After the Eight AM; Vamanos

Grey realized he needed to work on giving apologies.  He’d meant to, he really had, he’d meant to tell her as soon as they sat down that he was sorry for being an asshole that morning.  But instead he’d managed to rile her up again and get all defensive and arrogant and, well, he’d been an asshole all over again.

She thanked him for the bagel and OJ and he sipped his coffee grimly.  Could he say it now?  He looked her over while she chewed an over-large bite of her bagel.  She had been hungry afterall.  He hoped for her sake that she was able to keep it down.  He wondered how much longer this morning sickness (which struck at all hours, not just the goddamn morning) would last.  He had no idea how far along she was, or anything like that.  Well, he had some idea, of course, but not a real accurate one.

“Maybe we should do the car thing another day.”  She offered, and he recognized that she was working hard to keep her tone polite and neutral.

“What’s your schedule like for the rest of the week?”  He asked, to be fair.  He had every intention of getting everything done today, but he’d pretend to entertain the notion.

She chewed thoughtfully and twisted the plastic top off her bottled OJ.  He watched her take a long swallow.  Goddammit.  He shouldn’t be looking at her neck like that.  Especially not while she swallowed something.  He rolled his shoulders back and focused his eyes on the cardboard coffee cup in his fingertips.

He read the words ‘CAUTION: HOT!’ five times before she answered.

“Between work and school, I guess this is the best day—unless we can do it on a Sunday.”

Of course this was the best day, he wasn’t a goddamn moron.  He knew her ridiculous work schedule from when they’d been dating and she’d left a copy of her class schedule on the refrigerator for him when she’d moved into the cottage.

“’Fraid not.”  He said calmly.  “We need to go to the bank and the registry and all that bullshit.  So Sunday’s out.”

She was quiet for a long time so he finally looked up.  She seemed to be lost in thought, staring over his shoulder at some hideous student artwork.  He took the opportunity to run his eyes over the parts of her that were visible above the tabletop.

She’d thrown on some old sweater that morning, and when she’d stomped out of her room he’d had to force himself to look away.  It looked incredible on her.  It was clearly several years old, the style wasn’t in fashion anymore, but it was sort of classic.  And loose in certain places but form-hugging in others, and the cream-white color of it set off her caramel skintone in such a delicious way that it made him ache to taste her. 

Her breasts looked phenomenal.  He checked quickly to make sure she was still off in her own world before allowing himself the time to linger on her chest.  He could bet the old wool was fuzzy.  If he slipped her bra off, the cable-knit would likely rub and tickle at her nipples until they stood rock-hard underneath.  He could imagine what the full roundness of her breasts in that sweater would feel like in his hands, on his bare chest, on his inner thighs.

“Grey?”

Shit.  Cock-sucking-mother-fucking-sonuvabitch.

“Hm?”  He asked, meeting her eyes and hoping he looked perfectly innocent.

She eyed him skeptically.  “Am I not dressed properly for all the things we have to do?”

He didn’t dare take his eyes off hers.  “You’re fine.”  He responded mildly.

She frowned. 

“I deserved that.  This morning.”  He managed to grumble after several more minutes in silence while she chewed and sipped.

Maggie hurried to swallow the bit of bagel she’d been working on and took a hasty sip of her juice.  “I shouldn’t have called you that—“

Grey felt his lips pulling into a smile.  “I actually kind of like it.”  He said roguishly.

She bit her lower lip, which made him feel all sorts of things he shouldn’t in the middle of a coffee shop, and she smiled tentatively.  “You like what?  Being denigrated?” 

He let out a bark of surprised laughter.  “Christ.”  He responded, shaking his head.  “No, I liked hearing you swear.”

“Oh.”  She chuckled appreciatively, and he loved the color that was rushing to her cheeks.

“And I liked that you called me out.”  He confessed, not realizing how true the sentiment was until it had found voice. 

“I should have been more understanding.”  She argued.  “You’re concerned, and that’s understandable.  It’s nice, actually.”

Grey felt a heat on the back of his neck and shifted in his seat.  “I was an asshole—“

“You were.”  She agreed solemnly.

He looked up at her, astonishment all over his face, and she was grinning. 

Her smile washed over him like a cooling balm and fresh air, and he wondered how he’d ever been angry with her.  He smiled back.  This was dangerous.  He made himself focus on the table.  It wouldn’t do any good at all to start liking this woman more than was strictly necessary to get through each day.

“But, I wasn’t much better.”  She admitted.

He smiled a little at the table.  This was awkward.  He’d never done this sort of conversation with a girl before.  Usually once there was a fight, the ‘relationship’, such as it was, was over.  If there was an argument or even a heated disagreement it meant that Grey’d stopped caring enough to play the part of the perfect suitor.  It meant he was over bull-shitting and pretending to care about what the girl wanted or expected of him.  Or, of course, it meant that she’d found out he’d been cheating on her which was a pretty good indication that the relationship was over already.

This was all new to him.  Having to apologize, having to clear the air, having to give a shit about the other person’s feelings and opinion.  Because he had to go home at the end of the day and live with this one.  Sure he could blow her off, treat her rudely, and get on with his life as if she were not a factor, but… He’d tried that on the honeymoon and it had been awful.  He thought it’d be easier for him to conduct himself in accordance with his own whims, just as he’d always done, but it had felt pretty shitty actually.  When he was considerate and pleasant to her the days and nights just went by much more smoothly. 

