Chapter 6.

The sound of a fist on wood drags me from my dreams. Disoriented by the gloomy dark swathing the bedroom—ah, the blackout blinds are drawn—I groan at the insistent pounding. The idiot at our front door might as well be knocking on my skull.

Blinking against the bright February day shining through the rest of the house, I shuffle down the hallway, cursing whoever the fuck is so determined to bang down the door. I'm not even sure what time it is—maybe late morning, judging by the patterns the sun is throwing across the wood floors of the entry way.

"Yeah?" I swing open the door, expecting a salesperson or Jehovah's Witness. Hoping it's someone I can tell to take a hike, because I've had nowhere near my definition of "sufficient sleep" after a week of night shifts, and I'm not in the mood to buy anything or be converted.

"Oh, did I wake you?"

I scratch my head as I narrow my eyes at my mother. "Who did you expect to answer the door on a Friday morning? Bella's at work, and if I'm home, chances are I'm asleep." I'm being rude, I know.

"It's Saturday," Mom tells me. Guilt or concern creases her brow. "I thought Bella would …"

I squint as I look out over the driveway. Bella's car is missing, and it takes me a few moments to remember why she's not home.

"She's doing prenatal pilates."

Mom nods and holds out a dish towel-wrapped casserole pot. "I accidentally cooked too much and … well, we won't eat it all, so I thought it'd save you having to cook tonight. Or tomorrow."

I rub my fists into my eyes to hide the fact I want to roll them. Who accidentally cooks too much? When they're cooking for two?

"Thanks, Mom."

She hands me the still-warm crock pot. "Well, I best be going then. Let you get back to bed."

I sigh as she turns away and steps down off our porch. I feel kind of bad, but not enough to invite her in for a coffee. "Mom–"

She turns back, looking … hopeful, maybe? I'm too tired to decipher her expression.

"I appreciate this, I really do. And Bella will, too."

She smiles. "I'm glad."

I shift the weight of the ceramic dish to my other arm and sigh.

The further Bella moves into the second trimester of her pregnancy, the easier I've been breathing. She's feeling a lot better, too—the morning sickness seems to have abated. It means I don't usually see her on those mornings when I've worked a night shift, but I'm not about to complain about not being woken up by the sound of her being violently ill.

But of course, life has a habit of replacing one stress with another, and with our families involved now … well, it's the third time in the last week that Mom's dropped by with food—though I was at work the last two times—and Renée "was just in the area," twice, as well. I know they mean well, and are just excited to help out, but I fear they'll drive us crazy if I don't nip this in the bud.

"Listen. It'd be–" I pull my free hand through my hair "–really helpful if you could call before you drop by."

"I did," Mom says. "But no one answered."

Yawning, I shake my head. "That usually means no one's home, Mom." I try to keep my voice gentle.

I set the food down on the doorstep, and hold my arms out to my mother as I step off the porch. I've been taller than Mom since I was fourteen, but it's still strange how tiny she feels in my arms.

"I love you," I tell her, "and we know you want to help. But we're doing okay for now, all right?"

"Okay," she says, and I'm relieved that I don't hear too much hurt in her voice.

I release her and step back, stifling another yawn.

"Go back to bed."

"Yes, Mom."

She chuckles, and I grin. I think we understand each other.

"Goodnight."

I wait until she drives away before closing the front door. I put the casserole in the fridge, and stumble back into our darkened bedroom, my eyes watering from the yawns that keep rolling through me.

There's a pretty good chance I'm asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

"This is so good," Bella says. Or at least, I think that's what she says—her mouth is full of my mom's casserole.

I spear another mushroom and put it on the side of Bella's plate. "Yeah. She clearly made it with you in mind."

Bella grins as she stabs the mushroom and chews it happily. "You're such a baby. Mushrooms are delicious."

"They're a fungus," I say. "That–" I point my fork at her as she lifts another to her lips "–is basically the same kind of life form as that gross stuff between people's toes. You're pretty much licking someone's Athlete's Foot right now."

She shakes her head and reaches for her water. "Well, there's a delightful image."

I shrug, unapologetic. "Fungus-eater."

We're eating some kind of beef and red wine stew thing, with a cheesy polenta crust on top, and despite the presence of Satan's toejam, it is pretty delicious.

I take a sip of my beer and then dump another couple of mushrooms on Bella's plate. Mom has, quite considerately, quartered the evil bastards so they're easy to pick out. When I was kid, she used to grate them into our meals. Like I wouldn't notice their slimy disgustingness if she shredded them fine enough or something.

