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I saw one of the nurses wheeling in all kinds of stuff—a table for the baby, complete with a lamp on top. I almost laughed, thinking it looked like one of the heating lamps at a fast food restaurant. Then she wheeled in a stainless steel table full of instruments, much like I was sure they used during the Inquisition. The doctor sat on a rolling stool and turned around to examine his tools of torture while the bedside nurse rattled off instructions. She told me to wait until the next contraction and then to push. She and Ethan would count to ten out loud, and I was to push as hard as I possibly could for the duration of the countdown while pulling my knees to my chest. After three tries, then I could rest until the next contraction.

  And then I understood why labor was so painful—so that when it was time to push, it was a relief.

  And it was. I heard Ethan and the nurse cheering me on while the doctor, in his calm monotone voice, kept urging me to “Come on.” But after the three pushes I lay my head back on the pillow and tried to gather my strength. Ethan looked at me, and I saw fear in his eyes. I’d never seen him look like that before, and it almost scared me, especially because he was trying—and failing—to put on a brave face. Was something wrong? He brushed my sweat-soaked hair away from my face with his hands, and I wasn’t able to worry anymore as the next contraction overcame me.

  This time, I couldn’t even hear them counting as I pushed with muscles I hadn’t known I had. I could feel them bearing down on that little life inside me, trying to force it out into the world. “I see your baby’s head. Come on, now, Valerie. One more good, strong push.” I did as the doctor asked and then Ethan let go of my hand to go stand beside the doctor. “Okay, now, stop pushing.” He started doing something with the baby, but I rested my head on the pillow. I was exhausted. When I opened my eyes, I saw Ethan with scissors in his hand as he cut the baby’s cord.

  The doctor looked over at me. “You’re the proud parents of a beautiful baby boy.” The doctor then placed the baby on my chest. He was covered in fluids, and his little face was balling up, ready to express his displeasure at his new surroundings, but I felt a tear form in my eye as I knew this little man was going to be the most important male in my life from this day forward.

  That night, after hours of nurses doing this, that, and the other to my baby, having weighed, cleaned, and dressed the child, he was lying in my arms. He and I were making our best attempts at breastfeeding, and I felt like I was failing miserably. My once modest-sized breasts were now huge and trying to block his nostrils. One of the nurses who had been annoying the shit out of me earlier with her bossiness had now come back in the room. She was about to leave as her shift was almost over, but she was checking in. She showed me how I could press on my breast right by the baby’s nose so he could breathe and nurse at the same time.

  And did it hurt. She promised me I’d get used to it. I was too tired to argue.

  While I held little Christopher in my arms, I looked over at Ethan snoozing in the chair. He’d been on the phone earlier, calling everyone we knew to let them know he was now a proud papa. Tomorrow, we’d have visitors like crazy until it was time to leave. It would be nice to see the people who cared about us and the baby—Brad, Zane, Nick; my parents; my brother and his wife; June and Jason. For now, though, I needed some time alone.

  I was tired but happy, and I knew I was beginning the most important job of my life…as the mother of this precious child.

  Chapter Twelve

  Past

  MY FEELINGS FOR Ethan were more open after we’d confessed to one another. At first, he seemed apprehensive about kissing me, but I wouldn’t let him use that as an excuse. If he got close enough to me, my lips were on his.

  I never did see Charlotte again. Not once. I suspected Zane or Ethan had something to do with it, but I was too stupid to ask. I didn’t think about it again until much later. But the first week after, I’d look closely at my surroundings before stepping into an empty hallway. I usually managed to be out in the open when there were lots other people, so I felt a little safer.

  By midterms, Zane was calling us “you two,” as in “Are you two ready to go to dinner yet?” And he started dating Jennifer too, but that was over by spring break. Ethan’s mom friended me on Facebook, and she and I talked on Skype once in a while. I really liked her, but she didn’t seem to know how to be a mother to Ethan. But what did I know? I myself had never been a mother before.

  Our relationship started getting a little hotter, but he never tried a thing on me. I was okay with that, because I didn’t know if either of us was ready for something more. He seemed to want to keep our relationship in sweet, wholesome territory, and—when I was ready—I was going to call him on it.

  One night just after midterms, Ethan and I were in my dorm room doing a little studying, but mostly talking. I was taking a class called Poetry of the Twentieth Century, so I was explaining to him what we were studying in class. Out of the blue, he said, “Didn’t you tell me once that you write poetry?”

  I smiled and nodded. Yeah…a long time ago. But I was just happy he remembered.

  “So let’s hear it.”

  “No way. I’m not reading it to you. But if you want, I can get out some of my notebooks, and you can read some of it.”

  He grinned. “Okay. I’m game.”

  I got up off my bed and opened a drawer at my desk to pull out several notebooks. I tossed them on the desktop. “Have at it.”

  He looked down at the notebooks and then up to me. “All these?”

  I grinned. “Yep. I have more at home.”

  His eyes grew wide. “Why don’t you pick a few for me to read?”

