Swap Out (7 page)

“I…” I shake my head, then wince at the invisible serrated blade that just carved its way through my frontal lobe. “How did you even get in here?”

“Your front door was unlocked, moron. What happened last night?”

My head spins and stomach gurgles, and I try to piece it together.

I remember going to Zoe’s house, but was that last night?

I remember her telling me she’s pregnant, then fighting in her kitchen and then walking out when she shredded me in her living room.

I remember coming home and drinking, then her showing up.

There was something…her telling me about having been pregnant once before…

And then one crazy fucking dream where she was in bed with me and we were talking.

But the majority of it is all blurry, fuzzy whispers and a few smiles, laughing about something but I can’t remember what.

My brow furrows as I concentrate, then my eyes widen. Did I ask her to marry me?

I look up at Scott, his eyebrow arched, and I toss my hand up in exasperation.

“I have no idea what happened,” I tell him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Well, you smell like a bar, and since I’m here today instead of tomorrow we may as well go do something dangerous and most likely stupid.” His face pulls into a taunting grin that reminds me of too-low BASE jumps and questionable bungee cords. “Did I tell you there’s a doctor who just started at the hospital? Stitched me up two weeks ago and she’s hot as hell.”

I chuckle, then shake my head. “I’m not getting hospitalized just so you can try to score.”

Scott scoffs. “You always say that. But first, you need to get your ass out of bed and into the shower.”

I check to make sure I’m wearing something, relieved that at least my jeans are still on. I throw off my covers and get up, stumbling a little as Scott snorts, and then head to my shower.

“You make someone cry last night?” he calls out just as I’m stepping into my bathroom. “Or you take up cross dressing in your spare time?”

My heartbeat slams high into action and I dart back into my room. “What?”

He points at my bed, and when I look, I balk.

“There’s mascara on your pillow, dude. But I didn’t see anything,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender and walking past me. “Don’t ask, don’t tell…”

No. Fucking. Way…

Life is…different.

All weekend I spent with Scott, capitalizing on the still-survivable heat by riding mountain bikes on Saturday and going climbing on Sunday, with a quick stop to the emergency room when he conveniently thought he dislocated his knee during our walk back to his truck
after
getting off the rock. But as the doctor he has his eyes on confirmed, he was fine and suffering from hypochondria. More like stupidity.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the whole thing. Scott’s a good guy, known him since we went through the pipeline together, and he’s as restless as I get. Always moving, looking for the next rush. And normally that applies to extreme sports because he loves a challenge, which is why he’s now a local skydiving instructor, but for some reason he’s decided this doctor is the next peak to conquer. Can’t really blame the guy, because he was right. She’s the full package, smart and gorgeous, but with her brown hair and eyes, all I could think about was Zoe.

I can’t believe I didn’t pinpoint the pregnancy earlier. The mood swings. The heightened sense of smell. Even her breasts are bigger. Not enough anyone would really notice, but I sure did, and she’s been a little tender lately as well.

I don’t know if it was denial, but I just…I know better than to miss details like that. Part of my training in Pararescue was medically focused: being able to identify injuries and knowing how to treat them in the field. Recognizing symptoms that whisper truths the ego would give anything to hide. The body tells you everything you need to know, it triages itself and it will scream the priorities if you know how to read the signs. The words coming out of the mouth of the person you’re working on, however, they do their best to send you in the other direction. Fear and panic, adrenaline and secrets, it’s a hell of a minefield to traverse.

After a while you start to get a feel for it, to see the sleight of hand for what it is. When they’re screaming about their ankle, but the bullet only grazed it and the real problem is the shard of metal in their bicep. But to get there, you have to lift their sleeve and it’s going to reveal the track marks they don’t want you to find. You ask questions about pain, and they lie. Eventually, you stop listening and you decide for yourself.

In all honesty, if I was more motivated to be the best version of myself, I should probably be an EMT. I’m certified and all that shit, and a lot of ex-Pararescue head that direction when they get out. Calm under pressure, physical requirements that don’t touch the limits of our trained capability. But instead of being benevolent with everything I have to offer, like rich people who donate half their wealth to charity, I’m hauling furniture.

I’ve seen enough broken bodies for a lifetime and I don’t really want to be giving CPR and blood transfusions anymore. I don’t do failure well, and you can’t always bring them back. It’s still hard though, seeing someone need help. So I give it when I can. I never took a Hippocratic oath or anything, but I’m not about to tell someone I’m useless when I’m not, and I won’t let them be hurt if I can make it better.

