Page 43 of Tides That Bind

I asked him to swear, so it’s only fair he has a request for me.

“You’re not going to move. Not to North Carolina or anywhere. Not now.”

I take a deep breath. “I can’t. I can’t leave here, even if I wanted to.”

Because here is where Nate is.

“I promise,” I tell him.

Our eyes meet and I see through the scruff of Riley’s beard that his lips tighten into a grin.

“I never thought we’d be here again.” This time the tears in my eyes are drawn from laughter.

Riley chuckles. “Me either.”

We should be breaking out in hysterics. It’s so sad and tragic that it has to be funny. Because after everything, what I’m asking is for Riley—my late husband’s best friend, the man I’ve struggled to understand, let alone tolerate—to coparent Lucas with me until we make it through.

“We’ve done it before.”

When Riley stands, the loss of his warm legs pressed into mine more than noticeable. And I wonder, if after today, himfleeing another time will be just as palpable—as hurtful—for me for me as it would be for Lucas.

I look at the hand he holds out, offering to pull me to my feet. I take it, without inhaling a deep breath, without an ounce of hesitation. And his skin infects me with a warm flush that thaws the icy loneliness grief has filled me with. I decide that yes. I’d be bothered by him gone.

“We can do it again.”

THEN

I manageto talk myself off a ledge after I drink a bottle of Gatorade and lay down in bed. After forty minutes go by and I’m not hit with any other contractions, I relax enough, falling asleep to the sound of heavy rain and waking up to it hours later.

Pushing up on my elbows as best as I can, I look at the clock, doing a double take after reading it’s only six-thirty. It’s so dark outside, I would’ve thought it was the middle of the night.

I take a deep breath, focusing on my body, searching for any sign that something is off. But I feel calm, and, after that nap, well rested.

“I must’ve been dehydrated,” I tell myself as I scoot to the edge of the bed and grab my phone.

There’s no message from Nate.

And there are no more contractions.

But to be safe, I call my doctor’s after-hours line.

“Hi. How are you? My name is Harper Jones. I’m Dr. Lopez’s patient,” I tell the nurse. “I…I’m probably just being paranoid but—”

I jump when thunder booms outside.

“Ms. Jones? Are you there?”

“Yes, sorry. I’m calling because I think I’ve been having contractions.”I explain the tightening, how they happen when I’m moving. I explain everything, like how my husband is deployed and I’m starting to freak out.

The nurse, thankfully, is understanding. “These sound like some standard Braxton Hicks. I wouldn’t worry too much. I have your file and it seems you’re booked in for an appointment in two days.”

“Yes, at nine-thirty on Thursday.”

Over the phone I’m told to up my fluids and get some rest. “And time them well. If there’s a pattern in any way where they’re consistently ten minutes apart you should head to the hospital and go to the labor and delivery unit to be checked. But I wouldn’t worry, dear.”

I thank her, hanging up, but I feel no better. I wonder for a minute if I should call my mother-in-law, Claire, but she’s visiting her friend in Northern California this week and I don’t want her panicking and trying to get home in a storm. She probably couldn’t get a flight anyway.

Standing, I make my way to the bathroom, catching sight of my bedhead. The situation wasn’t helped by the matting of my hair from my run in the rain across the parking lot earlier, or waddling around the house to push the crib inside.

---