His blue eyes pierced mine. “Sebastians don’t play rugby.”
I wracked my brain trying to remember if there’d been any players named Sebastian. Surely there were. I shook my head. “What if he doesn’t wanna play?”
Ben paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he blinked at me.
“Are you going to make him?” I asked.
“No?” It sounded like a question.
I took it as a definitive answer, rubbing my belly. “I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Is Stewart gonna make him play league?” Ben narrowed his eyes.
“Not if he knows what’s good for him.” My brother wouldn’t dare. I’d slap him if he tried to influence my child in any way.
He scoffed. “He has never known what’s good for him. I still can’t believe they let him into the police force.”
I couldn’t get over that one myself.
“Why Sebastian?” Ben frowned.
“I don’t know. I just have a feeling.” The moniker had been rolling around in my thoughts more and more lately. There was something attached to it, tangled strings that needed unknotting. Unfinished business. I’d never known anyone with that name, but it wouldn’t leave me alone. Our son had to be called Sebastian—I knew that much. I just didn’t know why. “It’ll grow on you. Trust me on this one, okay?”
Ben pushed a breath through flared nostrils. “Do I get to pick the middle name?”
“Absolutely ... as long as it’s Ben.” I smiled with all my pearly whites on show.
His lip quirked. “Sebastian Ben Locke.” Running his tongue along his teeth, he looked at me. “Seb for short. That’s okay.”
“Cute.” Lee added. “And he’s going to play league. Is anyone interested in my critique of my present?”
Ben and I twisted our heads and found that Lee had opened the box and was wearing his present on his head. A fluffy wallaby with a baby in her pouch sat atop the brim of his Australian national rugby union official team cap. I’d made the alterations myself.
Ronnie gave him the side-eye while leaning away.
“I love it.” Lee grinned.
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. He looked ridiculous.
Ben, Lee, and I were laughing so hard I didn’t realise at first that we were the only ones. Ronnie had a smile on her lips, but her worried eyes were on my stomach. She almost appeared sick. Or spooked.
Sebastian rolled. I shifted in my seat, holding my side. Her gaze tracked my hand. She grimaced before turning away.
What is that all about?
The only answer I got was a sinking feeling in my gut that had nothing to do with Seb’s movements and everything to do with the way Ronnie stared at my baby bump.
I take it back. I don’t want to know.
Andrea
Brisbane, Australia
24th December, 2016, 3:23 p.m.
Have a baby, they said.
It’ll be fun, they said.
Lugging this stomach around a shopping centre on Christmas Eve was not my idea of fun. I squeezed out of the car, swearing at my husband’s tool benches and the equipment crowding the other side of the garage. He could do whatever he wanted with his space, but he wasn’t allowed to infringe on mine. The trouble was, I needed more now that I was pregnant. And I’d still need to expand after the baby was born. The man needed a shed.
Making my way through the laundry to the open living area, I switched on the air conditioner before hauling my bags onto the kitchen bench. A sigh rushed from my mouth at the sweet relief of getting rid of the weight. “Oh, thank you, Jesus.” Yanking my arm away, I rubbed the sting from where the bags had dug in.
Bang. Pop.
Cool, fizzy liquid sprayed my legs and up the back of my dress. I jumped, my head snapping around in shock.“What theshit?” I croaked in dismay as a bottle of soft drink spun, dousing every friggin’ surface in a fountain of red, sticky hell.
It finally ran out of pressure, rolling to a stop beside the fridge. My shoulders dropped, eyelids falling to half-mast in mourning for the floor I’d cleaned only yesterday. I screwed my lips, snarling, “You bastard,” at the bottle.
How. Dare. You.
I wasn’t cleaning that. Not now. Not ever. I was done. My energy levels were about equal to the level of liquid remaining in that bottle: fuck all.
I unzipped my dress and dropped it in the puddle. Carefully stepping out of the wet fabric, I headed to the living area and took a seat on the couch. I hissed in pain as I kicked off my thongs—the only shoes that currently fit me—and put one foot on the coffee table so I could see it. Speckled droplets of red decorated my skin. The rubber straps had cut into my swollen flesh, leaving deep indents. I would’ve rubbed them if I could reach them. Lip quivering, I returned my foot to the cool tiles and rested back on the cushioned leather. I could already feel the grip of stickiness under the backs of my legs and on the soles of my feet. I needed a shower. I needed a cleaner. I needed Ben.
I checked the clock.3:33 p.m. Another hour and twenty-seven minutes until he’d be finished. And another hour after that until he’d be home because he was working on a project in Redland Bay.
The sting in my tear ducts amped up, but I squeezed my eyes shut, holding back the deluge. Fuck it. I was going to have a nap until he got home. Propping my legs on the leather, I rolled to the side and made myself as comfortable as I could. I searched for the cushions, spying the kitchen bench in my peripheral vision.
“Ah, shit.” I hadn’t put the food in the fridge. My head flopped back and I
