Page 40 of Broken Pregnant Mate
It’s painted a soft blue, and there are little silver stars on the ceiling that shine in the low light from outside. It smells like kids—baby powder, sticky toys, something sweet.
Gently, I pull back the covers on the low-lying toddler bed, then place Oliver in it, using one hand to pop off his little shoes before pulling the blanket up over him. It’s a dance I’ve done before, bringing in the little kids from outside at the home.
When I straighten up and look to the side, Dorian is watching me, still trying to soothe Noah to sleep in his arms.
“You’re good with them,” he whispers, those eyes locked on me, watching. I hate being under his gaze like this, feeling like he can see right to the center of me.
The truth is that I like being around the boys. Seeing what it might be like to have kids of my own, even though I know that’s just not on the table for me.
I clear my throat, whisper, “Yeah. You good?”
Something passes over his face—something like understanding—and he nods. I slip out into the hallway, breathing hard, taking the steps back downstairs, and trying to forget the feeling of Oliver in my arms, warm and loose, how right it felt to be carrying him.
Back downstairs, most of the guests are gone, and I realize that Emaline and I are in an inner circle, the people who leave the party last.
Kira is in the kitchen, and Sarina is helping her stack leftover containers in the fridge. When I walk outside, I seeEmaline down on the patio, sitting around a fire with the other women, her voice gentle and distinctive in the night air.
Our eyes meet briefly before she looks away, and I feel that pull again, the need to be close to her.
I could walk over to her, ask her to leave. Get her back home so we can talk about us, about this whole thing.
But I don’t want to pull her away from her conversation. And I don’t want those eyes on me—Veva, particularly—figuring out everything I’m trying to keep a secret.
Instead, I head over to the grill. It’s still slightly warm, and I saw Dorian bring the wire brush out here before disappearing to tend to the boys. I can clean it for him, take one other thing off his to-do list.
I scrape the grates with the wire brush, working methodically to remove the charred remains of the burgers, hot dogs, and elk patties. Then, I pop open the propane lid and check that the valve is fully closed, and remove the now-scraped grates to clean them more thoroughly. The smell of smoke and meat clings to my hands as I work, scrubbing at the metal until it gleams in the fading evening light.
When I’m done, I reassemble the pieces, wiping down the exterior with a damp cloth until the stainless steel reflects the porch lights that have just flickered on.
“Aidan.”
It’s Dorian, and I jump when I realize he’s beside me. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t even hear him approach.
“Shit,” I say, and he laughs.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, reaching out, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Go sit down, man. You’re not the hired help, you can relax at the damn party.”
I shrug, avoiding his eyes. While there’s been a certain pressure on me my entire life, it feels like, lately, everything is ramping up.
The fight with Jerrod is coming soon. Oren being here, Emaline showing up in the prison, and bringing the past hurtling back into the present.
“I know,” I finally manage, reaching deep inside myself, finding a smile there, and pulling it up to the surface. Down on the patio, I see Emaline still sitting with the other women, but it looks like their conversations have died down a bit. “I, uh—I might just grab Emaline and go.”
Dorian crosses his arms, still studying me. For a moment, I’m worried he might say something else, bring up the upcoming fight with Blacklock, or even intuit that something is going on between Emaline and me, but he just sighs, nods, and says, “Alright. Have a good night, man.”
Chapter 18 - Emaline
When the sun starts to set over the horizon, and most of the party guests begin filtering out the door, I think that Aidan and I might be going, too.
But each time I see him, he’s helping with something—taking down the bouncy house in the yard, going upstairs with Dorian to put the boys to sleep, cleaning out the grill. That goes on for nearly an hour, until I find myself tucked into a lawn chair on the back porch, a blanket over my lap and a fire popping merrily in the center of us.
Once again, just like at the restaurant, it’s Veva, Kira, Ash, and me. Except this time, I don’t feel quite so out of place. It almost feels like this is my group of friends, like I belong in this circle.
Out beyond the yard, the view is perfect. I see why Dorian’s grandfather chose to build his house here, even if it is outskirts of Badlands—space for thinking. A little quiet, and the view of the valley is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
I realize, while looking out at the landscape, that I haven’t spent nearly long enough enjoying beautiful views. There were the years of living in the dingy group home, so caught up in my grief for my parents that I didn’t even know there was beauty in the world to admire. Then, living with Vern, I was just trying to survive, sleeping in that falling-apart house on the edge of town, in cars, and even sometimes right on the ground in those makeshift camps.
Though the Ambersky jail was nice, it was still limiting.