  Oh…I’d overwhelmed him. So I picked the notebooks up and sat back on my bed. I grabbed the green one and started leafing through it. God…this was like ripping my chest open and letting him look inside, but I’d promised. So I found a poem I’d written about him. It wasn’t the best I’d ever written, but it was from my heart. It was called “You Are.” I handed him the notebook turned to that page. I just watched his face as he read it.

  How can I say the words I want to say?

  My emotions…pitifully mute.

  I find it impossible to express myself with words.

  You’re special to me.

  I don’t have to change for you.

  Everything about me is right for

  you.

  My hair, my mind, my silliness.

  And I love you just the way you are.

  You’re spring to me…

  A warm, gentle breeze

  slowly brushing the tree tops,

  making silent waves on the placid water.

  You are the stars.

  You give me hope.

  You surround me entirely

  and now I can’t let you go.

  I don’t understand what you’ve done to me

  but please don’t let it end.

  Oh, no. This was taking far too long. My poem was short. It shouldn’t take so long to read, but he wasn’t just reading it. I knew he was thinking about it too. Finally, he looked up from the page. “This is really nice.” He flipped the page and, without looking at me, asked, “Who’s it about?”

  I let out the air in my lungs I’d been holding there. “You, silly.”

  He grinned but still didn’t look up. “You can never be sure…”

  Oh, this was making me nervous, but he started reading them. All of them. One at a time, he turned page after page in that notebook. I tried to distract myself by studying, but it didn’t work. I desperately wanted to know what he thought. At one point, he whispered, “Holy shit.”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What?”

  He read my words to me this time:

  “You play the once-wild guitar

  with such emotion.

  You calm her down, play her slow

  And she responds, low key.

  Silent strumming, whispering strings.

  You sing; the guitar sings with you.

  Silen
tly strumming.”

  “The fuck is that, Val?” I wasn’t sure what he was asking, so I just raised my eyebrows. “That’s fucking genius.” He started tearing through the notebook and paused on a page. This time he only read a few lines from one of the poems:

  “You punished me for loving you,

  for letting you in,

  for letting you see my fire,

  and each day I paid

  again

  over and over.”

  “This shit is raw. It’s intense. God…if I could only come that close.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Writing lyrics. Val, this stuff might not be like…Emily Dickinson, but Jesus. The emotion. Un-fucking-believable.”

  I smiled and looked down at my lap, feeling bashful. I had hoped he would like my poetry, but I hadn’t expected quite this reaction. “Thanks.”

  He turned some more pages. “And seriously…” I looked up. “I wanted to ask you—would you care if I adapt this? You know, change it into song lyrics?”

  “What?”

  “Part of this poem called ‘Scythe’.” I knew the one, but I wanted to hear the part he wanted to use.

  “Frigid hand reaches up; touch my face.

  Cold air drifts across my back.

  Silently, he draws me into the dark night.

  He pulls me nearer.

  I stiffly obey.

  He is peaceful.

  When he’d taken others,

  my stomach clenched;

  I screamed in pain;

  I gouged my eyes.

  Now he is peaceful,

  a lover beckoning to me.”

  He looked up again. “I don’t know if this is about death or mental illness or what, but it’s sick. I could use parts of it.”

  “Sure…use whatever you like.”

  For the next hour and a half, he pored through my notebooks, gobbling them up. I managed to relax and get some studying done. When he finished, he put them down and said, “Jesus. You’re brilliant. And I can’t believe you’ve written so much.”

  I shrugged and sat up. “I like to write.”

  He sighed. “You’ve heard my lyrics. They pale in comparison, Val.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Hear me out.” He leaned over, resting his elbows on his thighs just above his knees. “I can’t write lyrics for shit. My poetry comes out of the guitar. I think that’s why I liked your guitar poem so much. But…I’m not a wordsmith. Not by a long shot. How would you feel…about writing lyrics for me? For Fully Automatic?”

  It took me a few seconds to completely grasp what he was saying. “Are you serious?”

  “Totally.”

  “Um…yeah, I could. Would you want me to just keep writing poems and you change them to fit your music or…?”

  “You saw how me and Brad did it in his garage when you came home with me. That’s the best way to do it. Then the words and music mesh together perfectly.”

  “So how do we do this?”

  “My plan? Once I have music written for a song, I have you listen, and then you can write what comes to you. Can you work that way?”

  I gave it some thought. “Maybe. I’d be willing to give it a try.”

  And so I did. For the next few weeks, two or three days a week, Ethan would have me over to his dorm room where he’d play his latest song. It was harder for me to imagine it without bass or drums or even the second guitar, but I wrote a couple that way anyway.

  After the second song, I sang the lyrics while he played back the music. I didn’t know what, if any, melody he had intended for the lyrics, but the tune felt right. When I finished, he said, “Perfect.” He placed his hands on my cheeks. Zane wasn’t home, was at some party off campus, so we were alone. This was likely the most passionate kiss I’d ever received from Ethan. He nearly consumed me, but I didn’t care. I wanted him, and if it was going to be today…I was okay with that.

