Page 49 of Expecting an Argument
No matter how many books I read or true crime documentaries I watched to distract myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Beau and I had done in the bathtub.
Only my pregnancy journal saw my confession of self-betrayal. I had promised that Beau would never access me again, but I couldn’t resist.
I blamed my indiscretion on the unfortunate timing of my vibrator dying and my nearly unmanageable pregnancy libido…and the fact that Beau had barged into the bathroom with a look of crazed concern in those pretty blue eyes. What woman would have told him to leave? He wasn’t wearing a shirt, his tattoo gave him a certain edge, and his gray sweatpants showcased just how big and hard he was because of me.
Despite being a frequent rider of the dick carousel in the past, I was certain I wouldn’t have just invited any man intothe bathtub. Beau was the father of my babies, he was…safe, somehow. I was used to him. Maybe living with him for nearly two months had just dulled me to his presence.
My senses hadn’t dulled to him, though. If anything, I noticed more of his little quirks. Sometimes I would catch him pacing and muttering to himself in French. He had a scar on his lower back from a Christmas decoration falling on him. His hair curled at the nape of his neck when he had gone too long without a haircut. If he stood in front of the window in the late afternoon, the sunlight made his blonde eyelashes glow.
I realized I was getting in too deep when we watched the “Murder in the Heartland” documentary. I hadn’t wanted to leave bed, so Beau found the remote to start the miniseries. He made a snide comment about my macabre taste in entertainment, but then silently stood at my bedside and watched the first twenty minutes of the initial police investigation. I was too eager to rub it in his face that I had a superior taste in entertainment, so I invited him to get in bed to watch it with me.
It wasn’t until we were three episodes into our binge that I realized what I had done. Not only had I been spending more time with him, I was enjoying it. Except when Beau brought me food in bed, we ate every meal together. We drove to every doctor’s appointment together. I had even ventured downstairs to join him in the gym a few times when I had a burst of energy.
I hadn’t even tried to find contract work to earn my own money because I was just so damn comfortable. My constant fatigue made it easy for me to snuggle into the mattress and be at peace with being taken care of, but comfort was a trap.
If I let a man feed me, I gave him the power to starve me.
Also, I had a lingering suspicion that Beau only tolerated me because of the babies. He had never liked me before and I certainly wasn’t his type, so there was a real chance Beau wasgoing to discard me once I gave birth. I couldn’t trust him to still make me pancakes in the morning, or debate me on endless “who-done-it” theories, or flash me that cutting little smirk when he thought he had won an argument.
“Until I know what he wants,”I had written in my pregnancy journal,“I can’t trust him at all.”
And I wouldn’t know until the babies were born.
So, as I’d always done, I mentally prepared for the worst. No more bathtub forays. No more stalking him on socials. No more relaxing in bed where our shoulders almost touch.
Even during my 20-week anatomy scan where lying on my back made me feel like I was slowly drowning on my own lungs, I had refused to grab Beau’s hand for support.
But the pain and discomfort of the ultrasound had been worth it. Other than the fact that the twins were measuring a little big thanks to their six-foot-two father, Dr. Ornelas confirmed that my babies were absolutely perfect.
Even better, I found out that Twin A was my daughter and Twin B was my son.
After the appointment, Beau and I had faced-off across the kitchen island, negotiating names. I wouldn’t budge on last names and he also dug his feet into the mud on the issue.
Only after hours of debate did we reach a compromise—I would choose first names and he would choose middle names, with either of us having veto power if the names didn’t roll off the tongue or wouldn’t look good on a resume. The last name issue was tabled to keep us—OK, to keepme—from burning the house down.
Whether they would bear the name Adams or Fontaine, we at least knew what to call our babies.
Our daughter would be Annie Cherie and our son would be Brady Louis.
Ashley had lost her mind when we told her the good news.She gave me the biggest hug, covering my entire front in sawdust, and promised that she would throw us a huge baby shower in Miss Kaye’s house as soon as the renovation was finished.
Even though I trusted Ashley to come through on showering me with gifts, my nesting instincts had kicked in and I wanted to go shopping.
I had Beau drive his truck to the city in case I saw something on sale that I wanted to haul back. Only when Beau and I walked through the sliding doors of the store and I was assaulted with the sight of heart-shaped mylar balloons and legions of flowers did I realize it was Valentine’s Day.
Beau, on the other hand, didn’t appear to notice.
We walked past dozens of frantic husbands buying armfuls of gifts and camped out in the baby section of the store. I let Beau get lost in the pastel clothing racks while I studied the more important baby gear to figure out what I wanted to add to the registry. The choices were dizzying, but all my prior research from online blogs and Ashley’s tried-and-true expertise had helped me narrow down what I wanted.
Even though I had perused the aisles for cribs, double strollers, carseats, and even sheet sets, Beau only happened to find me when I was comparing breast pumps.
He gave a discerning eye to the row of display models and wrinkled his nose. “Please tell me you aren’t looking into these torture devices to save money. You know we can afford formula.”
His use of “we” made my skin crawl.
“My boobs, my business,” I said plainly. I took a wearable pump off the display shelf and examined it. “The Aspen model 9 isnice.I can just pop these into my bra and pump while I work.”
He let out a short sigh. “You don’t have to work, you know.”
