chapter Three
Present
I SAT UP and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I looked over at Ethan. He was snoring, but it was soft, and if I hadn’t been in the same room, I wouldn’t have heard it. I looked over at him, feeling happier than I had in a long time.
Ethan’s hair was tousled, black eyeliner smeared under his eyes. The sheet lay around his waist so I could look upon his muscular arms and chest. I ran my fingers up the soft, smooth, hairy skin on his arm, just gazing upon his beauty. Ethan had always been good looking, but I hadn’t appreciated it in a long time. He’d been so distant and I’d been so angry that I hadn’t just taken him in and enjoyed him in a long time. Rubbing his arm must have awakened him, because he stirred and then turned on his side to face me.
“Morning.” He grinned through the at-least-three-day growth on his face. “How do you feel?”
“The same as usual. Why?”
A grin spread across his face. “You’re pregnant.”
I couldn’t help but smile. When Ethan was happy, his mood was infectious. “I’ve been pregnant for two months, Ethan. I don’t have morning sickness anymore. I feel fine.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask why I’d put off telling him for so long. I smiled as he sat up in bed. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“What do I want for breakfast? I’m making breakfast this morning because you’re in no condition to.”
Okay, so right now this was cut and funny, but it would grow annoying pretty damn quick if he didn’t chill. “Ethan, I’m pregnant, not disabled.” I bounced up off the bed and put on my robe and slippers. “Would you rather have eggs or pancakes?”
“Babe, you relax. Take a shower while I make breakfast.”
“Ethan—”
“I insist. So…eggs or pancakes?”
“You’re the chef. You decide.” I walked into the bathroom and turned on the water so I could take a warm shower. Ethan really was going to change; I could tell already.
* * *
In the following weeks, Ethan and I enrolled in a natural childbirth class, but we wouldn’t be attending until it was closer to my due date. He came with me to my next monthly OB/GYN visit and asked the doctor dozens of questions and even offered to pay him more if he’d be more patient while Ethan went through his list. He even bought books. I told him I wanted to have the baby at home, and I was going to start interviewing midwives, and he freaked out. He didn’t like the idea of our baby being born “the way third world babies are delivered.” I interviewed them anyway, but he wasn’t happy about it.
Ethan was a guitarist for a heavy metal band, and each afternoon they would get together and practice. They were close to laying down all the tracks for their newest CD, but they wanted to perfect each song and make any changes they felt were necessary. Before Ethan knew I was pregnant, he’d been in a rut—he would party with the other willing band members till morning or until he was too drunk to drink anymore. Now, though, he’d quit partying after each session as he had been. He was home a lot more. He started making meals, and he liked shopping for the baby. He quit drinking and smoking like he’d promised. He occasionally had a beer or a few cigarettes, but I’d never expected him to quit completely anyway. That would have been too much to ask of him. I was just glad he was making the effort. I was overwhelmed by those efforts, because I’d never expected Ethan to quit; I’d thought he was just speaking through his drunken and overly enthusiastic stupor.
So…as I started to show a little in my tummy, I was cautious yet optimistic. Ethan Richards might turn out to be a great dad after all. I couldn’t give up hope.