11. Cassidy

"Cassie, I told you I have no issues shutting things down here for a few hours to come to the ultrasound with you." My dad runs a rag across the smooth, wood bar top.

I hate that I'm lying to him but, for some reason, I can't find it in me to stop. Hindsight is 20/20, and I wish I'd had the balls to confess that Derek isn't the father months ago. Now the lying is so habitual, it honestly feels like it might never end. How can I possibly tell the truth when he's finally stopped being disappointed in me for getting pregnant in the first place? I dread letting him down all over again.

We don't talk about my pregnancy during open hours—I'm trying my best to keep it a secret from the rest of the town—but the hours before opening and after closing the bar are incredible. Dad tells me stories about when my mom was pregnant, we discuss baby names I like, and I show him photos of my nursery inspiration on Pinterest. Those moments feel like I'm experiencing the pregnancy I always assumed I would have—where there's a husband, a dog, a beautiful home, and a planned baby. All the while, I'm lying to my dad and not giving Red the credit he deserves.

"It's fine, honest. Shelby's coming with me, and I promise I'll come over first thing the next morning." The last of the clean glassware stacked under the bar, I stand up with a groan. I have no clue how I'm going to make it through another nineteen-ish weeks when a half-shift at The Horseshoe sends blazing flames up my spine. "Besides, if you come, they're going to think you're my rich, old husband. I fucking hate when people think we're together when we go places. Or, worse, they'll think I brought my dad to the ultrasound because I'm a pathetic loser with no boyfriend. No thanks."

"Alright, alright. I'm just excited. Uncle Pete gave me some long-handled massager thing for my fiftieth birthday. I'll see if I can find it for you to help with the back pain." He grabs a full tray of dirty dishes and heads toward the kitchen door. "And quit gallivanting around with Shelby all the time—you should be resting."

I make a mental note to buy Shelb something really nice for Christmas as a thank you. She and I haven't actually hung out in weeks, but like a teenager, I'm using my friend as a cover for the fact I've been hanging out with a boy. Hell, I didn't even do this when I was a teenager because I was painfully uninterested in any of the boys around here.

I'm aware this entire situation is stupid, given I'm thirty-one and pregnant. I could, and arguably should, come clean.

"We're not gallivanting. There's nothing to even do in this town, anyway." I shake my head and slump onto my usual stool, stretching over the cool bar top until sweet relief hits my lower back.

Sweet relief, followed by an unusual sensation. I sit up straight with a jolt and focus on the bizarre feeling.

Did my stretching squish my belly in a weird way or something?

After a minute of nothing, it starts up again. I stare at the shelves of alcohol, listening to my dad run the industrial dishwasher for the last cycle of the night, and place a hand instinctively over my stomach.

Holy shit. The sensation's like somebody poured a glass of champagne, bubbles fizzing and bursting in my lower abdomen. Blair's basically my personal pregnancy tracker, filling me in on what to expect each week. And she informed me this would happen sometime around now, even with my anterior placenta. I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out everything except the ticklish, weird, beautiful feeling. When it stops again, I tamp the dampness from my tear ducts and pull out my phone to text the person I'm most excited to tell.

Cass:I just felt baby kicks.

Cass: At least, I'm 90% sure I did.

Red:Serious??

Cass:If not, then I just cried happy tears over gas.

Red: I hope that's what happened

Cass:You would, asshole

Red: Only because I wanted to be there the first time

Cass:They're too small to feel from the outside. You didn't miss anything.

Cass: I promise you'll be the first

Red's truck has to be at least thirty degrees Celsius when I hop in. His face is flushed and he seems uncomfortable, but it feels so amazing on my chilled bones I have a hard time feeling guilty.

Rubbing my hands along my thighs, I say, "Ready to meet our kid?"

"Fuck no. But I'm excited, too." He looks over at me. "What about you?"

"No words exist to describe the weird mix of feelings I'm experiencing."

A puff of air blows from his nose in agreement. At least if there's one thing we can both be consistent about, it's feeling overwhelmed. Rather than our usual easy conversation, today's stilted and jittery. As if we drank twelve cups of coffee each before having to sit still in the truck for an hour. I can't speak for him, but all I've had is a single half-caff while I was prepping the bar for Dad this morning.

"Supposed to snow tonight." Great. He's resorted to small talk about the weather.

"Yeah, that's what Dad said. Gave me a good lecture about driving in winter conditions, as if I haven't lived in Canada my whole life."

"I know we talked about going out for dinner, but maybe we should skip it so we don't get caught in the storm."

