Offically Over It Page 20

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked as I watched her powerwalk toward me.

  “I’m walking while your wife is running. She wasn’t sure how far she could make it, so I’m following behind her in case she needs to pass off that sweet baby. But since he’s out, I don’t feel bad stealing him,” Mom countered.

  And just like that, my baby was gone.

  I rolled my eyes.

  I was used to it at this point.

  Dare was a hot commodity among my family.

  Hell, even the other officers tried to steal him at every turn.

  Not that I was complaining.

  Dare was most definitely loved, that was for sure.

  And as a parent, I couldn’t ask for anything more.

  Looking over at my wife, I pulled her sweaty little body into my arms and dropped a kiss that was likely a little indecent for me wearing my KPD uniform, but I did it anyway.

  “I gotta get back to work,” I admitted. “Love you.”

  Her face shone with just as much love.

  I wasn’t sure how the hell this had happened—her and me—but I would thank my lucky stars every damn day that it did.

  “Be safe,” she said. “Love you, too.”

  “Bye, Mom!” I called out when she didn’t bother looking up.

  She waved at me without lifting her head. “See ya.”

  Chuckling, I walked back to the car, unaware that I was once again photographed as I got into the cruiser.

  Turns out, I did make the paper.

  I also made the first page.

  One photo was of me holding my boy, hugging my wife. And the next was of me staring longingly at my family.

  When I got home a week later, it was to find that same exact photo framed on our mantle.

  Reggie had purchased a copy from the newspaper, blown it up, and then framed it so we could see it every single day.

  Epilogue

  My hair is a mess and so am I.

  -Text from Reggie to Nathan

  Nathan

  Watching your wife suffer through miscarriage after miscarriage after miscarriage was… defeating, I felt sure.

  Watching your wife not even be able to conceive in the first place? I felt that was somehow worse.

  Sure, I’d never had to deal with my wife having a miscarriage. But at least they got to the point where they were conceiving. At least they had a slim chance of hope that just once, it might work.

  But after four years of trying for a baby—first the easy way of just having sex together, then the harder way of going through shots, tracking her cycle, and even further of getting in-vitro fertilization.

  When none of those things ever worked for her, and I sensed Reggie getting to the point where she was getting depressed, I’d gone to Dr. Messings.

  He wasn’t practicing anymore, at least not as a doctor. He’d found someone after it was all said and done that could work at his practice for him and still give him that income that he was used to for his daughter. All the while, he only ran the business aspect of it, and ended up thriving.

  I’d been thinking on what to do for Reggie and myself for a while now, and the more I thought on it, the more convinced I became that this was the best option.

  Everybody thought that Dare was Reggie’s biological son—at least the ones that didn’t know the back story behind him.

  He had the same curly auburn hair, the same skin tone, and the same color of eyes, surprisingly.

  The only thing of me that he had was his build and cleft chin. He was a big ass kid and was going to be a monster when he finally grew into himself.

  So there was only one logical choice to be had.

  “Where are we going?” she grumbled, pissed off all over again because we’d found out today that our fourth round of in-vitro hadn’t worked.

  I felt her pain.

  I wished that she didn’t have to go through it.

  Honestly, out of everything that we’d suffered, her not being able to get pregnant was the worst—at least in my opinion.

  “Here,” I said, looking up at the building.

  She frowned. “Why here?”

  Dr. Messing’s place wasn’t known to her. She’d never gone to his place of business as I had.

  I caught her hand and tugged her out of the car, then continued to hold her hand as I delivered her to the front counter where I asked for Dr. Messings.

  That caught her attention.

  “What’s going on?” she asked worriedly.

  “What’s going on is that we’re going to do this how we did it before,” I said. “If it happens naturally after that, it happens. But, I’m tired of seeing you look so defeated. We’re doing it a different way for now.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, but before she could get a word out, we were being called back.

  I looked down at her as she took in all the walls lined with photos of babies, seeing her face filled with longing was an absolute wrench on my heart.

  “This way,” the woman who’d called us back said.

  We followed her to the end of the hallway to the same exact office that Dr. Messings had been in the last time I’d visited.

  When we arrived at his door, he stood up and grinned at me. “Nathan. It’s been a long time.”

  He shook my hand and then dropped it before offering his to Reggie.

  She took it with a look of worry on her face.

  “So I hear that you want to have another baby,” he said.

  Reggie’s eyes met mine.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I do. So much.”

  He gestured to the chairs. “You’ve been doing this for four years now.”

  Reggie nodded, looking sickened.

  I squeezed her hand.

  “I’ve read your file,” he said. “And usually, I would say that you could continue to try, but after reading everything, I think that you’re a little beyond that.”

  Reggie’s shoulders fell.

  “Your womb is fine,” Dr. Messings continued. “What’s not fine are your eggs.”

  Reggie nodded. She already knew that.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “So here’s my suggestion,” I started. “He still has frozen eggs from the donor that we used for Dare.”

  Her head whipped around toward me.

  “The other eggs were destroyed—the fertilized ones—but we can make more. Dr. Messings still has that woman’s frozen eggs here. We can fertilize them and then implant them into your uterus. You can carry the baby to term. And we have a baby that way.”

  I hadn’t even finished my explanation before she started to cry.

  Pulling her into my arms, I buried my face into her neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “I know this is hard.”

  She cried even harder.

  I looked over at Dr. Messings who wasn’t surprised to find her crying in the least.

  He nodded his head as if to say, ‘take your time.’

  I did, and held my wife until she pulled away.

  It was long moments later, tears still streaming down her face, that she said, “I want to do it. Now.”

  I laughed.

  “Not now,” Dr. Messings said. “But soon.”

  ***

  Four months later

  “Dare,” I said to my son. “You need to clean up these Cheetos before I take away everything of value that you’ve ever cherished.”

