Beauty and the Running Back (13 page)

Chapter Twelve

Jessa

My entire world dissolves into a series of numbers as we
book it to the hospital. I count the minutes between contractions. The number
of breaths that make up each of those painful swells. But more than any number,
the one that hangs heaviest above me is 29.

I’m only 29 weeks pregnant.

The little person inside of me has only had 29 weeks to
grow.

It’s too soon.

It’s just too
soon
…

I’m bleary-eyed with pain and panic as we pull up to the
emergency room. This isn’t how I planned to give birth at all. I’m supposed to
be up in Boston, with my own OBGYN and Allison coaching me through my birth.
I’m supposed to be prepared. Or at least more prepared than
this
. But
what’s that they say about God laughing when you make plans…?

“Jessa,” I hear Dean’s voice say above me.

I blink up at him from the backseat of the car as he opens
the door. His face is calm but firm as he helps me up. Hot tears spring into my
eyes as he loops an arm around my waist and leads me toward the emergency room
door. After everything I’ve put him through, he’s still here at my side. He
doesn’t even know that this kid is his, and still, he’s the one who’s right
here to help me through this. All at once, any doubts about what kind of man he
is evaporate. I know, in this moment, that I’ll never meet a better man than
Dean Carter. Never.

“Dean,” I whisper, and Blaire and Buck run ahead into the
hospital to get me some help, “Dean, I’m scared…”

“I know Jess,” he says, his brown eyes full of compassion,
“But we’re all here to help you through this. I’m gonna make sure you’re OK.”

And you know something? I absolutely believe him.

The second Dean and I step into the hospital, we’re
swallowed up in a rush of activity. A nurse helps me into a wheelchair as
Blaire and Buck are ushered into the waiting room. I sign some papers and offer
up some information about my health insurance, but my mind gets snagged on one
detail in particular along the way.

I still haven’t picked an adoptive family.

Another contraction swells up, blinding me and silencing my
swirling thoughts. It feels like I’m about to come apart at the seams as I’m
wheeled up to the labor and delivery floor. As I come back own from the painful
peak, I hear the words “possible emergency c-section”, “premature”, “life of
the mother”.

“How old are you, honey?” one of the nurses asks as we roll
up to the elevator bank.

“Nineteen,” I murmur deliriously.

“And you’ve never had a baby before?” she goes on.

I shake my head, tears running down my cheeks. I feel sure
in this moment that I won’t make it through this experience in one piece. I
have no idea what I’m doing.

“You’re going to have to wait down here,” the nurse says to
Dean, as she wheels me into the elevator.

“Like hell,” he says, blocking the elevator door with his
arm, “She needs me.”

“Are you the father?” the nurse demands impatiently,
“Because if not—”

“He’s is,” I gasp, “He’s the father.”

“Well in that case,” the nurse says, jerking her head at
Dean to invite him into the elevator with us.

Dean stands behind me in his Red Birds uniform, my silent
sentry. It isn’t until we’re alone in my hospital room that we even touch
again. Dean helps me into my gown, holding my hand as I lie back on the bed as
a dozen machines whir and beep all around me. Nurses rush in and out of the
room, getting everything ready in the event that I need to be rushed into
surgery. I pray to whoever might be listening for a safe delivery. I don’t care
what that looks like, just as long as my little boy is OK.

My little boy.

Our
little boy.

“Good thinking, telling them I’m the dad,” Dean whispers as
I settle back against the bed. “I’m not sure they would have let me stay with
you otherwise.”

I swing my eyes his way, surprised by his words. Of course.
With the scene my own dad made back at the stadium, I never even got to tell
him…

“Dean,” I say softly, holding his hand on the blue hospital
blanket, “I… I wasn’t lying.”

“What?” he breathes, his fingers lacing through mine.

“The lie was what I told you up in Boston,” I whisper, “When
you came up to see me. I don’t even know why I… I mean, I know why I tried to
keep this from you and just handle it on my own. I didn’t want you to feel like
you being forced into anything—”

“Hey, slow down…” he murmurs, laying a hand on my
tear-streaked cheek.