"Oh," I tell her. "When Mom came by with this, I asked her to call before showing up."

Bella nods, her eyes on her plate as she speaks. "Thanks for that. I mean, I appreciate her generosity, but …"

"Yeah."

She looks up at me. "I feel kinda bad."

"Don't," I say. I realize that's easier said than done, and I tell her so. "And I spoke to Katie this afternoon, and she said Mom was the same when she was pregnant with Eleazar. Until she put her foot down and told her she'd ask for help when she needed it."

Bella thinks about that for a while, drawing the tines of her fork through the polenta. "Would it help to be pre-emptive, do you think?"

I set my fork down and reach for my beer. Around my plate, the blue and white check tablecloth Bella spread across the table before we ate is spattered with tiny red splotches of tomato-based sauce. Tablecloths are weird.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Bella's fork clinks against her plate, "if I, say, asked her and Mom to go shopping with me for some maternity clothes … or to paint the nursery or something. Do you think they'd feel more involved, and so not feel the need to just show up all the time?"

"But I want to help you paint the nursery," I say, frowning. We agreed just last week to paint it white with some red trim and ladybug decals.

Bella huffs and looks at the ceiling, and I think I've missed the point she was making.

"It was just an example," she says. "It doesn't have to be that. It could be picking out curtains, or a stroller, or I don't know … a freaking breast pump." She shudders and I grin. She's not sold on the concept—while she likes the idea of being able to leave me with baby and a bottle if she wants to go out for a while, she thinks it sounds a little bit too much like being milked, and she says she never wants to feel like a dairy cow.

I chuckle at the remembered conversation, but sober quickly as I turn over her suggestion. While I think shopping with both our mothers at the same time sounds pretty exhausting, it really might go a long way in helping them to feel like we want them to be involved.

I nod. "You know, that sounds like a really good idea."

Bella smiles, relief painted across her face. "Mom's coming around tomorrow for brunch. I'll make plans with her then, and I'll let Esme know."

Renée turns up the next morning juggling two cups of coffee, a paper bag, and a pile of magazines.

"Oh," she says, breezing past me when I open the door, "Bella said you'd be out. I only got two coffees."

"I'm heading out in half an hour," I say. I have plans to meet Jamie at the squash courts. "Bella said you'd be here at ten."

She leads me down the hallway, glancing at the clock in the kitchen. It's barely nine-thirty. "Oh, I suppose I am a little early."

Bella wanders into the kitchen behind us, and her gaze flickers from the clock to her mother to me. She looks gorgeous in her still sleep-rumpled state, the strap of her camisole hanging off her shoulder. Her nipples, darkened with her pregnancy, are just visible beneath the satiny lilac fabric. The cut is loose and flowy, hiding the curve of her belly. At eighteen weeks, she's just started showing, and to her amusement (and disbelief), I find the swell of her stomach unspeakably sexy.

I grit my teeth as her mother starts prattling about how beautiful the weather is and what a lovely Spring we're going to have. I want to drag Bella back to the bedroom and make love to her. To feel the silk of her pajamas against the backs of my hands as I cup her breasts. To pull those little shorts down her legs. To run my hands across her round belly as she moves over me.

Bella catches my gaze and what I'm thinking must be written on my face because her cheeks turn pink and she folds her arms across her chest, shaking her head.

"Mom, I'm just going to get dressed." She points at me, then at the floor of the kitchen. A silent command to stay where I am. I pout and she smirks, mouthing "Later."

I'll hold her to that.

I'm not sure Renée even hears Bella over her own babbling as she continues on about how sunny it is, and how beautiful the flowers in our garden are, and how lovely the something-or-other would be in a bouquet.

Bouquet? Ah, fuck.

I glance at the stack of glossy magazines she's set on the table, skimming the titles embossed on their spines. More than half of them seem to be pregnancy, birth, and parenting related … the others are bridal magazines. Subtle.

My fists balled, I realize I have about two minutes to say something—if I'm going to. My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth as my mind races in inconclusive circles. Tell her to back off. Divert her attention. Say nothing. Say something.

"What was that?"

Bella's arms are folded across her chest again—though she's now wearing a bra and a blue cardigan over a pretty floral sundress that skims over her belly. Her eyes narrow as she scans the titles of the magazines on the table.

"What are those?" Her voice is wound tight, like it will explode in volume at any moment.

"Oh, I brought you a coffee—decaf, of course—and some pastries." I can't tell from her benign smile whether Renée's misunderstanding is deliberate or not.

Bella doesn't bother to mention the smell of coffee still turns her stomach. "These." She stabs a finger to the pile of magazines.

