Page 149 of Mile High Ex's Dad
Just a slight stumble, a hand going instinctively lower, her body catching itself a second late.
I’m moving before I think. By the time I reach her, I’m already down in front of her, one knee in the grass, one hand at her elbow, the other hovering just short of her waist as if I can keep her upright by force of will alone.
“Are you okay?”
She looks down at me, startled more than frightened, and says, “Yes.”
I search her face. Her color is a little off. Not enough for anyone else to notice, perhaps. Enough for me.
“Sienna.”
“I’m fine,” she says, but more gently this time, as if she knows that answer has stopped meaning much to me.
I stay where I am.
The world around us keeps moving. Guests arriving. Musicians adjusting stands. Voices drifting over the chairs. And here I am, on my knees in the grass in front of her, not caring in the least who sees it. That’s how far gone I am.
She shifts her weight and one hand goes to her stomach again.
I look at it. Then back at her face. “What happened?”
She hesitates, just for a second. “The baby’s kicking harder than usual.”
“When was your last appointment?” I ask.
She blinks at me, clearly not expecting that to be my first question. “A couple of weeks ago.”
“And when are you due?”
That gets a different look from her. Softer. More guarded at the same time. “I know you don’t want to get into that.”
I look up at her and say, quietly, “That isn’t true.”
Before she can answer, the baby moves again. I see it in her face first. The quick intake of breath. The way her hand presses more firmly over the curve of her dress.
Without thinking, I cover her hand with mine.
The movement stills both of us.
Then I let my palm slide a little lower, broader over her belly, and feel it. A strong, unmistakable kick against my hand.
For a moment, I forget where we are. There is only her standing over me, my hand on her stomach, and the sudden impossible tenderness of feeling that small life move under my palm.
She watches my face carefully, as if she isn’t sure what she’ll find there.
I don’t know what she finds. All I know is that my chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with something much worse.
“It’s all right,” I murmur, though I’m not sure whether I’m speaking to her or the child. “Easy.”
The baby shifts again, less obvious this time, and I keep my hand there, moving it once in a slow, soothing pass over the fabric.
Sienna’s shoulders ease by half an inch.
“That helps?” I ask.
She nods. “A little.”
I stay kneeling in front of her, hand still on her belly, looking up at a woman I have no right to care for this much and can no longer pretend I care for any less.
