Saving Forever (The Ever Trilogy: Book 3) by Jasinda Wilder Page B
Authors: Jasinda Wilder
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daddy. How ’bout them Lions?
It was better I was gone and out of their lives. Sure, they’d wonder where I’d gone. They might even come up here and look for me. Ever would think of this place eventually, and come looking.
I’d probably have to move away. Find a job and someone to watch the baby. Find an apartment. Maybe I could teach cello from home, and that way I wouldn’t need to find a sitter.
Fuck me. I knew nothing about babies. I’d never even held one. I had no friends with children. No nieces or nephews or cousins. The closest I’d gotten to a baby was when my classical music history prof had had her baby and brought the strange pink, gurgling little thing to campus. I’d watched in horrified fascination as she held the baby, cooing and making bizarre noises and tickling its chin, making faces and talking in a high-pitched voice. I remembered seeing Professor Ennis with her huge belly. She had been barely able to totter and waddle from one end of the classroom to the other. She’d always been a pacer, Professor Ennis. She’d pace from one end of the room to the other, waving her hands and gesticulating wildly as she discoursed. By the end of her pregnancy, she’d had to lecture sitting down, her belly a massive thing almost big enough to topple her forward. And then she’d appeared after a month of leave to show us her baby, and everyone had oohed and ahhed, and one of the older students who had children asked a question about the birth and we’d all been privy to some truly horrifying details none of us had wanted to know.
That was going to be me, in a little over six months.
What was I going to do? How was I supposed to be a mother? I couldn’t change a diaper. I didn’t even know how to hold a baby. I was so unprepared.
I fumbled Apollo from his case and drew the bow across his strings, choking on my sobs of terror. The note was discordant and screeching, and I had to try again. This time, the note came out properly, and I focused on the sound, on the wavering golden tone. I drew another note. A third. I brought the bow across and tilted to hit the D string. Found myself playing the intro to my solo. Lost myself in it. The music dried my tears and buried the fear and the guilt beneath the weight of perfect notes. Music was the one thing I could do right. It was my only solace. I played the whole solo through, refusing to think about Ever and Cade even when I played the parts dedicated to them. It was just music, notes on a page, sounds in my heart.
Eventually I was calm enough to sleep, but when I did, I dreamed of an amber-eyed baby, and of Ever, her green eyes distraught with confused grief and betrayed hurt. I woke up crying, as I did so many nights after dreams like that.
~ ~ ~ ~
The beach was my haven. I always ended up there somehow. Early in the morning, after my run, I’d stop at the beach and watch the sunrise. I’d put away Apollo late at night with aching fingers and turmoil in my mind, and I’d go to the beach with the stars shining like countless diamonds, clustered and scattered across a black felt cloth. The moon would be reflected in the rippling lake water and the waves would lap gently, and I’d find some measure of peace.
It was early morning, just past 6 a.m. Dawn was breaking on the water, and I’d already run three miles. I hated running, but it was all I had to keep fit, to distract myself. So I did it--—three miles every morning. Maybe next week I’d try for four. I’d run until I was too pregnant to do so.
I was panting for breath, slimy with sweat, and my thoughts were starting to run wild with fear and panic. I straightened, gazed out at the water, and I saw him. The water god. He was suddenly there, just like last time. Waist deep in the bay, water sluicing down his lean, powerful body, hair wet and black as night and slicked back against his scalp. I stood watching him as he waded to shore and stopped about ten feet from me. I
It was better I was gone and out of their lives. Sure, they’d wonder where I’d gone. They might even come up here and look for me. Ever would think of this place eventually, and come looking.
I’d probably have to move away. Find a job and someone to watch the baby. Find an apartment. Maybe I could teach cello from home, and that way I wouldn’t need to find a sitter.
Fuck me. I knew nothing about babies. I’d never even held one. I had no friends with children. No nieces or nephews or cousins. The closest I’d gotten to a baby was when my classical music history prof had had her baby and brought the strange pink, gurgling little thing to campus. I’d watched in horrified fascination as she held the baby, cooing and making bizarre noises and tickling its chin, making faces and talking in a high-pitched voice. I remembered seeing Professor Ennis with her huge belly. She had been barely able to totter and waddle from one end of the classroom to the other. She’d always been a pacer, Professor Ennis. She’d pace from one end of the room to the other, waving her hands and gesticulating wildly as she discoursed. By the end of her pregnancy, she’d had to lecture sitting down, her belly a massive thing almost big enough to topple her forward. And then she’d appeared after a month of leave to show us her baby, and everyone had oohed and ahhed, and one of the older students who had children asked a question about the birth and we’d all been privy to some truly horrifying details none of us had wanted to know.
That was going to be me, in a little over six months.
What was I going to do? How was I supposed to be a mother? I couldn’t change a diaper. I didn’t even know how to hold a baby. I was so unprepared.
I fumbled Apollo from his case and drew the bow across his strings, choking on my sobs of terror. The note was discordant and screeching, and I had to try again. This time, the note came out properly, and I focused on the sound, on the wavering golden tone. I drew another note. A third. I brought the bow across and tilted to hit the D string. Found myself playing the intro to my solo. Lost myself in it. The music dried my tears and buried the fear and the guilt beneath the weight of perfect notes. Music was the one thing I could do right. It was my only solace. I played the whole solo through, refusing to think about Ever and Cade even when I played the parts dedicated to them. It was just music, notes on a page, sounds in my heart.
Eventually I was calm enough to sleep, but when I did, I dreamed of an amber-eyed baby, and of Ever, her green eyes distraught with confused grief and betrayed hurt. I woke up crying, as I did so many nights after dreams like that.
~ ~ ~ ~
The beach was my haven. I always ended up there somehow. Early in the morning, after my run, I’d stop at the beach and watch the sunrise. I’d put away Apollo late at night with aching fingers and turmoil in my mind, and I’d go to the beach with the stars shining like countless diamonds, clustered and scattered across a black felt cloth. The moon would be reflected in the rippling lake water and the waves would lap gently, and I’d find some measure of peace.
It was early morning, just past 6 a.m. Dawn was breaking on the water, and I’d already run three miles. I hated running, but it was all I had to keep fit, to distract myself. So I did it--—three miles every morning. Maybe next week I’d try for four. I’d run until I was too pregnant to do so.
I was panting for breath, slimy with sweat, and my thoughts were starting to run wild with fear and panic. I straightened, gazed out at the water, and I saw him. The water god. He was suddenly there, just like last time. Waist deep in the bay, water sluicing down his lean, powerful body, hair wet and black as night and slicked back against his scalp. I stood watching him as he waded to shore and stopped about ten feet from me. I
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