"Oh." Logically, I understand where he's coming from. But I also wanted today to feel more special somehow—not the same as every other typical doctor visit, where I drive home stuffing my face with French fries. "Right, yeah. Good call."

"It's not the same, but I can make dinner."

I plaster on a pretend smile. "As long as we can stop at the store and get some root beer. We're temporarily off the potato train and fully on team ice-cold root beer."

"As if you aren't permanently shivering as it is. But, all right, root beer takes a lot less effort than scalloped potatoes, so I won't complain."

Arriving at the ultrasound clinic without a second to spare, they bring me into the back immediately, leaving Red, with his tense expression and anxiously bouncing knee, in the front lobby. It's the same ultrasound room I was in last time—complete with vintage landscape paintings lining the walls and an uncomfortable leather exam bed. I don't hate the artwork as much today. Almost as if the little trees and snow-capped mountains became less ugly and foreboding, somehow.

"New paintings?" I ask as I lie back on the bed and Heather, the cheery sonographer, squirts a dollop of warm gel on my stomach. Or maybe it's cold—I'm pretty sure I remember it being cold last time—but my body is in a state of perma-frost, so most things feel relatively warm on my skin lately.

"Nope. Been there since long before I started here. Are you wanting to find out the sex or keep it a surprise?"

"Um, yeah. We're finding out." The memory of Red's response to me asking him that question makes my heart skip. Then I close my eyes and try not to let anxiety get the better of me. Although all I want to do is ask if things seem okay every ten seconds.

"I'm looking at the boring stuff right now. Measurements, close-ups… a bunch of things that'll look like blurry blobs to you. Just about done here, then I'll grab your husband and show you the fun stuff."

I open my mouth to correct her, but my brain's fried mush, unable to form a thought. I zip my lips shut, tucking my left hand under my thigh to hide the ringless finger, and revel in my pretend life for a moment.

"Perfect. Hang tight and I'll bring him in." She stands and walks out, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and anxiety-ridden thoughts. I pull my clammy left hand out from under me and dry it on my leggings. The deodorant I put on this morning suddenly doesn't seem enough for the amount of stress sweat pouring out of me.

And then, before I've even noticed him entering the room, Red grabs my hand. Letting his other fall to my thigh like it's the most natural resting place in the world and sending a rush through my entire body. For what may be the first time in weeks, not a single part of me is cold. I'm scorched. Flushed from head to toe.

"Okay, here's baby."

I'm pretty sure I black out. I can't even be totally sure what I'm looking at, or whether the blurriness is in my eyes or the monitor. But, when I finally focus, it's pretty undeniable there's a small human there. Ten fingers, ten toes. A head so big and round, I'm already silently praying for my vagina. We watch a tiny heart beating, the rhythmic sound filling the room. And, just when I think I'm somehow not going to cry during this, I glance over at Red.

"Shut up," he murmurs before I've even said a word, frantically wiping his teary face with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Shit, now you got me crying. You softie." I reach to delicately dab away the tears brimming my eyelids.

The sonographer clears her throat. "Alright, I'm going to print off some photos and get the envelope with the sex inside. If there's any concerns or the need for some more scans, your doctor will be in touch." She hands me a damp towel, and I'm made suddenly aware that I'm exposed from just under my breasts to my pubic bone. My belly's not particularly big, but it's also not a cute baby bump yet. Definitely not something I'm interested in showing off. Blair gets "bumpdates", but that's different from Red seeing me this way.

With a steady grip on my hand, he pulls me into a seated position and waits as I clean myself up, the dopey expression never leaving his face. For half a second, I consider kissing him to see what it would feel like to be a couple who wants to be in this situation. But I don't because we aren't.

So much of the weight has been lifted when we leave the stuffy exam room and walk into the crisp, autumn air. All the awkwardness from the drive here vanished the moment we saw the baby.

"I don't think I can wait to look." Red holds the envelope up to the quickly setting sun, desperately trying to sneak a peek through the thin paper. Light, glittery snow drifts around us, settling on our shoulders and Red's tousled hair.

"Then give it to me if you can't control yourself." I reach out to grab it, and he pulls his arm away, then raises it above his head. Too high for me to ever be able to reach.

"What's the point in waiting?"

"Because it's special," I protest and strain my arm to reach the envelope, but it's no use. "Too special to open in the parking lot of a strip mall next to a KFC and a liquor store."

"What if I grabbed some chicken and beer… root beer for you. Isn't Derek from Sheridan? Could go sit on the hood of his car while we eat and open it up—for old times' sake. Would that be special enough, sweetheart?" He smirks down at me, his eyes falling on my lips. A teasing smile and pet name that I've always thought were condescending…

Except now I'm starting to think I've been wrong. Maybe I desperately need to be wrong.