"Oh." Renée's smile droops a little as she looks between Bella and myself.

"Well, just to give you some ideas," she says. Her voice isn't as bright as it was when she first burst through the front door. "Can't hurt to take a look, see what options there are and so on."

I look to Bella, trying to take my cue from her. I'm still wondering if I should say something or if this is a battle she wants to fight on her own. Her bare foot taps against the timber a few times as she considers her mother.

"Bel?"

She looks at me, her eyes soft. "You should go," she says, her voice even. "You'll be late."

She nods when I hesitate, uncrossing her arms and reaching for me. She kisses my neck and then my lips as I look down at her.

My mouth by her ear, I ask her if she'll be okay, and she nods again.

"Fine," she says. "We'll talk when you get home."

I'm unconvinced, but what am I going to do? Tell her she's not okay? Insist on staying when she's trying to kick me out? She clearly wants to deal with her mom on her own so I smile and kiss her temple.

"Okay. I'll only be a couple of hours."

"Tell Jamie I said 'hi.'"

I say goodbye to Renée, and it annoys me that she seems relieved that I'm leaving. If she's going to meddle, she should, in my opinion, have the decency to do it when I'm around.

The first law of thermodynamics states that the energy of a system is constant. It cannot be created, nor destroyed, but it can be transformed.

I'm pretty sure that's what happens on a squash court. The squeak of shoes against the floor, the thud of the ball against the walls, the sweat dripping down my back, the grunt of exertion that echoes with each stroke of a racquet—friction and stress being converted to heat and sound energy. It's therapeutic, and after four matches, I'm exhausted—in a good way.

"How's Bella doing, man?" Jamie's voice is muffled by the towel he's wiping his face with.

"Pretty good," I say. I gulp down some more water. "Seems like her morning sickness has gone, so that's good."

"Nice," he says. "What's she up to this morning?"

I groan, glancing at my watch. I wonder if Renée will still be there when I get home, and what kind of mood I'll find Bella in. "Having brunch with her mom."

Jamie nods, and his understanding expression tells me Bella's probably been in Vicky's ear. His words confirm my hypothesis. "She still nagging you to get hitched before your peanut shows up?"

"Yeah. She came over with a stack of bridal magazines this morning."

"Crazy."

I blow my hair out of my eyes. "Tell me about it." I chuck my water bottle into my bag and squat down to pull the zip closed.

"Bella put her in her place?"

"I'm not sure," I say. "She told me to head out, and I guess … well, I think she wanted to deal with it herself." I hope I read her right.

Jamie nods as he pulls his hoodie from his bag. He shrugs into it and pulls the zip up, his brow wrinkled in thought.

"You know, when Vic got laid off," he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "she went on a rampage with our finances. She spent hours on the computer sorting out cheaper health insurance and arguing with the phone companies and whatever."

I squint as I follow him outside into the midday sun. I'm really not sure what Victoria's being laid off has to do with Bella and Renée.

"It drove me crazy for a while. I was like, you don't have to do this. We're fine. I mean, she got a pretty good severance package, and at the time, I was so busy I was having to turn down jobs."

"Okay." I don't really know what else to say.

He claps a hand to my shoulder. "But she told me, 'I need to feel capable.' She loved her job, you know? Loved the responsibility and the stress. And sitting around at home while she looked for a new position – she said she needed to feel like she was still capable of making decisions and getting shit done."

"But Bella …"

He laughs. "Think about it, man." He clicks the fob to unlock his SUV. "I'll see you soon."

I'm halfway home before I finally understand what Jamie was trying to say.

Bella needs to feel strong.

After losing our first baby, she most likely feels powerless as this child grows in her womb. She can't exert any influence over her pregnancy—she can't prevent herself from miscarrying again. Life is not something we have control over.

But her mom … Bella can deal with her. She can tell her to take a hike, or she can invite her to go breast pump shopping, or she can look through bridal magazines with her. She feels vulnerable, and she needs to know her own strength. She needs that sense of impetus.

"Huh."

I can't see Renée's car when I pull into our street, but she may have had Charlie drop her off. I was too distracted to notice when I headed out.

Just in case she's still around, and still nagging Bella, I slam the door and make as much noise as I can as I dump my keys onto the sideboard and kick my shoes off.

"Mom's gone," Bella calls out. "You don't need to make such a racket."

Chuckling, I unzip my hoodie and wander into the kitchen. Bella greets me with a smirk and a bottle of water.

"Thanks."

"How was it?" She leans back against the granite countertop.