  His fingers were in my hair, and I decided to be bold. I ran my fingers up under his t-shirt, feeling his abs first, then slowly started moving my hands upward. He let out a deep breath. “Val…you don’t wanna go there.”

  I opened my eyes. “Yeah, I do.”

  He pressed his forehead onto mine. “No. I don’t deserve you.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head and pulled back, but he still held my head between his hands. “I don’t deserve you. I haven’t earned your love and trust…not yet.”

  I let out a sigh. He didn’t make sense. And I knew if I was feeling amorous, a man who already knew the pleasures of the flesh was bound to be feeling it even more than I. “That’s stupid, Ethan.”

  “No, it’s not.” That glinting look he got in his hard green eyes showed up for the first time in a while. “We’re not ready for that step yet.”

  I wanted to ask, Then when? But I thought it best to just let it go for the time being. He made sure I dropped it by returning to the music.

  Throughout spring, anytime I wanted to talk about this weird pedestal he’d placed me on, he’d avoid the discussion. And he wouldn’t kiss me for long periods of time. I figured he did that to keep us both on the cool side. But I was getting frustrated.

  One evening on Skype, June told me I was so good for Ethan. I didn’t know exactly how, but I just smiled and thanked her for thinking so. Sometimes I thought she was right, though, especially when I’d see the bitter look in his eyes fading away to nothing. But I wondered why he was afraid of sharing everything with me. It made no sense.

  One evening in early April, Ethan and Zane met me at the cafeteria for dinner. They were both more excited than usual. “What gives?” I asked.

  Ethan sported a cocky grin. “My man Brad has been busy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He has us booked for a few shows this summer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  Zane grinned. “But you haven’t heard the best part yet.” He nudged Ethan. “Go on. Tell her.”

  “What?”

  “He booked us a gig here at The Cave.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. In two weeks.”

  “Terrific!”

  It was great news, but then Ethan went on to inform me that it meant, aside from studying, all his and Zane’s free time would be spent practicing. I asked what the other guys on the floor of his dorm would think. “We’ll have to do most of our practicing unplugged or turned down low, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna play a show and sound like shit just ‘cause I wasn’t prepared.”

  “Understood.” And I did…mostly. The next weekend, he and Zane drove home to practice, and I was lucky the week after to even see them for meals. That Wednesday night, though, Zane came with me to dinner and Jennifer skipped, so it was just the two of us.

  Zane and I sat down and started eating. He said, “You know Ethan’s a complete pussy, right?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s kind of a mean thing to say, Zane. Why would you say that?”

  “Truth hurts.”

  “How do you figure he’s a pussy?”

  He sneered. “Have you noticed how he’s not spending any time with you?”

  “Yeah…and he said it’s ‘cause he has to practice, practice, practice for the show this weekend.”

  “And that’s complete and total bullshit.”

  I was confused. “How so? You are playing, right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, we’re playing. And that part’s sweet, even though five songs we played together for the first time last weekend.”

  “But that’s good. And I bet you all did great together.”

  “Yeah, Val, but you’re missing the point about what a shit Ethan is.”

  I let out a breath. “Okay, I give. How is Ethan a shit?”

  “I wish you’d ask him.”

  “I’m asking you. You brought it up.”

  He rolled his eyes and f
inished chewing the bite of salad in his mouth. He didn’t say anything for several minutes. I just sat there, fork in hand, not moving, waiting for him to talk. “Have you noticed that Ethan’s cooled a little bit?”

  Yes, I’d noticed, but as I’d said, I thought he was focusing on their big night. I shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

  He sucked in a breath. “Know what? I can’t do this. I can’t be Ethan’s little messenger. You’re gonna have to talk to him yourself.”

  Anger started bubbling up inside me. “What? Now you’re telling me Ethan put you up to this?”

  He shook his head and looked out at the sea of students pouring into the dining room from the serving area. “Just talk to him, Val. Talk to him, okay?”

  “I thought you were my friend,” I said and picked up my tray. Yeah, I was shitting on the messenger, but I was upset. I scraped off my plate and left the tray on the belt that pulled all the dirty dishes into the kitchen and left the dining room without looking back. Then I went to their dorm room.

  When I got there, it was quiet inside. I’d expected to hear Ethan banging out some guitar riffs. But then I did hear something, and the door opened right after. And there was Ethan, along with a raven-haired girl wearing a hot pink tank top. I swallowed hard. No words would come out. Me…he’d called me his wordsmith, and yet I couldn’t find a single word to say.

  It could have been innocent. Could have. But the girl wasn’t wearing any shoes, and her hair was mussed up. Ethan’s shoes were off too. And I felt the tears start to well up in my eyes, so I just backed away while I could still save face. I heard him say, “Val…”

  But he didn’t come to get me, and before I got to the end of the hall, I heard the door close.

  So that was it, huh? Now I knew where I stood. I was up on some pedestal. He couldn’t soil me, but he could sure as hell cheat on me? That didn’t make much sense. And when I got back to my room, Zane was standing in front of the door waiting for me. Without a word, he just wrapped me in his arms and let me cry until there were no more tears to fall.