Page 135 of Call You Mine
Anderson lifts me from my seat in the car bridal-style, and my arms wrap around his neck. “I can walk.”
“Me too. Should we start a club?”
“Glad you finally used that one. I saw you write it in your Notes app weeks ago.”
His cheeks redden, but it just makes my hold around his neck tighten. With one hand, he balances me in one arm, unlocking the door with the other, typing in the key code before pushing the door open. “I’m not as quick as you when it comes to the comebacks,” he admits, kicking the door closed behind him before settling me down on the counter. “And you’ve been on your feet enough for today.” He slidesmy sandals off my feet before putting them away by the front door.
The house is a little more cluttered than usual as we start to prepare the house for the baby—something I had a really hard time adjusting to. We’ve set up different stations throughout the house to help with the newborn and postpartum stages, and I’ve tidied them enough to feel like it’s as good as it’s going to get. I keep reminding myself that the extra clutter is stuff we need for the baby and for my recovery, and it’s helped settle some of the anxiety.
I didn’t have a standard baby shower—mostly because the thought of inviting people from all the different pockets of my life and having them all in one place threatened to break me out in hives—but we sent out pregnancy announcements to our friends and family with a link to our registry, and we’ve been so lucky with the amount of gifts we’ve received in the last few weeks.
It doesn’t stress me out like I thought it would—it has me kicking my feet with excitement, a jolt of happiness I didn’t know was possible running through me at the thought of being just weeks away from meeting my daughter.
“The doctor says staying active will help with labor,” I reply, but not to argue. Labor scares me—I see why some people who have babies think the experience is euphoric and beautiful and everything our body was made for.
And while I agree with all of those things, it still terrifies me.
Anderson sighs as he comes to stand back in front of me, caging my thighs in with each of his arms, his face coming to my eye level. “That’s what you’ve said about waking up even earlier than you already do to do pregnancy ball stretches, eating the dates even though you hate them, choking down the multiple cups of raspberry leaf tea, and the fifteen minutes of curb walking every night after dinner.”
“What’s your point?” I deadpan.
“You know all of those things aren’t exactly proven to help with labor, love.” He presses a kiss to my nose. “You are the strongest person I’ve ever known. Labor will be hard and scary, but you are capable of it and so much more.”
Ever since the first time Anderson came with me to therapy, he’s been my rock through this pregnancy. He was a steady force before that, but I think letting him see that side of my life really helped me accept it.
He knows how to limit reassurance through reminding me of my strength, and he doesn’t let me sit in distress without reminding me that he’s here to support me.
“I know, but it helps,” I offer, the vulnerability in my voice something I’m not afraid to hide anymore.
Anderson’s eyes soften, along with his smile. “Then at least let me try to make the dates more appetizing.”
“Deal,” I reply with a laugh.
Anderson gives me a wink, then immediately starts grabbing ingredients and pulling out pots and pans to make dinner.
I’ve stopped trying to argue with him when he tries to feed me. Not only because I’m hungry all the time, but I’ve quickly learned how taking care of me is one of the many ways he shows he loves me.
I think it’s a product of his childhood, one he’s opened up to me about over these last few months. My experience as an eldest daughter helped me understand his experience as an eldest son—and even though our situations were different, they had similar effects on us.
While I learned to put everyone’s needs before my own, Anderson learned to put himself behind his brothers.
And all I want to do is make sure he knows that I will always put him first.
“Have you heard from your mom?” I ask just before he steps between my legs, pressing a quick kiss to my lips before pulling away, grabbing a cutting board from the drawer nextto where my legs hang. The feel of his lips against mine is way too quick, eliciting a wave of desire in my core—it doesn’t take much to turn me on these days, especially when it comes to my husband.
I see the way his smile tightens, like it goes from the one that comes so easily to one that he’s keeping up because he thinks he has to. “She called me earlier today.”
“And?” I prompt, knowing the relationship Anderson has with his mom is complicated at best.
“It was fine,” he answers, but he busies himself with opening and closing the drawer he just got the cutting board out of. “She told me about all the drama in her water aerobics class and how my brother Archie and his boyfriend might get a cat.”
“And?” I prompt again, hoping to hear that maybe she asked about him, about his job, about his life, about his baby.
He rolls his lips together, but his gaze stays on the drawer just next to me. “That was it.”
“That was it?” I repeat, frustration thick in my words.
I have yet to meet Anderson’s family—I’ve only met his uncle at the station when Rumi and I stopped by to see the guys at work a few weeks ago.