Peculiar.

“I like when you get all fired up.”  He said with a playful smile at the table.  “Your people are adorable when they’re in a temper.  I only wish you’d gone off in rapid-fire espanol.”

She growled but she laughed too.  “We’re a passionate people.”  She agreed.

A flash of her gorgeous naked body riding his cock made him blink and shake his head.  She certainly could be a passionate little hellion.

“Anyway, I was wondering how pissed off I’d have to get you before you brought out the big guns.”  He said, and lifted his drink to his lips.  In his peripheral vision he could see the soft cream color of her sweater and he felt hotter than was comfortable.

“You mean the ‘f’ word?”

He started laughing before he’d finished swallowing his mouthful of coffee and choked a little.  She looked concerned and made a move to get up and help him, but he waved his hand to indicate he was fine. 

Grey cleared his throat with a grin.  “Yes, Mrs. Delaney, the ‘f’ word.”  She was so fucking cute.

She bit her lower lip again and he let himself look this time.  If she was going to persist in doing it he’d better figure out a way to get used to it. 

“Probably the only time you’ll hear me say that is right before I plunge a knife into your heart or something.”  She lifted her hot coco to her lips and sipped demurely.

“How very Telemundo.”  He responded with a smirk.  “I bet I can get you to say it in another context.”

She furrowed her brow.  “Ok, maybe not murder.  But I’d duck, if I were you, because if I’m using that language I’m probably throwing dishes or some other household items.”

He chuckled.  She’d missed his innuendo.  She was so sweet and naïve.  “You can’t think of any other instance you might use the big bad ‘f’ word Mrs. Delaney?”

She balled up her napkin and thought for a moment.  “You think I’ll say it in labor?”  She half-whispered, almost scandalized at her hypothetically potty-mouthed self.

The lightness drained out of him.  She’d really missed his innuendo, and gone right to a place he’d rather not imagine.  “I guess I’ll probably deserve it on that occasion too.”  He muttered.

She smiled.  “I hope I don’t say it then, but if I do, please forgive me.”

He took a deep breath in and finally looked her in the eyes.   He didn’t know what to say.  He tried to imagine her in labor, having a baby, his baby, but he was having trouble picturing it.  It was all too surreal.  He didn’t really comprehend that such an outcome was inevitable.  “Naturally.”  He responded smoothly.

“And next time I have an appointment you’re welcome to join me.”

Grey thought of Jonah for a moment.  Thought of the appointments he’d been to with other girls because his dad had told him it was the right thing to do.  At those ones he usually sat in the waiting room.  She was talking about actually going in there.  Images of ultrasounds and stirrups and speculums swam in his imagination. He swallowed.  He couldn’t speak.

“Because you were concerned about my choice of OB…”  She explained weakly.

He nodded, coming back to the present after that pre-natal detour.  Right.  Part of his outrageous tantrum that morning had been to malign her judgment in medical professionals.  “I’m sure your doctor is perfectly adequate.”  He responded civilly.

She reacted to his sudden mood shift.  Her face washed over in concern and her muscles went taut.  “You aren’t required to come along.”  She told him, a stiffness in her voice ineffectively masking a vulnerability.

Again Grey thought about his dad.  Then he thought about his mother.  Then he sighed and looked at Maggie.  “I would like to.”  He lied.

She could tell he was lying.  They locked eyes for a long moment.  Was she going to call his bluff?

“So which place is first?  The social security office?”

Grey felt the urge to apologize again, though for what, exactly, he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He’d given the right response there.  The gentlemanly response.  But.  He just generally felt like he’d done something wrong.  Like an asshole.

“Yeah, I think so.  Are you ready to shed the Ramirez?”

Her hand paused midway between the table and her lips, her cocoa in limbo.  “Oh.”  She said.  “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”  She looked a little shaken.

“Why don’t you keep it?”  He suggested quickly.  He didn’t give two shits about her last name.

But she shook her head.  “No.  I’m your wife.” 

His lips got tight.  Yeah, he guessed if it was going to be ‘in name only’ they’d better go ahead and change the name, huh?

“You sure?”  He asked.

She nodded resolutely.

“Magdalena Delaney sounds a little ridiculous.”  He pointed out helpfully.

She scowled.  “Our family will all have the same name.”  She told him firmly.

He winced.  Family?  A cold sweat crept across the back of his neck and down his front.  “Well I’m not changing mine to Ramirez, so I guess you’re stuck with being Magdalena Delaney.”  He teased half-heartedly.

She rolled her eyes. 

“Maybe keep the Ramirez too.”  He offered and finished the last of his coffee.

“Maybe.”  She responded, non-committal.

He stood to collect her plate and empty juice bottle along with his coffee cup. 

“That might make it easier to switch back.”  He added.  He remembered his mother saying something about what a hassle it had been changing her name back to Calder from Grey after her divorce.

“I need to use the restroom.”  Maggie announced suddenly, rising with purpose.

“Sick?”  He asked, feeling almost dismayed.  She needed to keep food down and actually digest it, for God’s sake.

