Swap Out (30 page)

She comes up sputtering, trying to push wet strands of hair out of her face while furiously shouting, “You…you threw me in the pool!”

“Yeah!” I yell back, then dive in after her.

I surface right in front of Zoe, shaking out my hair and wiping water off my face, and she is glaring at me like I’m dead the second she finds a weapon. Her arms are crossed, the blue long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing now looking black from the water, onyx trails slipping down her cheeks from the last remnants of makeup she had on. But as always, she’s still the kind of beautiful that tightens my throat and makes me stand a little straighter, to wonder what that hell she’s doing with someone who has no real future except one that will end in an ICU bed and then a quick upgrade to the morgue before I’m halfway to qualifying for AARP. But it doesn’t change the fact that she is.

I pull her arms loose and drape them around my neck, my fingertips reverent as they wipe off her cheeks, and because she can never help it no matter how much she fights, her eyes and face and shoulders soften. Winding my arms around her waist and drawing her against me, I lean my forehead against hers, and something in the stiff set of the remainder of her muscles relaxes, her body melting into mine.

“Now tell me the truth,” I say quietly and lift a kiss off her lips, and when I pull back she rolls her bottom lip in like she’s savoring the taste of me. “Did you honestly come here to try to push me away, or were you trying to catch me naked and hopefully in the shower?”

“Being cute won’t work,” she says. “I’m really mad at you right now.”

I shrug. “I’m mad at you.”

“Then what the hell are we doing?” she hisses, trying to pull away from me, and I wrench her right back against my chest.

“Taking a break from fighting for five seconds,” I tell her with a smirk, but it falls fast. “I’ve been ignoring you all day, and I missed you.”

She sighs and leans closer, hugging her arms around my neck and resting her temple against mine. My hand cups the back of her neck, my eyes closing peacefully even though this battle is long from over, but I wasn’t lying when I said I missed her. And even though I’m still worried and scared and pissed as all hell, I know the signs of her self-sabotage tricks and because of that, I can’t seem to stay mad at her for long. Plus, she just makes me feel better.

“I can’t keep hurting you,” she whispers. “It’s killing me.”

The corners of my mouth tug down in guilt and I feel so horribly, sickly awful for making everything worse for her, but I just…I can’t deny what I need. If I want things to work, then I have to tell her what’s important to me. I have to tell her the truth.

I hold her tighter, wrapping her jean-clad legs around my waist as I drop a kiss to her shoulder, then make myself say, “Then consider adoption.”

She doesn’t say anything, but a shiver races through her body that speaks heavily of a two letter word, and it’s the last thing I want to hear.

“I’m not asking you to decide tonight,” I breathe, my hand on her back slipping down her side and settling on her hip so I can brush my thumb over the curve in her lower stomach. “But we have to figure this out fast, Zoe. We’re running out of time.”

“I know,” she says, tucking her face into my neck. “I know we are.”

And for some reason, when her fingers toy with the chain over the back of my neck, it feels like she’s talking about something entirely different than I was.

Four days. Four fucking days for the package to come in, and I almost missed it. I was just pulling into the store after repairing a water heater in a vacation rental when I saw the FedEx truck leaving. I spun the wheel hard to the right and stopped directly in his path, the front bumper of the box truck less than a foot from my driver’s side door. I almost had a heart attack and I’m pretty sure the driver
did
have one, but I didn’t care. Because after he backed up and climbed down, then threatened to punch me out—yeah, okay—he finally checked my driver’s license against the name on the package and I signed for the little brown box.

One of the suckiest joys of living in the middle of freaking nowhere? You either have to shop online or drive two hours to the nearest city. One with more to offer than three barely-standing restaurants and a sports equipment depot, and inexplicably, a Starbucks. But since ducking out to take a four-hour round trip in the middle of my twelve-hour work day would rouse an endless list of questions I wasn’t about to answer, it was hello internet search engine and praying the delivery wouldn’t get lost.

And
that it was everything the picture claimed it to be since normally, one doesn’t just cross their fingers and hope when it comes to this stuff. They look, they inspect, they feel the weight in their hand instead of sneaking out of bed and hiding in the garage in the middle of the night, commandeering the girlfriend-you-hope-doesn’t-wake-up’s laptop. And normally you dress nice, respectable even, not doing the king of all shopping excursions in your workout clothes so just in case she
does
get up and comes looking for you, you can ditch the computer and pretend you were doing some late-night reps on the Bowflex she probably spent a grand total of three minutes on since she bought it years ago.

