Page 7 of Come Back To Me

“Is there something else, Mr Carter?” Melissa says as if reading my fucking mind once again.

I blink long and hard before looking up at her. “It is what it is,” I say shrugging. I want to get back to Mads.

“Is there something making you feel afraid?”

Her quick-fire question makes me double take, thoseeyebrows of hers raising higher on her oval face. She’s hit the nail on the head. I am afraid. I’m afraid I won’t be a good dad. I’m afraid that Mads will want a better—safer—option one day. I’m afraid that after three times of asking, Mads is never going to say yes to marrying me.

My heart starts kicking wildly in my chest, the back of my neck’s suddenly clammy. I look up again.

There are three candles at the front of the lady’s boat, but only one lit. Two are already extinguished. Why are two snuffed out in their family of three? I look back to Melissa. “I,” my voice croaks. Damn it. I was so close to riding through these sessions without my fear of being a shit dad coming out.

“Dean?”

“Thanks for your time, Doc.” I push out from my chair.

“Mr Carter, wait, we still have thirty minutes left of our session.”

No. Fuck that. I stride towards the door.

“Mr Carter!” Melissa shouts, as I pull open the door and leave.

A cold breeze hits my face as I walk outside.

Breathe.I almost forget my phone in my hand still vibrating. “Hello?” I answer, not even checking who it is as I swallow hard.

“Need you at the clubhouse, boss.” Travis’ voice is matter of fact. Welcomed. A distraction.

“Everything good?”

“Got something you need to see.”

I sigh pinching the bridge of my nose. Is this it? The something bad I knew was inevitably coming for me. The end to the peace we’ve lived with for the past five months. “I need to go home first.” I need my girl.

“Sure, brother.” He knows.

I hang up, jump on my bike, and ride as fast as I can back home. Opening the door, I make Mads jump as she turns,surprised to see me back early.

There she is. My reason for living. My air.

My fucking sunshine.

Chapter Three

MADISON

It shouldn’t taste as good as it does, but my body’s craving it. I feel mischievous as I unscrew the lid. And frown. There isn’t much left in the jar. Urgh, VP. Maybe Lynn next door will have some? I look back down to the jar. There’s just enough to satisfy my need, maybe. But as I shove the pickle in the chocolate, my mouth waters with need. I scrape every morsel I can grab, then sumptuously shove it past my lips as goosebumps riddle my body. Satisfaction at its finest.

Pregnancy is weird.

Weird and wonderful.

Scary, weird and bloody wonderful, actually. I don’t even like pickles, yet here I am, practically French kissing the slippery condiment, licking small scrapes of sweetness from the end as if it’s my last ever meal.

It tastes like heaven, and my tummy gurgles as if it thinks so too. “You like this, huh?” I ask my bump casually, looking down at the protruding bulge. I read that at twenty weeks the baby should be able to hear my voice. Talking and singing can help to create a bond, so whenever I can, I sing or talk aloud having a conversation with my bump.

My baby.

I double dip the next pickle and lift my feet to the coffeetable as I lean back against the sofa. Working a half day has never come with such satisfying perks. I’m eyes closed, halfway through my second pickle, happily slurping. Content.

---