“No, no.  I just, better go before we leave.”  She said hurriedly, and she moved past him, careful not to make any contact with him, and pretty nearly rushed toward the back of the shop where some local artist had done a hack job of re-creating the Venus DeMilo on a pink door.  He toyed with heading back to the blue counterpart, the one with the David painted on it, but he decided to wait with their coats.  He tossed their garbage into the psychedelically decorated trash bin and returned the little bagel plate to the counter. 

He sat down to think about what they needed to accomplish, and wrestled a piece of folded stationary from his coat pocket where it rested over a third chair.  He unfolded the crisp white letter-sized paper and scanned his Dad’s neat, organized handwriting.

Name change; License change; (Credit Cards change?); Joint bank account. 

A line had been drawn under this list and Jonah had outlined another section of to-do items.

Life insurance; Will; Medical Proxy; College fund?

Jonah knew about the baby.

Then  Grey’d added: CAR.

Jesus Christ, thought Grey, What a fucking hassle.  He’d call Ward about all the legal stuff.  That shit didn’t need to get done today.

Today would be all the name change and that bullshit so they could set up the bank account (that way Maggie could stop asking him for money, which made him more uncomfortable than just about anything in the world), and then they’d go pick out a car so she didn’t have to ask him for rides (which didn’t bother him at all, but he could tell it bothered her. And besides, who doesn’t have a fucking car?).

Maybe when she had access to a joint bank account, and when she’d gotten used to just how much money was in said account, maybe she’d relax with the insane work schedule.  He didn’t need her running herself ragged.  She needed to take care of herself.  She didn’t need a couple of minimum wage service jobs for fuck’s sake. 

Whatever.  That would be her call.  No way he was going to open his mouth on that subject—he was already enough of a controlling asshole, right?

His phone buzzed in his pants pocket and he retrieved it, only half interested in who might be calling.  Shit.  It was Phelan.  The guy had been calling and texting like crazy for a week.  Of course Grey’d forgotten his phone charger and had spent much of the honeymoon with his phone out of commission until he’d finally decided to get off his ass and go buy a new one.  When he finally had plugged the little beast in it had lit up like the Fourth of July with texts and messages from his roommate, but also from his sisters, his friends, a few girls he had lined up dates with, and even his parents—who knew where he was but just wanted to check in.  He had almost wished he’d left it dead.  So he chose to ignore the messages and questions, the ‘where the fuck are you?’s and especially Phelan’s “Holy fucking shit, your mom just told me you got married.  This is a fucking joke, right?”

Now he opened a text from his best friend that read: “Fuck my cunt with a donkey cock—did your little bride kidnap you and sell you into white slavery south of the border?”

He’d need to face his friend sometime.  But today wasn’t the day for Phelan and all that crazy bullshit. 

Today he had to deal with Maggie.  He returned the phone to his pocket, the text unanswered, and tried to think objectively about his ‘little bride’.

He decided he needed to start treating her like what she was—a roommate.  He never fought with Phelan the way he did with Maggie.  He never flew into crazy, irrational tempers at anything Phelan ever did.  Well, almost.  Yeah.  And he had certainly never spent all night or day wondering how Phel was feeling, or what he was thinking about; and he had definitely never wasted time imagining his roommate naked or in provocative sexual positions.  And he’d never forced himself on Phelan while drunk either.  So.  Yes.  He needed to start pretending that Maggie was nothing more interesting or special than a platonic roommate.

With whom he shared a bank account, a last name, and eventually a child. 

Grey grunted at the list and folded it back up. 

“Ready?”  Her voice made him start.

He looked up at her before he could prepare himself.  He was at eye-level with her perfect breasts.  Phelan never looked that good in a sweater and jeans.  Fuck.  This roommate thing was going to require a lot of cold ass showers.

“Vamanos.”  He replied dryly.  And he stood to help her into her coat.

After the Eight AM

Maggie was distracted and impatient for the entirety of her morning math class.  She kept going over and over the fight she’d had with Grey—an argument that had come out of nowhere!  He’d been being sweet, actually, going out of his way to make her comfortable, and it had felt nice—then suddenly he’d flipped, and started insulting her, and criticizing her, and—Maggie frowned at the dark blue doodles edging her notebook paper—and she’d been pretty quick to rise to a temper too, which hadn’t helped anything.

She looked at the wall clock above her professor’s head and sighed heavily.  She wasn’t sure whether she wanted the class to be over or if she wanted it to stretch on indefinitely.  There were less than five minutes left and he said he’d be waiting to pick her up. 

Normally she’d hang out on campus until her next scheduled class, which was several hours away, use the time to go to the library and get homework done, but he insisted that she go look at cars with him.  Maggie was learning quickly that when Grey Delaney got an idea in his head he acted on it as soon as humanly possible. 

She squinted at the enormous whiteboard and saw a number of graphs and equations that she didn’t recognize at all and she rolled her eyes.  She’d need to go over the entire chapter again on her own and hope she could puzzle it out. 

In high school she’d been an excellent student.  Stellar, in fact.  She was attending University on an almost full scholarship.  But her first semester had found her distracted and less than focused due to falling in love, getting her heart broken and then discovering the most terrifying news of her life—that she was pregnant.  Her grades had suffered.  Not so much that she was in danger of losing the scholarships, but enough to raise some concerned eyebrows from her Papa and her counselor.

And this semester was already off to a rocky start, what with having to miss days for appointments, miss days for a wedding and then an entire week for that honeymoon.  She really needed to buckle down and put every effort into surviving this semester—she knew the distractions were only going to increase as her pregnancy advanced. 

