Page 122 of River Wild

Carrie

“Oof, that mother-trucking hurts.” I pause on my way back from the bathroom—because you know, that’s where I spend a good portion of my life nowadays—and grab hold of the sofa, bending forward ever so slightly while I wait for the pain to subside.

I’ve been feeling off all day. I keep getting these tightening pains in my stomach. They feel like period cramps. They started this morning while I was at work. But they weren’t as strong as they are now.

I think it’s Braxton Hicks.

I read about it on the pregnancy website I follow. It’s really common around this time. The body preparing for labor.

I’ve got another two weeks before my due date.

I just hope that I won’t have another two weeks of these cramping pains.

I can’t believe I’m so close to the end of my pregnancy.

And River has been here for every part of it.

After our confessions to one another, we’ve definitely grown closer. Things changed between us that night. An understanding that wasn’t there before.

But, oddly, things are still the same, too.

River does what he needs to do. I don’t ask him about it or question him.

Not because I don’t care. But because I do.

He’s used to being alone. He needs time to get used to having me to share things with. And he will—when he’s ready.

And it’s not like I’m his girlfriend.

I’m not really sure what we are.

All I know is that we spend all of our free time together.

He sometimes holds my hand when we sit together, watching TV, and he rubs my feet when they’re swollen and aching from being at the diner. He comforts me when I get emotional at the Adopt a Shelter Pet advertisements. And he brings me whatever food I happen to be craving that day. There’s no consistency in my cravings.

He cares for me. And I care for him.

But there’s no … physical intimacy between us.

Basically, there’s still no kissing between us.

I think the attraction is still there.

Well, it definitely is on my part.

Maybe not his anymore. If it ever was.

And who would blame him? I’m currently the size of a house, and in this Texas climate, I spend most of my time sweating like a pig while wearing skirts with elastic waists. The new thing is to have milk leaking from my breasts, which was not in the least embarrassing when it happened to me while River and I were at the supermarket last week.

A glamorous lady these things do not make.

Not that I’ve ever been glamorous.

But whatever.

I hear my front door open. And I’m still standing here, holding on to the sofa, bent over as far as I can actually bend, which isn’t very far, eyes on the floor.

“Red?”