  Dare gave me a long-suffering sigh and did as he was asked, picking up the Cheetos that he’d dropped when he was making his sandwich and making his way toward the trash.

  I was just about to suggest that he empty the trashcan, too, when Reggie came into the kitchen looking flushed.

  I grinned at her and she flipped me off.

  “This is not funny, Nathan,” she grumbled.

  “It’s hilarious,” I countered.

  She rolled her eyes and qu
ickly washed her hands.

  “It’s not,” she argued. “But that’s okay. I can deal.”

  I looked at her freshly changed scrubs and thought about earlier when she’d coughed, sneezed, and then peed on herself.

  That was happening surprisingly more than I’d ever given her credit for.

  “On to work?” I asked as I pulled her into my arms.

  “On to work,” she said, pressing her small baby belly into my side. “You’ll come see me?”

  She looked over at Dare who was flicking Cheetos into the trashcan instead of just dropping them inside. Half of them landed on the floor beside the trash.

  “I’ll bring you lunch,” I agreed. “After I drop that one off at your parents. Or mine. I’m not sure which one yet because Dare has yet to decide.”

  “It’s like choosing your favorite shoes. Boots will help you stomp in the mud,” Dare said. “But tennis shoes help you run fast.”

  Dare’s honest and sincere answer had me shaking my head.

  He was right.

  “And how does that correlate to which grandparent you want to go see?” Reggie wondered, her face resting on my chest.

  “Grandpop gives me rides on his motorcycle. Poppop takes me for a ride in his tow truck,” he answered.

  I smoothed my hand down Reggie’s face and then cupped her chin as I said, “That’s so your kid.”

  She pinched me. “Whatever. You were exactly like him and you know it.”

  I was.

  I so, so was.

  And seven months later, when we introduced another little boy into our lives that looked exactly like Dare? I just hoped that one was exactly like me, too. There was no way in hell I could handle one like Reggie.

  What’s Next?

  Nobody Knows

  11-2-20

  Prologue

  Per my previous email.

  -Email speak for, pay the fuck attention

  Sierra

  Hi, Gabriel!

  My name is Sierra.

  We were told not to give our real names, but I honestly don’t see why. So I’m going to give you my real name—Sierra. (Duh!)

  Anyway, today I’m just supposed to introduce myself.

  We started a new program in English that has us writing to pen pals—i.e., soldiers like you that are deployed overseas.

  I’m a junior in high school (I’m seventeen in case you’re trying to calculate it) and I’m slowly dying inside because I hate, hate, hate English. But, I have to admit, writing you is kind of fun. English class is the bane of my existence because I’m so sucky at it. It doesn’t help that my ex-boyfriend is in here, too.

  Anywho, this letter writing thing is taking my mind off of how much I want this period to end. It’s making me work on my people skills—of which I have none, according to my family and friends. Apparently wanting to read—yes, I know that’s ironic seeing as I hate English. In there, I’m forced to read shitty books. At home, I read sci-fi/fantasy so they’re definitely different, okay?—which some people think is a bad thing. Apparently wanting to read over going out and hanging with my so-called friends is also a bad thing. Who knew?

  I have an older brother named Samuel who is enlisting in the military as we speak.

  You never know, maybe y’all will run into one another one day—then again, maybe you won’t. My brother assures me that the military is way larger than I give it credit for.

  Whatever.

  I’m from Texas. A little small town, actually, that’s so small that everyone knows anyone.

  If you’re new here, they’re going to know it, and by dinner time, they’ll likely know your whole entire life story.

  Anyway, today is supposed to be a short letter explaining about the program that we’re writing in, telling you a little bit about myself, and then giving you my PO Box. A PO Box, might I add, that isn’t anywhere near our school. It’s actually our teacher’s that lives near Harmony, Texas—where you’ll be sending return letters to.

  Anyway, I hope this letter finds you well, and I hope you don’t totally hate writing back because I seriously hate English, and you’ll be doing me a huge favor by writing me back.

  Also, is it really sad that my hand is literally cramping right now from writing? I don’t think I’ve written this long of a letter in my life.

  Hope to hear from you soon,

  Sierra

  ***

  Sierra,

  Hi, my name is Gabriel—in case you’re wondering, that really is my real name. Kind of. That’s my middle name, but it’s the one that I go by.

  Anyway, your letter did find me well. We just got done sweeping the roadside for bombs. So, yeah, I’m lucky to still be here with how crazy these people are over here. They’ll literally blow up their own mother if it forwards their agenda or kills a couple US troops.

  I’m not really sure if I’m allowed to tell you that or not, but hey, you’re being real, I’m being real. I’ve been in the military for about two years now. So far, I really like being here. It gives me a purpose unlike being back at home where I think I went days without being noticed.

  Which brings me to my next point—you should be happy that your parents notice you. I think mine only noticed when they had to do something for me that they didn’t want to do—you know, like attend a parent-teacher conference. Go to my high school graduation. Take me to get my driver’s license. Things like that.

  Do you have a dog? Because I swear that looks like a paw print on the envelope you sent me. Then again, the letters get through a shit-ton of people before it gets here. There could’ve been another dog that stepped on it.

  I have a dog. I left him with my mom and dad when I deployed. I hope that they’re taking care of him well. They’ve been awfully vague when I call and ask about him.

  I think it pisses them off because I’m asking about the dog but not them.

  By the way, Maxie is the dog’s name. He’s a long-haired German Shepherd. He’s sweet, has a black face with brown hair around his brown eyes, and loves every single woman he’s ever met. Men, on the other hand? He doesn’t like men all that much. Except for me. He loves me.

  Wow, totally rambling about my dog. But I miss him.

  That’s about all I miss from home.

  Can’t wait to hear from you again.

  Gabriel