People around her began to pack up their things.  Notebooks and pens and calculators were getting shoved back into bags, laptops were being powered-down and stowed away, and groggy chatter was breaking out in pockets around the lecture hall.

Taking one last desperate look-over of the board, hoping to magically absorb some or any of the information she’d missed while her mind had wandered, Maggie stood and flipped her notebook closed, shoving her pen into the coil binding for safekeeping.

She yelped when her pocked vibrated and several clusters of people stopped to stare at her.  Her cell.  It didn’t usually ring this early.

She smiled wanly, embarrassment coloring her cheeks, and withdrew the little silver thing hastily.

‘Parked at the coffeeshop’ was all it said.

He was going to try once more to get her to eat something.  She felt a surge of irritation, but her stomach rumbled at the thought of breakfast and she tisked.  Fine.  She’d have something to eat. 

‘Just got out.  Be right there.”  She texted in response.  Then, after a moment decided to add: ‘Thanks.’

She kept the little phone in her hand, waiting for his reply, but none seemed to be forthcoming.  She sort of missed the days when she used to receive sweet little messages from this number.  And then the naughty little texts he’d sent while she was working or in class—the ones that had made her blush and feel butterflies in her stomach.   She slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried out of the lecture hall, making a quick detour at the ladies room to pee, of course—she had to do that all the time lately—and to make sure she didn’t look too terrible.  She wasn’t pleased with her reflection, especially standing at the mirror beside two leggy, anorexic-ly thin pretty girls.  The kind that had doubtless been cheerleaders in high school.  The sort who wore make-up to Monday morning classes.  The ones who dressed like it was a nightclub and not a university.  The kind of girls that Grey probably wouldn’t mind sleeping with.

She glowered into the mirror as they whined about their boobs and how much they’d had to drink the night before and which party they’d end up at on Friday.  She did her best to tame some of the wildness of her curls but it was of little use—she’d taken a midnight shower to clear her head but by the time she was through she was too tired to look through all the boxes and bags for all her hair products and just went to bed au natural.  As a result, she’d been rewarded with a crazy, unmanageable, fly-away tangle. 

She glanced at the girls’ skin-tight graphic tee shirts and too-high skirts, and their strappy shoes and wondered how these bony, under-dressed things didn’t catch pneumonia.  They didn’t even appear to have coats in their possession.  It was January for goodness’ sake.

But she suddenly wished she were wearing something a little more flattering than the old sweater and jeans she’d thrown on in a huff that morning.  Pressing her lips tight she buttoned the attractive peacoat Viola had lent her and felt marginally better.  Now she looked half-way acceptable, she supposed, but she was still wearing sneakers.  Nothing ruined the look of a fashionable coat than a cheap pair of sneaks.  She shrugged and almost reached for her lipgloss until she remembered the scent of the artificial vanilla had made her lose her lunch the week before.  It would be a while before she’d be able to use that brand of lipgloss again.

Great.  Hair a mess, no make-up, no lipgloss, sneakers and a ratty old sweater underneath a borrowed coat.  Plus she felt bloated and puffy.  She doubted she’d be able to wear these jeans much longer.  She needed to go maternity shopping before too long.  Biting the insides of her cheeks so as to avoid cursing, Maggie straightened her spine, lifted her chin and strode from the restroom, determined not to dwell on the fact that she was short and un-glamorous, and getting to be almost noticeably pregnant.  He probably wouldn’t look twice at her even if she were all dolled up and looking her best.  He hadn’t married her out of passionate attachment, afterall.

She hunkered down into the coat’s high collar as she walked against the wind toward the coffee shop on the edge of campus.  But he did, she was sure of it, he did sometimes look at her that way.  She’d caught him doing it a lot during their honeymoon.  She’d figured that was sort of an ‘alone on a desert island’ scenario.  But there were other women at the resort.  Besides guests there were also plenty of attractive enough workers to catch his eye—and they had done that.  She grimaced as she thought about the way his eyes had followed their waitress’ rear end on the night he’d taken her to eat at the resort’s five-star restaurant.  How he’d flirted openly with the bartender when they’d gone to the lounge on another night.  She was pretty sure he’d slept with the lifeguard from the pool while she’d gone upstairs to shower and rest.  She’d cried about that for almost an hour before she’d managed to finally fall into a fretful quasi-nap.  She’d dreamt of Grey swimming in a pool filled with naked women.  It had been hellish, and she’d been a royal pain in the ass to him all that evening because of it.

But even though he still looked at plenty of other women, and he wasn’t exactly discreet about it, she was pretty sure he still looked at her too.  And sometimes even wanted her.  That last night of their honeymoon had been… wonderful.  He’d told her things, said things to her that made her blush and made her more aroused than any of the sweet things he’d ever said to her. 

And he’d said he couldn’t get her out of his head.  That he needed her.  That he couldn’t help himself when he was around her.

Of course he’d been drunk.  But she knew well enough from working at Los Tres and from having some hard drinking uncles that men often spoke truest when they’d put away large amounts of liquor.  And he hadn’t said anything too absurd.  He hadn’t claimed that he loved her or that she was the only woman for him or anything as unbelievable as that.