“You have this great life ahead of you,” I tell him, “That
was one of the first things you told me, when we met by the garden. Remember?
You told me that someday the whole word was gonna know your name. I want that
for you. I want you to have exactly the life you want. I don’t want to ruin—”

“Jessa,” Dean cuts me off, his voice hoarse with emotion,
“Don’t you get it? None of that stuff—the fame, the success—could come close to
meaning as much to me as you do.

“God, I love you,” I tell him, amazed all over again by his
beautiful heart.

“I love you too,” he goes on, taking a deep breath, “So
then… are you telling me that I
am
the father? That this baby… This baby
is ours?”

“Yes,” I smile, squeezing his hand, “He’s ours.”

Dean’s entire face lights up at my words. “You said
he
…”

“I sure did.”

Before we can share another word, the pain in my abdomen
comes walloping back. Three nurses swoop in to take care of me as my labor
kicks into high gear. The world becomes a blur of pain, pressure, and breath.
It feels like my body has been plucked out of time, like nothing has ever
existed before this moment, and nothing will exist after. The only thing
rooting me to this planet is Dean’s hand holding mine, Dean’s voice telling me
that it will be OK. That I’m strong. That I’m doing great.

A bell-like, unmistakable cry cuts through the chaos of the
delivery room after god only knows how long. I fall back against the hospital
bed, covered in sweat and more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life. But
when I bring my weary eyes to the foot of the bed and see the doctor cradling a
tiny, wailing figure, every other thought and feeling floats away. As my son is
placed on my chest, his little cheek resting against my flushed skin, it’s like
the gravitational pull of the entire universe shifts.

I look up at Dean, sitting beside me on the edge of the
hospital bed. He stares raptly at the little boy he helped create, a look of
unimaginable awe on his handsome face.

“Hey little dude,” Dean murmurs, laying his fingertip
against our son’s tiny palm.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I whisper.

And I realize the second those words leave my mouth that I
mean them for Dean and our baby alike.

Dean

In the coming weeks, Jessa and I all but live in the
hospital together as our baby gains his strength in the NICU. At first that
phrase, “our baby”, felt so strange to say out loud. I haven’t exactly had a
lot of time to get used to it, after all. But from the second I got to hold
that little boy in my arms, I knew that he was mine. I felt it more clearly
than anything in my life. And make no mistake, I couldn’t be happier to call
him mine.

For the few weeks or so right after the baby is born, Jessa
and I are too busy dealing with the day-to-day realities of his new life to
talk much about the big picture. He’s doing great for having been born at 29
weeks, but it’s touch and go for a while. His lungs and brain especially still
need time to fully develop. But as Jessa’s body heals and our son’s gains
strength, the big questions insist on being answered.

One afternoon, Jessa and I are sitting in the NICU together,
staring into our son’s incubator. The school year is officially over, which
means we have all the time in the world to focus on our son. We haven’t come up
with a name for him, yet. So his name is listed on his charts as “Little Dude”.
Not the most traditional name, I admit, but it has a certain ring to it.

“I think he looks more like you,” Jessa observes, cocking
her head to the side as she drinks in the sight of him.

“I don’t know,” I reply, taking her hand, “That looks like a
Cahill nose to me.”

Jessa has been incredibly through all of this. Not only did
she make it through the birth like a champ, she’s already bouncing back to her
clear-eyed self. This isn’t a situation that just any young woman could tackle
with such grace. But then again, Jessa Cahill isn’t just any young woman, is
she?

“I really thought I had this whole thing figured out,” she
says, shaking her head. “God. I had no idea what I was doing.”

“Well. What was the plan?” I ask her. “I mean, before…”

Jessa lets out a deep sigh, turning to face me.

“I was going to line up a family that wanted to adopt him,”
she tells me, “And then, once he was born, I was going to tell you what the
plan was. I thought you’d be relieved or something, that I’d taken care of it
on my own. That you didn’t have to worry about it… It feels so stupid to say
out loud, now.”

“You were scared,” I tell her, running my thumb across her
knuckles, “You were just trying to do the right thing by both of us.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you from the start,” she says,
almost mournfully.