But social tradition and convenience is a luxury ill-afforded in my current position. At least she didn’t wake up, and I know she hasn’t busted me yet because not only did I clear her browser history like a good little sneak, but I’ll be damned if she wouldn’t have had something to say about what I bought online. She has a lot to say about everything, not that I’m really listening to her right now.

She’s on the warpath since every day her clothes are getting a little bit tighter, plus I keep leaving around printed out articles that discuss everything about the benefits of adoption and how the process works. Probably doesn’t help that I’ve also confronted her more than once about how her abortion argument is total smoke and mirrors since she cares about the baby enough to realize that she
would
keep it if she thought she could raise it right, which I know she can. I
know
she can.

She is one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, she’s certainly the smartest person I’ve ever known. And I obviously trust her with my financial well-being since she’s basically been paying my rent and all my bills for the last year through the success of her company. The one that
she
built.
Alone
.

But I don’t just trust her when it comes to business, I trust her with
everything
.

Because Zoe is…I just…I
love
her. I know she could be the most kickass mom in the history of the species, she just has to believe it too. And if she can’t accept that, then I have every faith she will do what needs to be done, and that equals adoption. Letting go of our child won’t be easy but I know we can get through it together, and right now, that is what’s important. That she’s assured of the fact that we will find a way through this with each other to lean on, that I believe in her and will support her no matter what happens because
I love her
.

So no more am I playing head-in-the-sand, and I won’t let her do it either. I am making sure we are talking about this during every five minute break I can find to bring up the subject, and needless to say, she’s stressed to unreasonable levels. At least I’m back at the house so I can keep an eye on things.

After our last long, crazy Saturday, full of doctors’ offices and swimming pools and “break-up decisions” that rinsed down the drain along with the chlorine, we came back home. To what is now
our
home.

I basically just straight up told Zoe that I was done with my apartment and I was moving in with her. I’ll still have to pay off the rest of my lease but I was doing that anyway, and it’s not like all my clothes and kitchen utensils weren’t already at the house. And it’s not like over the last few weeks she hasn’t been replacing tables, artwork, wall colors and talking about remodeling. She tries to do it subtly, like it’s what
she
wants, but there hasn’t been a decision made that wasn’t preceded by a long discussion of what
I
like, what I think would look good and what constitutes my dream house. Which pretty much just entails one where I sleep next to her, but it’s still been fun and it means a lot to me that she not only asks my opinion, but takes it into consideration.

So I now spend every night in a house representing both of us until I leave for work in the morning, but somewhere in between she usually tries to kick me out. Crying about her being awful this and yelling about ruining my life that, and I let her vent and flip her shit for as long as she needs until she eventually gives up. Crumbles into a mess of deathly-tight hugs that are lasting longer and longer, hands clinging to me and tears soaking my shirt, swearing she doesn’t know what to do anymore because she doesn’t want me to stay, but she can’t bear me leaving. And my answer is always to stay. Because she may think she is dangerous for me, and really, for the baby, but I know better. And because of the security I have in the love she shows simply through her worry, I’m finally getting a decent amount of sleep and my appetite is coming back.

Although once I signed for that package today I haven’t felt the urge to ingest anything other than air, and the only reason I didn’t jump the fuck out of my skin once I had it in my hands was because I didn’t have the time. Busy busy busy, rushing from one house to the next and when I finally took five minutes to pull over and open the box—holding my breath the entire time—Zoe called and asked where I was because she needed help with a bid for a stage. And because something in my brain decided she could see it through the phone, I almost dropped the damn thing down the side of my seat.

I told Zoe I’d be right there, which I was after dutifully hiding the box in my trunk, but then I felt every ounce of blood drain from my face when she turned away from the realtor we were finishing with and asked me what FedEx had delivered, and why they wouldn’t let her sign for it.

I coughed to cover my sputtering, then told her it was porn. What the hell was I supposed to say?

They wouldn’t let you sign for it because I just spent a fair chunk of money on something that’s going to shock the ever living crap out of you, not to mention I’m scared shitless that your low self-esteem is going to scream an answer that I’m terrified of hearing, but hey…high risk is what I do best.

So yeah, I didn’t say that, but I probably should have offered something that didn’t earn me a hissed lecture about appropriate workplace conversations. Good thing she can never stay mad at me for long and by the time we set the security alarm at the store that night, I was back in her good graces and home we went for any other normal Thursday evening. Except there is nothing normal about spending the last two hours hiding in the garage while trying to get my nerve up, and
not
working out like she thinks.

I blow out a long, deep breath, taking one last look at the tiny G.I. Joe action figure with the parachute tied on. I let my eyes sweep over his confident face and then down to his hands, then grit my teeth and press his body into my palm: my fingers curling around the plastic figurine to hide what I can’t believe I’m about to do. But I’m going to do it anyway.