So she thought his confession, fevered and rushed and desperate and aggressive as it had been, might be very near to the truth.  Especially given the way he’d backed up those words with very definite action.  Maybe she wasn’t the only one in the relationship who still wanted to have sex with a person who they loathed and despised. 

Only she wasn’t sure she loathed Grey as much as she wanted to.  Not anymore.  Not after getting to know his parents and his family a little.  Not after seeing the little boy in the photo album.  The one who’d give up his coat for her without a second thought, who always held doors for her, who never failed to offer her a glass of water or anything she wanted.

He made her furious like no one else could, but she wasn’t sure she could really hate the man.  Even if her broken heart was raging at her to do just that.  It seemed her heart was being outvoted by her gut, her brain, her sentimentality, and most definitely by the rest of her body.  Especially the parts of her that reacted to his deep, smooth voice, or to that knee-weakening grin he had, or to those impossible eyes. 

“Hey, where’re you going?”

She jumped and her steps faltered.  She’d been trudging along against the cold, her head down, her eyes on the stone sidewalk before her.  She’d started to walk right on past the shop.

“Oh, whoops.”  She looked at him and felt her cheeks redden.  She’d been daydreaming and felt a little bit red-handed.

“Hungry yet?”  He asked, his face stern.  He rubbed his hands briskly in front of him.  He must have been sitting inside waiting for her when she’d wandered right past—he wasn’t wearing his coat as he hovered in the doorway.

She wanted to say no, just to irritate him as much as his smug arrogance nettled her, but she nodded.  “I could eat a horse.”  She replied.

“Well, I don’t know what you Mexicans put in your breakfast burritos, but this place hasn’t got any horsemeat.  How about a bagel?”

She tilted her head to the side and glared at him.

He stared back, his face bland and unconcerned with her wrath.

“On second thought—“she began, an imperious lift in one eyebrow and a proud scowl on her face. 

But he grinned.  “I’m only kidding.  Jesus, Maggie.  Just get in here and get a fucking pastry for Christ’s sake.”  He laughed a little and held the little shop door wide.

The warmth of his smile seemed to take the chill right out of the bitter January morning.  How could he do that?  She found herself smiling back and wondered at the power he had over her.  She was still angry with him, she insisted to herself, he had had no right to go off the handle like that this morning, to be such an ass.  She shouldn’t be smiling at him, sharing in his amusement at his racial slur.

“I got you a hot chocolate.”  He said, gesturing to a small lidded cup on a cozy table by the window, where his own tall cardboard cupped beverage waited alongside an open newspaper, and his coat was slung over the back of spare café chair.

Numbly she walked toward the table.  “Do we have time to sit and eat?”  She asked.  She had no idea how long it took to buy a car, but thought she remembered it taking her father hours upon hours the last time he’d gone car shopping.  And that was after weeks of visiting various dealerships, and pricing, and shopping around.

He was ready to slip the coat off her as soon as she’d unbuttoned it.  She wanted very much to keep it on, since it was the best part of her ensemble this morning, but the little shop was blasting the heat and with the signature herbal scent and strong coffee ground aroma that a college coffee house is known for, she thought the heat underneath her coat might be enough to make her ill.

“Sure.”  He responded, folding the coat lengthwise and then draping it over his on the spare chair.  “What would you like to eat?”

He moved around her and held out the chair that was meant for her and she sank into it automatically. “Because I have my Lit class at one—“

“Right.”  He said.  “You may not make it to that.  Bagel?  Croissant?”

Maggie craned her neck to look up at him.  “I have to make it, I missed last week.” 

Grey blinked.  And then he smiled pleasantly.  “Freshman Lit? Who’s the professor?”

Maggie frowned.  She didn’t trust him when he smiled like that.  There was something entirely too suave and practiced about it.  It was one of the smiles he’d worn often when they’d dated.  It wasn’t real.

“Sinclair.”  She answered.  “And everybody says she’s really tough—“

Grey looked triumphant and a real grin flashed across his face.  “No problem.  How about coffee cake?”

Maggie huffed.  “Grey, listen, it’s a new semester, I really can’t afford to be getting off on the wrong foot.  I missed last Monday and—“

“We have a lot of shit to get done today Maggie, and you won’t fail because you missed a couple classes.”  He was losing patience with her.

But her patience wasn’t far behind his.  “For God’s sake Grey, do you realize how many classes I’m likely to miss this semester?  What with doctor’s appointments and dress fittings and luncheons your mother is insisting I attend and everything?  That’s not including the possibility of emergencies or if something goes wrong and I need to go to the doctor unexpectedly—“

His polite smile evaporated and he looked stormy.  “What do you want for breakfast?”  He demanded.

She folded her arms over her chest and stared at an original piece by one of the university’s art majors.  It was ugly.  And angry.  It looked like how she felt.  All tangled and knotted and confused.

“Grace Sinclair is best friends with my Mom and Dad.”  Grey explained impatiently, still standing next to her chair, awaiting her order.  “She’s Ben’s mom.”  He added.  “She’s practically family.”  When Maggie failed to show relief at this information Grey clucked his tongue.  “Christ.  I’ll talk to her for you if you want.”

Maggie ground her teeth together.  She didn’t want that at all.  “A bagel with peanut butter please.” 

He blinked.  “You could take a leave of absence, if you’re so concerned.” He continued to press the issue but she met his eyes with a challenging gaze. 