I down half the bottle and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Good. Well, he thrashed me—three games to one—but it was fun."

I lean forward to kiss her cheek but she stops me with a hand to my chest.

"You stink," she says, her nose wrinkling. "Shower first."

"Yes, ma'am." I look around. The breakfast table is draped with open magazines, and I spot a few pieces of paper covered with Bella's neat handwriting. "All sorted?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah. It's fine. Mom's just in a pissy mood at moment." She shrugs. "I was thinking, after she left, and I don't know … I think it's her way of dealing with me having a baby. Like … her little girl's growing up too fast or whatever, and she needs to boss me around one last time."

"Huh." It seems like everyone's overdosed on insight this morning—except me.

Bella sighs. "She'll get over it … I hope."

I scratch my jaw. "And you're okay?"

"Fine." She lifts her eyebrows, daring me to argue or fuss.

I'm not stupid. "Okay. Good."

Her expression softens when I don't press. I put my hand on her belly, half-expecting her to push me away—I do stink pretty bad. She doesn't.

"You know what got me through?" The words rush out of her, and I get the feeling she's been waiting to tell me this.

I tilt my head as I study her.

She's not smiling, but she's … well, she's all lit up from the inside. Something beyond that "glowy" pregnant thing. Her eyes are sparkling as she looks from where my hand rests on her stomach to my face. "I felt baby moving."

A sharp-edged lump sticks in my throat as her words take shape in my mind.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Are there even words for this? Are any of them big enough, meaningful enough to express the way my rib cage suddenly feels too small to contain my heart?

I stare at my hand where it rests on Bella's belly. At eighteen weeks, according to the app on my phone, our baby's the size of a bell pepper—too small for me to feel any movement yet. I look for jealousy hiding inside me, but find none. Not even a twinge as I look up into Bella's eyes, see the tears shining there, the sheer weight of joy that rests upon her—how could I begrudge her this?

"That's …" I shake my head as my voice cracks. "That's amazing."

Bella nods, blinking back her tears. She scrapes her teeth over her lip, and then, like the emotion can't be contained inside her a moment longer, she launches herself at me. My sweat-stench forgotten, she's in my arms and she's laughing and crying and I think she's telling me that she loves me, but I can't quite hear her over the strange sounds of joy that are ripping from my throat, too.

Her sobs quiet after a while, and feeling kind of nervous and just a little silly, I get to my knees in front of Bella. I look up at her, silently asking for her approval. She's still crying, her smile wide as tears streak her cheeks. She nods, swallowing hard.

Her dress makes it awkward. I tug at the hem for a moment, before I decide I just don't care how this looks. I lift the hem and push the fabric up out of the way. Bella helps me out, bunching it up under her breasts.

I'm momentarily distracted by her mint-green, lace and satin panties, but then I look at the curve of her belly, and all I can think about is the tiny person kicking around in there. I press a kiss just below Bella's belly button, and her stomach muscles contract as she stifles another sob.

"I love you," I say. "And I love your Mommy. So much."

Bella sniffles.

I lower my voice to a whisper. "Thank you."

I'm not sure who I'm directing that to. Bella, our baby, or something beyond us all. Maybe all of the above, because in this moment, the gratitude I feel for this small life, and this small reassurance, simply cannot stay inside me.

I say it again. "Thank you."

My face is wet as I rest my cheek against Bella's stomach. Her fingers sweep through my hair, tugging at the still-damp strands. I close my eyes and let contentment blanket me.

For the first time in over fifteen weeks, as long as we've known Bella was pregnant, the anxiety and panic fade away. There's just no room for them right now.

Eventually, my knees start aching, pressed against the hard, wood floor, and I get to my feet. Bella smoothes her dress back down, kisses me, then giggles. "You still stink."

"Sorry." I pull off my hoodie and wipe my face on it.

Bella walks around the other side of the bench, wiping beneath her eyes with her fingertips. "You hungry?" She yanks open the fridge, setting her magazine pages fluttering, and starts pulling out food. She grabs some ham and cheese, as well as the margarine and some mustard.

"Starving."

Sliding open the cutlery drawer with a metallic clatter, Bella shakes her head at my exaggeration. "Go shower," she says, pointing a butter knife at me. "I'll get rid of those damn magazines before you're done. I'm sick of looking at them."

"Sure."

A/N: Your reviews are love. It means so much to me to hear your thoughts.

BelieveItOrNot is a cup of tea in the sunshine, with the ocean breezing fluttering through my hair. She knows how much her help means to me.

Thank you, as ever, for reading. Shell x