onto the kitchen counter the second he reaches it.

“Are you okay?” I ask at his huffing and puffing.

“Fine.” He riffles through the contents, unpacking and sorting them into sections. “My lungs don’t like the cold air.”

“Oh, they told you that?”

He turns around, a can of soup clasped in one hand. “Do you hear this wheezing?” He demonstrates the almost squeaky sound he makes when he inhales. “Yeah, they told me. How long have you been on your feet today?”

“Not too much. Why?” I can feel my hackles rising—he’s like the steps police.

“I thought we could make dinner together.”

I deflate, fighting a smile. Considering how strict he’s been that I not breach the parameters of my bed rest, it means a lot that he’s including me in something that will give me a chance to be somewhat active. “That would be great.”

To feel useful for a little while will be nice. I ease off the couch, careful not to disturb the slumbering kitties, and join him in the kitchen. It’s a decent size by the city’s standards, but still a tight squeeze for two people.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Stir crazy,” I reply, pouring myself a glass of water.

“You say that every day,” he counters, lining up ingredients for dinner. It looks like we’ll be making cheese-stuffed tortellini with homemade sauce.

“Because it’s true.”

“I’m sorry.”

I know he means it, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. I think the only thing that will is getting this baby to full term and being able to function like a normal person again. Preeclampsia is scary stuff, for me and for the baby. Following my doctor’s orders is a must, but it’s definitely affecting my mental health.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, eyeing everything he’s left on the counter.

“Want to chop up the garlic?”

“That should be fine.”

I grab a cutting board and knife, then get to work while he dices up a shallot.

We work side by side in companionable silence, the picture of domestic bliss. It’s nice, just doing things together. When I started at Real Point and he waltzed back into my life, I thought I’d continue to hate his guts forever. What people forget to tell you is that love and hate can feel a lot like each other.

Beckham finishes with the shallot, then adds both it and the garlic to a pan. “Stir that around some,” he tells me.

I do as I’m told, happy to be able to actually do something.

He puts some music on for background noise, and my hips begin to sway to the beat.

He groans, grabbing my hips to still them. “That, that right there is what got me into trouble with you.”

“My hips?” I laugh the question.

“These hips. Your ass. The way you walk. Talk. Smell.” He brushes my hair over one side of my shoulder, nuzzling into my neck, arms wrapped around me from behind. “You drive me crazy.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You don’t even have to try, and that makes it even worse.”

He lets me go, and I instantly miss his warmth. He grabs a small carton of cream before pouring it into the sizzling pan, along with some parmesan cheese to make the sauce. Simple, but it smells like heaven.

He gets started on the pasta; since it’s the refrigerated kind that takes no time to cook, it’s ready about the same time as the sauce.

We plate our pasta, and he curses. “I forgot to get garlic bread.”

“It’s fine. We don’t need any. This will be amazing.” I sprinkle some parsley onto each of our dishes.

“Are you sure?” He sounds so worried.

“Positive.”

The song changes, and Beckham holds out a hand to me. “Dance with me.”

“What?”

He shrugs, hand still hanging in the air. “Dinner needs to cool some. Dance with me. Please?”

It’s the please that gets me. I’m such a sucker.

I slide my hand into his, letting him pull me into his body as we sway to the song. It’s awkward, my belly firmly in the way now, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He places one hand on my waist, the other holding mine in the air as he moves around the small space.

Cheddar hops up on the counter, watching us with a curious flick of his tail.

“I love this song,” I admit, smiling at him.

“It’s a favorite for me too.”

“You didn’t strike me as the love song ballad type of guy.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises. I have to keep you on your toes some way.” He kisses my forehead.

“My brother called again today. Texted too.”

He stiffens. I know my brother is a sore spot for him. “Did you answer?”

“No. I feel bad ignoring him,” I admit, letting him guide me in the most pathetic twirl ever since he won’t fully let me go, “but I don’t want to talk to him. Not right now.”

Beckham sighs, his face shadowed. “I won’t be mad if you want to talk to him.”

“I’m not avoiding him because of you. I just have nothing to say to him.”

I’m pretty sure if I did speak to him, I would tell him he’s a spineless weasel wrapped around our father’s finger.

“I wanted you to know that, though, that it won’t bother me.”

I reach my hand up, curling in his soft hair at the base of his neck. “You’re a good man, Beckham.”

He mock cringes. “Not the kiss of death.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Good guys don’t have any fun. I’ll take being the villain any day.”

I roll my eyes in pretend annoyance. “You always have to go against what I say, don’t you?”

His lips lift in a small half grin. “Only because it’s fun.”

The song ends and we sit down with our meal, both cats perched at our feet watching us. I don’t know why; it’s not like they’ve ever been given a morsel of people food.

I realize how much I love this. Being together. The domesticity of it all.

I could get used to this with him, and that terrifies me.

We crashed and burned before. What’s to say it won’t happen again?