“And an orange juice.”   Take the semester off?  That was probably something rich people got to do whenever they felt like it.  She thought about her scholarship and swallowed hard as she glared up into those pale green eyes of his.  It must be nice to be Grey Delaney and not have to worry about a thing. 

He closed his mouth and swallowed as he nodded.  “Sounds good.  Be right back.”  She imagined he had read some of her wrath in her eyes, and she felt satisfied that he’d chosen to back down and shut his mouth for once.

Maggie felt her temper boiling as she watched him walk to the counter.  She had to begin a mental rosary in order to back herself down.  It was lucky for Grey and for everyone in the coffee shop that the barista that morning was a scruffy looking male co-ed, because if she had seen him so much as smile at a female in that moment she was certain she would have blown the lid off the place.

Her stomach grumbled and she glowered down at it.  “Traitor.”  She muttered to the little life growing in there.  Then she smiled just a little, imagining once again those baby photos Mrs. Delaney had given her.  “You’re going to be one stubborn little terror.”  She murmured quietly, before reminding herself she was in a public place and looking around to make sure no one had spied her apparent insanity.  She drummed her fingers on the table causally and ran her eyes up and down Grey’s effortlessly graceful form as he headed back toward her with a plated bagel and a plastic juice bottle.

‘And gorgeous.’  She added silently to the baby.

Then she re-focused her mind on how manipulative and controlling her new husband tended to be--in order to prepare herself for the rest of what was promising to be a very long day in his company.

Mother Mary grant her patience!

Fucking Early

It was fucking early.  Grey had an almost animalistic impulse to throw his phone at the wall when the chipper little alarm beeped and vibrated, cajoling him and commanding him to wake the fuck up.

It took an inordinate amount of time to figure out where the fuck he was and why the Christ he was waking up so goddamn early.  The bed was comfortable but not his own.  The hour was unholy. 

Oh yeah.  It was a Monday morning, he was in the guest house (in a guest bedroom in the guest house) and he had set his alarm in order to roll out of bed and drive his fucking wife to class.  He pawed at the motherfucking phone, hit some button or other, causing it to go into ‘snooze’ mode, and rolled over onto his stomach.  Maybe if he tried real hard he could make the whole nightmare go the fuck away.

It was the second goddamn morning in a row that involved being rudely awakened by a loud, obnoxious phone.  For her.

The courtesy wake-up call at the resort had sounded like a fucking claxon horn that Sunday morning.  He’d felt sure his head would split in two, and was glad, for the sake of the employee on the other end of the line, that it had been Maggie, and not him, that had answered and quickly thanked them and hung the receiver back in its cradle as gently and quietly as was humanly possible.  Nevertheless he’d heard every fucking miniscule sound like tiny but powerful jackhammers on his skull.

He’d covered his face with his hands and his eyes had been sore.  Sore eyes, never a fun way to start the day.  And he’d swallowed, but his tongue felt like sandpaper and his throat seemed to be swollen nearly shut. 

Then he’d realized where he was.  As he listened to her quietly thanking the concierge desk for the call, quietly hanging up the phone, and oh-so-gently shifting on the enormous bed next to him, he realized what had happened.  Oh fuck my life.

And he’d felt nauseated.

“Do you need to throw up?”  He’d asked her, not even recognizing the rough, gravelly sound of his own voice.

“No, not right now.”  She’d answered in a small, deliberately soothing voice.

Good.  “Ok.”  He’d said and took just a small breath, because he knew from experience that a deep breath would trigger a chain reaction that was as unstoppable as it was unpleasant.  He’d laid on the bed, trying to focus on easy, shallow breaths, trying to quell the nausea enough to risk moving, and trying not to allow graphic flashes of images from the night before to play themselves out in his mind’s eye.

He’d groaned, losing the battle with those flashes of memory.  What the fuck had he done?  Jesus Christ.  He knew he couldn’t open his eyes just yet, knew he needed to stay behind the pressing darkness his shaking hands provided, but he wondered how she looked.  If he’d hurt her too badly.  This wasn’t helping the nausea.

“Do you need to?”  She inquired gently.

“Yup.”

He’d made it to the bathroom and managed to close the door before puking his guts out.  When he’d showered and finally emerged quite some time later she had a red drink waiting for him.

He accepted it with a question all over his face. 

“Hair of the dog?”  She said, sounding unsure of the colloquialism.

He grimaced and tested the smell of the tomato juice against his tender senses.  It didn’t immediately make his gut roil so he held his breath and swallowed a gulp.

“Thank you.”  He’d wondered how his eighteen year old innocent Catholic bride knew about home remedies for hangovers.  But, he supposed, she worked in a restaurant, and her father had ordered a goddamn tequila drink at brunch, so maybe Maggie Ramirez knew a thing or two about hungover men.

“De nada.”  She’d replied with a tentative smile.

He’d wanted to smile in return—he liked it when she sprinkled Spanish into conversation—but when he looked at her he’d felt such a powerful wave of guilt and shame that all he’d managed to do was grunt and glower.  That was the perfect opportunity.  Right then.  To apologize.  But he’d chickened out.  And then room service had arrived with the breakfast she’d ordered them, and she’d succumbed to a morning sickness she’d been holding at bay, and then they’d needed to get ready for checkout and, ugh.

Remembering the previous morning made Grey doubly irritable.  He growled a string of cruses into the pillow and resented his state of consciousness.