I stand and roll out my neck, exhale once more then narrow my eyes at the door leading from the garage into the house. I’m a grown man, ex-Special Ops, reckless and brave and more sure about this—about
her
—than I have ever been about anything else and there’s no reason I can’t do this. Just like I told Zoe: if you want something, whether it’s a Mocha Latte or someone to spend the rest of your life with because you can’t imagine sharing it with anyone else, you have to ask.

When I head inside there are the faint sounds of a movie on in the living room, the dishwasher quietly at work in the kitchen and then the click of keys on her laptop. Heat rushes up the back of my neck and I stride assertively into the living room, my heart pounding and palms sweating and a bead of it running down my spine under my otherwise-dry t-shirt. Maybe I should have splashed some water on me so it looks like I was working out…

Fuck it. Too late.

“You done proving to yourself that you’re the King of the Bowflex?” Zoe says without looking up, comfortably stretched out on the couch with her favorite cashmere throw blanket draped lazily over her, laptop balanced on her bent knees.

She lets out a wistful sigh and double taps the pad of her middle finger on the built-in mouse pad, eyebrow arching with delight at whatever furniture she’s perusing, probably from the Joss & Main website. She’s completely addicted to their stunning, hard to find pieces, shipped in a speedy two weeks and at a lovely 70% off retail. Can’t really blame her for being hooked.

“I don’t have to prove anything,” I drawl as I sit on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. And my smile is cool and calm, but my knees instantly begin bouncing despite my brain screaming for them to knock it off before I blow this. At least she’s too invested in tables and boudoirs to notice. “I already knew I was the king.”

“Well, King Bowflex, get ready to say goodbye to our bed because I want a new one and this Florence Acacia
masterpiece
,” she says and turns the screen towards me, totally beaming and batting her eyelashes, “is everything I have ever wanted.”

I chew the inside of my lip and try to forget the sharp poke of plastic hands digging into my palm, reminding me that I have a goal here and furniture isn’t it. But making her happy is always my first priority and so I patiently take in the picture of the wooden frame, the crown molding and openwork iron inlay in the headboard, and it’s nice. Really nice. And true to the beauty of Joss & Main, it’s a freaking steal for only a grand. There’s just one little thing…

“It’s purple.”

“It is not!” she says with a laugh, turning the computer screen back to herself. “It’s Acacia wood in dark mahogany. It’s just the lighting in the photograph that makes it look like that.”

“It looks purple.”

“Luca,” she whines, pouting at me. “You really don’t like it?”

“It’s great,” I say and smile. “Buy it, I’ll build it, we’ll sleep on it for two weeks and then it’ll be all ‘Ew, that much wood attracts termites! I want a Seraphina in the dove gray.’”

“Which was the Seraphina?” she asks, typing away, and I roll my eyes.

“The wingback headboard with diamond-tufted detailing and a pine frame.”

She pauses and peeks over at me, her grin stretching wider and wider.

“What?” I say defensively. “It was the one you wanted last week, absolutely and completely convinced it was the bed of your dreams, then you changed your mind at the last minute because it doesn’t have a footboard.”

“That’s not why I changed my mind,” she says, and my brow furrows.

“Then wh—never mind,” I say and shake my head, my hand tightening over the G.I. Joe as my other rakes through my hair. I exhale and try to get my knees to stop fidgeting, but that’s as much of a lost cause as telling me I’ll never go rock climbing again.

Panic strikes me cold and numb. Oh God, what if that’s her counter offer? Because Zoe never takes a first suggestion without coming back to renegotiate, and she’ll win. She always freaking wins.

I’m so screwed.

Christ, what the hell is my problem? I’d be
lucky
if that even happened because honestly, I must be insane. I am trying to hook a shark with a Snoopy fishing pole and the shark is going to laugh and then chew me up and spit me out and then run off and snicker about it with her friends and meanwhile I’ll be—

No.

I’m not talking myself out of this.

She’s not a shark, not anymore. She’s a koi, a guppy, a—

Dammit! She’s not a fucking
fish!

“Just,” I start, my eyes squeezing shut as I try to get my brain back on track. But it’s no use and I’m not going to be a rational, sane person until I finally get this done.

Now. It has to be
now
.

My eyes open, but I can’t look higher than the floor and my words come out quieter than I intend when I say, “Buy what you want. I don’t care.”

She snorts and I peek up at her, finding her smile wide with amusement and more than a little curiosity. “Are you all right?”

I take a breath, trying to appear a relaxed I don’t feel. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re acting weird,” she says, closing her laptop. “And why aren’t you sweaty and gross? Thought you were working out…”