It makes hospitals tough places to be. Keeping quiet and practically sitting on my hands while we’re in the waiting room because of whatever new bone Scott broke. I know it’s hard for him too, because we sit and watch, debating back and forth what the stranger’s injury is and the right course of treatment. But yesterday when we went into the emergency room, the sign up front had an arrow pointing toward Labor and Delivery and I felt my chest lock.

It’s not even like I’ve been counting down the days to getting married and having kids. I’m the guy who saw that as forfeiting weekend climbing trips and the freedom to travel. But spending my entire life knowing the only person I could ever claim as family was myself…the idea of it is striking hard and deep.

Family.

Scott is my family, in a way. A brother. We’ve spilt blood together, carried each other—literally—faced down threats and he was one of the reasons I made it out of the hospital after being shot six times. Because every chance he got, he was there with me. Taunting me to stop crying about a few scratches and how I was missing a hell of a view from the jumps they were throwing him into. And when I was cleared for active duty, he was beside me when I went back out into the field. He covered me when things got tight, and in his own asshole way, he talked me through it until I was free of the paranoia.

I had another year left in my contract and I saw it out, and he didn’t try to change my mind when I told him I wasn’t going to re-up. I’m not even sure why he made the same decision I did, but for six months we just toured the U.S. as civilians, crossing items off our bucket lists and visiting our rowdy group of friends. Maybe it was because I don’t think he ever expected to live past the age of twenty-one. Can’t really blame him, it still blows my mind that I made it this far. So now that in a couple of years I’ll be staring down thirty and he already
is,
he’s attacking life like any day might be his last.

Jumps are getting higher. Free soloing instead of trad. He went wingsuiting a few months ago and I’ll admit, I was jealous, but I had to work and couldn’t make the trip. The man literally stood on the edge of a cliff, looked down at the rocks waiting below, then jumped: just falling until he spread his arms and legs and let the cloth carry him as he skirted the side of a mountain, skimming the air until he made it all the way down. Sounds like the best way to live, and the perfect way to die.

It’s going to happen eventually, and the truth is I’d rather it happen by falling off a rock or having my chute fail. It’ll be fast and most likely painless. Organs exploding, spine shattering, lights out. Plus I’ll get a kickass view in my last few seconds. But yesterday when we went climbing and he wanted us to free solo it: no belay, no cams, no ropes, I told him no dice. He spent ten minutes fucking with me about being a pussy and losing my nerve, and I didn’t tell him why I wouldn’t do it, but he finally let it go and we tied in.

The thing is, normally I’m fine with the risk. If I fall, I fall. Anything over thirty feet, I know I’m not coming back. But for the first time ever, I couldn’t take the chance. And it had everything to do with Zoe.

I know she’s going to do what she’s going to do, make the decision she’s going to make, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop her. I actually researched it Saturday night after Scott had passed out and I don’t even have a
legal
leg to stand on. A man cannot obtain an injunction to keep a woman from having an abortion. It’s her body, and her decision, despite the fact that it’s also my blood on the line. And even though abortion is illegal in Utah, except for in the case of rape or incest, it’s not even like I can report her until afterwards because until she does it, she hasn’t broken any laws.

The whole thing is so unfair and warped it’s insane. Because even if I did want to take her to court over her decision, sue for mental distress or just alert the authorities to what she did, I don’t think I could go through with it. As screwed up as everything is, I’m not about to send Zoe to jail and ruin her life just because she didn’t want one with me in it. That only leaves me with one option: until she takes the drive to Grand Junction or wherever she chooses to have it done, I’m not dancing with death. She’s still pregnant, and it’s still my kid.

Growing up in foster care, I had a range of different “dads.” Some were drunks, some didn’t care, some were zealots and some I will never have a name for. A few were decent, but those were rare. It only gets worse as you get older, because usually the people taking in a fourteen-year-old boy are looking for something other than a son. They want a source of manual labor; a bodyguard for a more precious, out-of-control daughter.

A long time ago I swore to myself that if I was ever in a position like I am now, I would do it right. And the best way to learn how to do something is to live through the wrong. So I’m not going to run, as much as the thought of Zoe’s scare tactics makes me want to quit and relocate to another part of the country where I can start over. And for all I know, it could already be finished. But until I know that, I’m going to take care of my kid in the only way I can: by taking care of Zoe.

Hence the mug of decaf peppermint coffee warming my hand that I bought a bag of last night. Plus the coffee pot, and then figured out how to make it. But the woman has an insane coffee obsession, and the peppermint should help with the morning sickness. I hope. Because she’s not here yet, and something tells me that’s the reason. Just like on Friday when she came in late and I stupidly thought she was hungover. Yeah, not likely.