Laying on his front made his morning erection feel particularly conspicuous.

And what the fuck had been up with her last night anyway?

Grey pressed his eyes closed and tried not to think about her.  He wanted to go back to sleep.  He wanted to pretend he wasn’t in the guest cottage, that he wasn’t married, that none of it had ever, ever happened.

When he heard her retching he spun over and sat up.  Should he go to her?  He looked at his lap.  Christ.  There wasn’t much that could be done about that.  It would take care of itself before long, but, should he walk out there with this monster?  Fuck.

And really?  What was there to do?  How could he help? It’s not like he could help her vomit.  He supposed he could hold her hair back or some shit.  Or offer moral support?

He had every instinct to pull a pillow over his head and ignore it. 

But she retched again, more violently, and with a heavy sigh he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.  He grabbed his phone, knowing it was going to buzz and chirp to life again in a few minutes, and padded to the door. 

He was only semi-erect now, which was the worst, because he wouldn’t be able to flip it up into the waistband of his pajama pants, but it certainly wasn’t discreet yet either.  Whatever.  He doubted she’d be in any condition to spare him a glance, let alone notice his lingering tumescence.  Besides, few things kill an erection faster than the sounds and sights and smells of someone being ill.

He didn’t precisely hurry, but he got to the bathroom fairly quickly considering how bleary eyed and exhausted he felt.  He reached for the handle and crashed into the door when he discovered she’d locked it.

Oh. 

Ow.

“Hello?”  He heard her ask weakly from inside the bathroom.

Grey blinked.  “Hello.”  He answered, and frowned at the door.

“I’m sorry, I, um, I think I’ll be a little longer.”  She said, sounding terribly embarrassed.

She thought he needed to use the bathroom.  Grey felt itchy all over.  “No—“

“What?”

Fuck.  “No, I don’t need, I wanted to see if you, Are you all right?”  He clenched his fists.  No, moron, she isn’t alright, she’s puking her guts out because you knocked her up, you fucking asshole.

“Um. Yeah.  Just.”  He heard her sigh.  “Morning, you know.” Her voice was wavering and uneven.

He swallowed.  “Can I?  Is there anything I can do?”

She was quiet for a moment.  “I don’t think so.”  She answered carefully.

“I mean, do you want me to come in?”

“No!”  She was quick to answer.

He nodded at the door.  No. He supposed he wouldn’t want someone watching him vomit either.  But weren’t guys supposed to hold a girl’s hair back?  Wasn’t that something that was done?  Maybe that’s only when they’re stumbling, fall-down drunk?  He’d done that before and those girls had always treated him like he was their fucking hero for it, like he was a prince for getting them stupid drunk and then bothering to keep their hair away from their disgusting sick.

“Ok.”  He said lamely, because he really didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you. Though.”

“No problem.”

They were both quiet.  He wondered if she was done.  He wondered what he should do with himself.

“D’you want breakfast?”

She retched loudly. 

Ok.  No breakfast probably.  Still.  Maybe some toast?  He’d make toast.  He could manage that.  And probably she’d want a glass of water.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water.”  He told the door, when the sounds of her heaving had settled down.  He thought he heard her sob softly and something empathetic twisted in his chest.  It must suck having to be sick so much.  He hated throwing up, and found it difficult to imagine having to put up with it the way a pregnant woman had to do.

“Thank you.”  She said, sounding very tired.

“Ok.”  He said, hesitating.  “Be right back.”

“Ok.”  Came the meek reply.

Ok. 

He made himself step away from the bathroom door and down the hall toward the kitchen.  He wanted coffee.  But. Whatever.  The smell of it had made her particularly nauseated the previous morning, the last day of the honeymoon, so maybe he’d better not.  He’d live without it. 

Moving fairly quickly for someone unaccustomed to getting up before nine AM, Grey pulled bread from the bread drawer and then lifted a roll-away style cupboard to reveal several high-end Calder countertop appliances hidden away from view.  He gazed longingly at the coffee maker before pushing aside the blender and pulling out a very attractive and hardly-used toaster.  He plugged it in under the top cabinets and pressed the lever down, deciding on a nice, neutral, medium setting for the toast.

He turned and made a mental note to thank his mother for grocery shopping for them, stocking the normally bare-bones kitchen with things like bread and milk and fruit and all that other bullshit that makes a place a home. 

He grabbed a couple tall glasses and filled them with ice, and then waited rather impatiently as the water dispenser slowly filled one and then the other.  Filling the second one had taken longer because she’d flushed the toilet halfway through the task, and the drop in water pressure made what was already a meager stream of water even more pitiful.  Maybe he’d upgrade the fridge.  This was a nice model but it was more than five years old and one of the newer lines featured a water dispenser with a lot more oomph.

“Hi.”

He startled, sloshing a decent amount of icewater onto his hand and down the front of the fridge.

“Shit.”

“Sorry.”

“No, not your fault, I’m an idiot.”  He put the dripping glass down on the counter and reached for the dish towel still hanging on the stove handle where he’d left it the night before, when the toaster popped.  “Shit.”  He said quietly.  He hastily sopped up the water on the fridge and from the floor beneath it before opening it up and, after searching for a moment, emerged with the heart healthy butter spread his mother had purchased.

