The Foster Girls #4: Willow

Chapter 15: Decker

The six weeks since we brought Willow home from the hospital have been their own kind of hell, summed up in a so near, yet so far kind of way.

When Willow told me in the hospital that she'd never set foot in the cottage again, I'd put Connie on the job of hunting down a house that met my requirements. She'd found one, made an offer (paying five million over the value of the house, but it was worth every penny when I saw how much Willow loved the view), moved the people out, had it cleaned top to bottom and got the new bed in place -- all in the two days that I had arranged for Willow to remain in the hospital. Connie, as I had no doubt she would, pulled it off with her characteristic efficiency...and a demand for a hefty bonus, which I willingly provided.

Willow and I had been living here together ever since, but I'd discovered the frustration of having something in plain sight but just out of reach, no matter how hard you try to grasp it in your hand. It's like one of those bad dreams where you're running and running and running and you don't make any progress; you just can't get where you need to go, no matter how hard you try. I feel like that every night when I'm in my damn twin bed, so near to my wife but unable to be with her. 

And it's my own damn fault. I fucked around on her. I lied to her. I married her under false pretenses. I tossed her aside for a total bitch. So this distance is on me. It actually blows my mind that she's even willing to be in the same room as me. Some days I feel like I've made some progress; others I see that wariness in her eyes and know she still sees me as the lying, cheating bastard that I was. How do you make up for being an asshole and for hurting someone? You can't erase memories, and sometimes I wonder if all the changes I've made will ever be enough to wipe out what I've done. Will she always look at me and have that brief second where she thinks about what an absolute asshole I was to her?

I think about the beatings I endured from my father. After the first time he took his fists to me right after my mother died, I never looked at him without wondering if it was going to happen again. When he answered that question in no uncertain terms, I never looked at him without wondering when it was going to happen again.

Does she look at me the same way that I looked at my father? Does she wonder if it will happen again or does she wonder when it will happen again? What is her brain whispering to her? I have no idea because, although we've been living together, we've kept our conversations at a very surface level so nothing can potentially upset Willow and endanger the baby.

Bennett snuggles next to me in a bed that's already too uncomfortable for one person, much less one person and a big fucking dog. But I hold him close  because he's Bennett and because he's Willow's. He whines a bit, so I scratch his belly and like the big doofus he is, he wriggles around on his back, his tongue hanging out like a pink piece of ham.

Looking over at Willow, I see she's awake and watching her two boys (whether or not she wants to claim me, I'm still hers) having a bro fest. Her eyes are sleepy and her smile is soft and there's nothing I want more than to just hold her in my arms until she understands that I'll never hurt her again.

"Good morning, sweetheart," I say quietly, flashing her a smile. "Your boy here is a bed hog." Then I rub Bennett's belly. "Aren't you boy? Who's a big bed hog? Yeah, you are, aren't you?"

Willow is sitting up in bed, her hand on her belly.

"Everything OK, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, the nugget is just really active this morning."

"Can I feel him? Maybe that will settle him down."

"He always does seem to respond to your voice," she says, then pats the bed beside her. "See if you can work your magic on him."