I unlock the front door of the business, disabling the security alarm and then heading to her office. I have the keys to it too, and I never really thought about it before, but it makes me smile a little because in some small way, she trusts me. I set the mug down on her desk, then reach into the paper bag I’m carrying and take out the spray bottle of lemon scented air freshener. I lightly spritz the drapes covering the large window, then a little around the floor by her chair. It’s not overpowering, but lemon is supposed to help alleviate nausea as well so it’s worth a shot.

I leave a sleeve of Saltine crackers in her top desk drawer, then put everything else away in her closet before checking over the large calendar on her desk and looking at the itinerary for the day. Stage, then a meeting with a client to do a bid on an interior decorating job, then nothing.

I chew the inside of my lip. I can’t for the life of me remember what we’re setting up in the house this morning, so I’m gonna have to wait until she gets here to find out what she needs loaded up. Until then, I can find plenty of ways to keep busy.

I head out of Zoe’s office and check over the front of the store. The majority of her business is conducted over the phones, but occasionally clients come in and drop off checks, sign contracts, some just want to make sure she’s legit. They’ll check out her stuff, just kinda walking around and browsing to get an idea of her style; whether everything is all matchy-matchy or more contemporary, eye popping signature pieces. So if the front looks like shit, business tanks.

Most of the time, it’s up to Kevin and the three other grunts to keep it in order: to make sure we’re rotating the best stuff up front and keeping it clean. And typically, it’s up to me to make sure they’re doing their job. But the second I turn my back, they don’t do shit. Sure enough, seeing as how I left in a furious fit on Friday, nothing’s been done.

I spend the next hour swapping out some armchairs and a coffee table, a rug and a few lamps. I clean the dining table Zoe practically kissed when I put it together because according to her, it is the most gorgeous table in the history of tables. One solid piece of some type of wood I can’t even remember, the chairs so classy I held my breath the entire time I was setting them up. Especially since the upholstery is white, and dust and dirt is a major issue in Moab. The front door opens and it sweeps in like a damn plague. And it is
red
. Like staining-creamy-imported-silk-until-it-looks-like-it-has-the-chicken-pox
red
.

God bless Dyson.

I vacuum everything up front, making sure it looks like the best version of itself and when I’m done, I head into the back warehouse. I sigh and shake my head, because the place is a wreck. I’m a freak about keeping it organized so I can pull out what she needs at a moment’s notice, but it only takes those other fuckers five minutes to turn it into chaos. Makes doing inventory a damn nightmare.

I get started on shifting around the placement of sofas, careful to keep them separated from the sharp corners of tables that place indentions on the backs and sides.
Some people
don’t care or realize not all couches get backed up against walls, and if the back looks like shit or has a tear, we can’t use it until I patch it up. Meaning busting out my super manly sewing kit and trying to hide the imperfection. I curse when I see that someone, probably Kevin, set a painting directly on a dinette without placing a buffer blanket between the frame and the tabletop, and I swear, I would fire him if I could. If he scratched it…

I walk over and lift off the painting, carefully placing it on the floor so it leans against the wall. And when I check the dinette, sure as shit there is a six-inch long gouge right in the center. Zoe is going to freak. She bought this a week ago specifically for a stage we have on Wednesday, and it was the only one in a two hundred mile radius. I run my finger over the scratch and it’s deep but I think I’ll be able to hide it. Hopefully before she gets here and I have to deliver the news.

But it’s gonna have to wait because the bell on the front door just rang, and it looks like I’m gonna have to deal with whoever is here and tell them Zoe isn’t in yet. I clean my hands off on my cargo shorts to disappear the dust, then grab the towel I carry with me and wipe the layer of sweat off my forehead and back of my neck before it seeps into the collar of my blue work polo, embroidered in white lettering with Zoe’s business name over my heart. I toss the cloth into the break room, then stride up front.

“Welcome to Pearce,” I say automatically as I round the corner, then stop when I see Zoe.

She’s a little pale again like she’s had a rough morning, but other than that she looks like her. Her hair down and full, soft waves that look like she spent three hours at a salon getting it done. Lavender silk button up blouse, the collar slightly open and the sleeves turned up, her shirt tucked into black dress pants and a blazer draped over her arm. Her eyes are wide as she stares at me, framed in thick black lashes that make her eyes pop, her soft pink lips slightly parted in shock.