“I’m sorry I didn’t prove to you from the start that you
could,” I reply. “But I hope you know now that you can trust me with anything,
Jess.”

“Oh, I do,” she smiles, “And then some.”

We turn our eyes to back to the incubator, where our baby
lies on his back with a half dozen machines keeping track of his vitals.
Helping him eat, and breathe. It’s so hard to see him like this, but he’s
getting stronger every day. He’s a fighter, no doubt about it. I know he’s
going to make it through this. 29 weeks is early, to be sure, but the doctors
are confident that he’ll be just fine.

“So much for plans, huh?” Jessa says quietly, resting her
fingertips against the glass.

“You can say that again,” I sigh.

“We have to figure out where to go from here,” Jessa goes
on, “We have to decide what’s best for him.”

“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath, “What are our options?”

“We can follow through with an adoption,” she says, “I’d had
inquires from a bunch of families already. I’m sure we could find someone to
take him home once he’s ready.”

“Oh…” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. But if I’m
honest, the idea of handing our little dude over to someone else makes my
stomach turn over on itself.

“But then,” Jessa continues, her eyes fixed on the baby,
“There’s another option.”

I wait with held breath for her to go on.

“I know I’m only just starting school,” she says, “And I
know that you’re gonna need to work like hell senior year if you want to get
recruited. I know it’s just about the worst timing, and that we may very well
not have the support of any of our parents, but…”

“But what?” I ask.

She brings her shining sea-green eyes to mine.

“We could keep him,” she all but whispers, “We could raise
him together.”

“We could…” I echo, placing my hand on the incubator beside
hers.

“And I’m not even saying that we’d have to be a couple
again, if that’s not what you want,” she hurries on, “We don’t need to run out
and get married tomorrow. We already have a lifelong commitment in this kid,
you know? If you just want to co-parent, we could find a way to make that
work.”

“Is that really what you want?” I ask, locking eyes with
her.

“Honestly?” she asks.

“Honestly.”

“No,” she says, “It’s not. I don’t just want to co-parent
with you, Dean. I want to be with you again. I want us all to be a family.”

“Well good,” I smile, my heart bursting at its seams with
love for her, “Because that’s what I want, too.”

“Really?” she whispers, eyes wide.

“I haven’t felt like part of a family since my mom passed
away,” I tell her, “I think some part of me has been waiting for a chance to
start of family of my own ever since. Sure, I didn’t think it would happen so
soon, but now that it’s here in front of me… I can’t think of anything I want
more.”

“I feel the same way,” she smiles, tears welling up in her
eyes, “Exactly.”

Jessa

The exhaustion, the worry, the physical pain lift away for
the briefest moment as Dean places his hand over mine on the incubator glass.
We turn our eyes to the little guy resting there, gaining strength every day.
After months of uncertainty, this moment of clarity is like finding water in
the desert. There’s still so much we don’t know about the future. We don’t know
how we’re going to pull this off, or what complications could arise in our
son’s health during the coming weeks. We don’t know who’s going to stand beside
us as we take this journey together and who’s going to turn away. Really,
there’s only one thing we do know for sure, which is that we’re in this
together.

But right now, that feels like the only real thing in the
world.

“Hey,” I murmur, lacing my fingers over Dean’s. “What was
your mom’s name?”

“Rowan,” he tells me, “Rowan Carter.”

“Rowan Carter,” I repeat, letting the name roll off my
tongue as I bring my eyes back to our son, “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you
think?”

EPILOGUE

One year later…

* * *

Dean

“How are you not freaking the fuck out right now?!” Buck
cries, pacing back and forth across the living room of our once-shared
apartment.

“I’m happy to outsource the freaking out to you,” I laugh,
taking a sip of my IPA as I keep one eye on the TV.

Buck flops onto the couch beside me, his eyes riveted to the
muted broadcast of this year’s NFL draft pre-show commentary. Things are just
about to get underway as the biggest teams in the country recruit their newest
players. My cell phone is sitting on the coffee table, ready to receive a call
that could change the course of my career—and my family’s life.