"The more time you spend fucking around, the longer we have to wait to open it." I walk away before I do anything stupid like kiss the smug expression right off his face.

My nerves are entirely shot by the time we make it back to the quiet streets of Wells Canyon, having narrowly escaped wreckage at least five times, thanks to a brutal combination of heavy, wet snowfall and roadways coated in black ice. Pair that with a lot of drivers who weren't prepared for the season's first snowfall, and it's a miracle we survived. Neither of us spoke, the music turned low so he could focus. And I picked at a pinhole in the knee of my leggings until it became big enough to fit my thumb. I haven't been in Red's truck often, but tonight was the first time I've seen him keep both hands firmly on the wheel for the entire drive, and that scared me more than anything.

Falling in a heap on the couch, I look over at Red. "I thought I was going to die without ever seeing what's on that paper."

"Hrm, should've listened to my idea." He shrugs, pulling the slightly crinkled white envelope from his back pocket. "What do we need to do to make this fancy enough?"

"I don't care anymore. Just glad we made it home unscathed." I shuffle down the couch until my shoulder bumps into his, tucking my feet underneath me and discreetly enjoying his subtle soapy scent. "Open it."

"Give me a second." He disappears to the kitchen and returns a moment later with a barbecue lighter. Lighting the candles on my mantle and coffee table, he flicks off the overhead light. "There. Fancy."

Settling back in next to me, he's close enough I feel the butterflies in his stomach. With snow falling and contented stillness in the air, Red unfolds the paper. His trembling fingers smooth it out over his lap so we can read it together in the dim candlelight. And I'm immediately crying too hard to say anything. Too hard to express my excitement, to check in on how he's feeling, or to tell him he should stop the tender way he's stroking my hair.

"Holy fuck… a girl," he whispers—to himself, I think.

I kick myself for not wearing waterproof mascara as I come away from wiping my tears with black streaks across my hands. I know my face is probably a disaster but I'm comforted by looking at the man gently crying next to me. At least we can both be weepy messes together. "Think you can handle a girl?"

"Fuck yeah, I can. We'll paint our nails, then go work cows together."

"You're going to paint your nails?" The way I'm blubbering, I feel drunk.

"Abso-fucking-lutely. Painted nails, hair bows, whatever she wants. Not ashamed at all of being wrapped around her finger."

I laugh despite crying even harder with that statement. "My dad rocked painted toenails for many years when I was a kid. Poor guy was constantly undergoing makeovers. I can't wait to see you in blue eye shadow, glitter, and red lipstick."

"Been there, done that. Odessa got me good when I was asleep once."

I haven't thought much about Red's relationship with Kate and Jackson's kids. A few months ago, the thought of him interacting with small children would've been laughable. Maybe even a bit horrifying. That was before I got to see this side. The version that isn't the teenager who rarely went to class, smoked weed and drank beer on school property, and usually had more passengers in his truck than was legal. Or the guy who's drunk and always ready for a fight down at The Horseshoe. Neither of those are proving to be who he really is.

"Why do you never go by your actual name?" I ask, and his face crumples with confusion.

"Dunno. Got a nickname, and then that's just what everybody called me. I didn't bother fighting it."

Red is the rough cowboy from high school, or the bar, or the rodeo. He'll drink most guys under the table and kick anybody's ass without question. Chase is the guy who makes me any food I'm craving, drives cautiously through blizzards despite being proficient at 4X4ing, and tucks warm blankets around my bare toes. The one who's crying about having a baby girl while smoothing his work-worn hand over my hair.

"Do you have a preference?"

"Nah. Not really."

"Well, you're going to be a great dad, Chase."

His hand pauses abruptly on my head before tugging me into him. My cheek collides with his firm chest, filling my ear with the thudding of his pulse. My heart's in a flurry, safe and warm with the weight of his arms holding me close.

"I should head out before the weather gets worse." He pulls away from the hug, clearing his face of any prior emotion.

Without a second thought, I blurt out, "Absolutely not. You aren't driving down that shitty dirt road in a snowstorm. You can stay here."

"I'm not sleeping on this dollhouse couch." Technically, it's a perfectly average-sized couch, but I can see why a guy who's hovering somewhere just under six feet tall wouldn't find it comfortable.

"You'd rather end up buried in a snowbank? I'll take the couch, and you can have my bed."

"Oh, good idea, Cass. Like I'm gonna force the pregnant woman to sleep here. I'll take the floor."

"Fine."