His phone jumped to life in his pajama pants and he reacted as if it had electrified him. “Shit!”  He scrambled to press a button through his pants, wanting to shut the thing up, and succeeded in mashing it into submission after a half a moment of scrabbling.

He flipped the towel onto his shoulder as he moved toward the toaster, opening the silverware drawer on the way and withdrawing a butter knife.  “Shit.”  He said and turned back around, backtracking to where he’d left both glasses of water. 

He picked up the un-spilled one and carefully walked it over to where she’d settled in at the kitchen island.

“Thank you.”  She smiled cautiously.

He looked her in the eyes for the first time that morning and the frantic energy from his rushing around trying to be useful seemed to slow to a dead stop.  And he was staring at her.  Across the kitchen island.  Staring at her big brown eyes.

“Good morning.”  She said quietly.

“Morning.”  He mumbled in response. 

She didn’t look too bad for someone who’d been throwing up a few minutes before.  Her hair was a little wild maybe, and there were darker circles under her eyes, and she was a bit drained of color, but he thought she looked pretty good, considering.

He wondered if she’d slept well.  It was a new place and all.  And it had been one heck of an evening over at his folks’.  And she’d been all weird and strange before bed, standing in the livingroom like a ghost or something.

He hadn’t slept well.  Despite being exhausted and having a good amount of liquor in him, he’d tossed and turned and woken up frequently.  He’d heard her running the shower around midnight.  He’d had the strangest urge to get up and join her.  When they’d dated he’d enjoyed showering with her very much.  They’d done that here, it occurred to him, in the guesthouse.  And had a bath together too.  Shit.  Did she remember that? 

“Toast?” He cleared his throat.  It served absolutely no purpose to let his mind wander to images of her soapy, wet body.

She crinkled her eyebrows.  “I’m not sure.”

Yeah.  He figured as much.  “Shouldn’t you try to eat something?”  How the fuck did fetuses survive this stage of pregnancy?  How did the women? 

He remembered his mother had been pretty fucking miserable when she was carrying Viola.  He couldn’t remember the other two pregnancies all that clearly, but he’d been about eight or so when she was pregnant with Vi and he remembered she’d spent so many days sicker than he’d ever seen her.  He’d decided that babies were awful things that happened to mothers, and no matter how Jonah’d tried to convince him otherwise, he held that unswerving belief right up until he saw his baby sister in the hospital.  Only then had he understood why people endured the misery of pregnancy.

Of course his mother had almost died; he wouldn’t know or understand that until much later.  Sometimes he wondered if he’d have liked Viola at all if their mother hadn’t survived the delivery.  He didn’t care to think about it.

“I can try.” 

Her voice snapped him out of his memory and he looked at her sharply.  “Have you seen a doctor?”  he demanded.

She blinked, obviously thrown by the non-sequitur.  “Yes.”

“Because this doesn’t seem normal.”  His tone was far more combative than was necessary, but he didn’t seem to have control over that at present.

“You’re an expert on pregnancy?” she challenged, her own tone mirroring his, going from polite and perplexed to ready-for-a-fight in the space of a couple heartbeats.

“How the fuck are you supposed to get any nutrition if you can’t keep anything down?”  He was raising his voice unnecessarily.  “Your body can’t keep running on empty for fuck’s sake—you’re going to get de-hydrated and fuck knows what else.”

She squinted at him.  “I can take care of myself, thanks, I’ve been doing it fine since this started.”

“I’m taking you to the doctor.”  He declared dismissively.

“No, you’re taking me to class.”  She answered, heated.

“Fuck that—“

“I already have an OB, Ok?”

“Who?”

“What do you care who?  I have one.  I go to all the appointments.  I know what I’m doing.”

Grey couldn’t be sure why he was so furious in that moment, but he was, he was boiling.  “Some bullshit Mexican quack?  No.  I’m taking you to Sam Bennett.  There’s no way, no fucking way that all this is normal.  You look malnourished, and I’m not going to wait until you collapse to fix this problem.”

Her mouth fell open and he thought she might have made a hissing sound.  She looked angry enough to slap him.  “I’m going to call someone else to drive me.”  She said and stood.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m driving you.”

“Don’t you ever, ever tell me to shut up!”  She leveled in a deadly voice.

He swallowed. Fuck.  “Just sit down and have some breakfast, alright?”  He’d meant to apologize, to sound conciliatory, but he hadn’t managed that.

She glared at him.  “No, thank you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you need to eat.”

“I’m not going to eat right now.”  She countered, her pitch rising steadily.

“What the fuck do you want? I’ll make you whatever the fuck you fucking want alright?”  He was shouting.

“I want you to stop trying to be a controlling asshole!”  She shrieked, and his mouth fell open.

Then her eyes got wide and she flew from the kitchen toward the bathroom again.  He heard the hasty clatter of the toilet seat slamming up and heard her wretch loudly before she managed to get the door shut.

She’d called him an ‘asshole’.  Wow.  He must have really pushed her buttons.  He’d never heard her say that word.  She’d called him a bastard before.  And she’d said some mildly offensive things in Spanish too, when he’d broken up with her, but ‘asshole’, as tame as it was for most people, was a pretty big step for Maggie.  Great.  They’d been married just over a week and he’d already driven her to profanity.

He wondered what he’d have to do to get her to say ‘fuck’.

“Fuck.”  He muttered to the kitchen at large.  What the fuck had just happened?