“I swear, I’d go into my room and have a private little shit
fit right now. If it were still my room and not a nursery, that is,” Buck says,
watching the TV through his fingers.

“Aw, you miss having me as a roommate?” I laugh, ruffling
his unkempt black hair.

“Not at the moment, jerk,” he grumbles, tousling his locks
back into place.

Buck was a saint about giving up his room in our apartment
last year. Once Rowan was cleared to come home with us after a couple of long
months in the NICU, having him and Jessa move into my place was the best thing
for our little family. We baby-proofed the entire apartment, converted Buck’s
room into a nursery, and upgraded my twin bed to a queen. And just like that,
we had a place to call our own as we figured out how to balance parenting,
school, and my obligations to the football team. Don’t get me wrong, there’s
been a lot to figure out. But at least we’ve had a safe space to come home to
at the end of the night.

“You’re a hell of a lot calmer than I was on draft day,” my
big brother Tom remarks from the arm chair beside the couch. “I was shaking
like a leaf, remember?”

“Guess I’ve just got a cooler head than you,” I grin.

“Well no shit,” he laughs, “I only had myself to worry about
going into the draft. I can’t imagine starting my career with a family to take
care of.”

I smile to myself, happy to have Tom here for the big day.
My brother and I could easily pass for twins, with our identical shade of sandy
blonde hair, brown eyes, and distinct jaw lines—though his face a bit more
square than mine. Hell, we even play the same position. There’s been quite the
media frenzy about where “Carter 2.0” is going to be drafted this year. The
press loves the brotherly connection between us, and the fact that I’m a young
father has all the sports blogs buzzing. I’ve got to say, the family man image
goes a long way in endearing me to the press. And considering that it feels
natural as hell, I don’t mind that perk one bit.

“I wouldn’t have been able to take such good care of Jessa
and Rowan this past year if it wasn’t for you,” I tell Tom, raising my beer to
him, “We owe you so much, bro.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says, waving away my praise.
“The team pays me stupid amounts of money to do the thing I love, and I’ve
gotten to share that money with my little brother and his family. I call that a
win-win situation. Besides, you won’t need my help for much longer, will you?”

“God willing,” I laugh, taking another sip of beer.

Even if Tom won’t take the credit he deserves, I’m forever
grateful for everything he’s done for my family this year. He offered us all
the financial support we could possibly need to get started. We were able to
pay for all of Jessa and Rowan’s medical care, the insane amount of baby
supplies, you name it. Our son’s full name isn’t Rowan Thomas Carter for
nothing.

“Now remember,” my dad says, returning from the kitchen with
a fresh beer, “Play it cool when the coach gives you a call, all right? Don’t
go losing your head and acting like—”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to keep it together,” I cut him off,
“But thanks for the advice, Dad.”

“You gonna be taping this whole thing?” Dad snaps at the
small news camera crew setting up across the living room.

“It’s a big day for your son!” the pretty blonde producer
tells my dad, “We want to capture every minute of the excitement.”

“You wanna give him a virus is what you want,” Dad grumbles,
sinking back against the old couch.

“It’s called ‘going viral’, Dad,” I correct him.

“Well, whatever it is, it gives me the creeps,” he says,
slugging back some beer.

I don’t dare look over at Tom for fear of bursting into
laughter. Dad’s never taken well to teasing. What he has taken to like a champ
is being a grandfather—or Pop, as he prefers. I never would have guessed that
my gruff Jersey boy of a father would be so good with kids. I definitely don’t
remember him being so warm when I was little. But I guess that comes with the
grandparent territory, right? It doesn’t hurt that Rowan is the cutest little
dude you’ve ever seen in your life. Seriously, my kid would blow that Gerber
baby right out of the water.

“The draft’s gonna start in like fifteen minutes,” Buck
says, bouncing up and down on the couch beside me, “Where is everyone?”

“They’ll be here, dude. Cool it,” I laugh, clapping him on
the back, “I can’t have you bursting into tears when the call comes in.”

“I’m not making any promises,” Buck says, knocking back the
rest of his beer.