Ramsey: A Military Bad Boy Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance (The Bradford Brothers Book 3) (15 page)

One Week Later

My unit finally moves to a more stable base camp, and Harlow and I mention calling home to let the family know we’re okay and where they can reach us via mail, at least.

As we set up our tents, one of the guys— Chad— says, “Is it alright with you guys if I use the phone room first, privately? My sister is undergoing cancer treatment, and I might just get a little…”

Emotional
.

“Of course,” we say. “Go ahead and call her now. The rest of us can wait.”

“It’s so weird to think of everything going on back at home, while we’re out here,” says another of my buddies. “I know it’s only been about four months, but it feels like forever, since we were all back at Kirtland, doing our final training, and then pissing around during R&R.”

I try not to think about Monica, during the last visit I spent with her, when we walked on the beach and made fantastic love. I think I kind of screwed it up at the end, by laughing when she suggested Skyping with my family.

In my defense, I’d honestly thought it was a joke. But she’s been distant since then, more reserved. I plan to call her soon, but I don’t have high hopes for her reception of such a phone call.

Most of the time I’ve been here, I’ve felt okay, although we’ve been doing some risky operations. I listen to Monica’s soundtrack and keep plenty busy, just with work. I think of her often, but I feel it’s something in the past; just as she wanted and we both promised from the beginning. It must help me, though, because I haven’t had too many night terrors. When I do, I listen to the songs to help calm me down, and remember how Monica used to rub my back.

It usually works. The most dangerous part of our trip is over, and miraculously no one was injured. Now we’re training some Afghans with the rest of our time left here.

“Speaking of training at Kirtland,” another guy says. “You remember that chick fighter pilot with the F-35? Who did the close combat support training?”

Most of the other guys nod or mumble— a few aren’t even paying attention and others make jokes alluding to the tampons in the pink plane— but I try not to look like I’m paying too much attention, although of course I’m all ears. Why’s he talking about
Monica
?

“I heard she’s out on disability, or retiring or something,” he continues.

What
? I think.
Disability? Is she okay?

“Woah,” says another guy. “That’s kind of weird. She seemed super into her job. She liked to act tough and brag about being a chick in a guy’s world, that kind of thing.”

“I know, right?” the first guy says. “That’s why I found it so surprising. I guess it must be a health issue, or I can’t imagine why else she would suddenly want to be done.”

“Maybe a
mental
health issue,” someone else jokes. “I bet she’s a real basket case.”

Harlow glances at me, and I shoot him a defensive glare in return. He’s been worried about my night terrors and what he calls my “depression” lately, but I keep reassuring him that I’m just fine.

“You talking about Carrington?” asks Tim, another guy in our unit, as he walks over from the supply truck with some rope and tarps.

“Yeah, just speculating on why she’s out on leave,” someone says.

Tim wipes sand out of his eyes and says, “I heard she got knocked up.”

“Woah,” says a chorus of guys, in unison, and one says, “I didn’t even know she was married or anything. Who knocked her up?”

Yeah
, I want to ask.
Who knocked her up?

I suddenly feel dizzy, and I take a drink of water from my canteen. Harlow’s still looking at me kind of funny, so I try to act as normal as I possibly can. But I have to admit this news has thrown me for a loop.

“No idea,” says Tim, with a shrug. “And it’s all just speculation I heard through the grapevine. Apparently some commanders were talking shit when they got drunk while planning joint mission training. The funniest part was that some of them supposedly said they’re sad to lose her and how she’s a great pilot who was very helpful during trainings, blah blah blah.”

There are jokes about how a guy in a skirt could do a better job, and how maybe she could bring her baby on the airplane and breastfeed it while she flies. Womens’ lib, and all of that.

Some guys even said that this is why women shouldn’t be allowed into the military; they just leave as soon as they get knocked up. I’m feeling a little less wobbly, so I bend down to pound a stake into the ground, hoping I look inconspicuous, even to Harlow.

“I don’t know that she’s announced a pregnancy or retirement or anything like that,” Tim continues, “But I think the speculation was started because the timing of it is fishy. She’s using her sick leave, and someone said something about maternity leave, and someone else said word on the street is that she’s putting in her resignation papers. All signs point to pregnancy, but who knows. There’s no official word yet.”

He shrugs as if to say, “Oh well,” but I’m still rather incredulous.

Monica can’t really be pregnant, can she? I think. I’m sure she would tell me. But what if it isn’t mine? Or what if it
is
mine, but it was all part of some ploy that Monica had, as a way to have a baby and leave the Air Force?

That doesn’t really make sense, and I wouldn’t suspect it of Monica, but I feel foolish and confused. I suppose I don’t really know her that well, even though I thought I did.

I’m determined to sneak off to the phone room as soon as Chad is back, before Harlow or any of the other guys take their turns. I’m not sure how I should go about it, but I know I need to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.

I’m setting up the nursery when my cell phone rings and an unknown number— just a string of a bunch of random numbers, really— appears across the screen. My heart skips a beat. This is the same way it looked the other couple of times that Ramsey called me.

I had just framed the one picture I have of Ramsey and me— a selfie on the beach, which we took with my cell phone— and had decided where to hang it. I imagined myself telling the baby about his dad one day. Except that I haven’t exactly thought that far ahead yet, to figure out what I should say, or when, or how the baby- turned- child might react.

“Hello?” I say, my palm feeling sweaty on the phone.

“Monica,” Ramsey says. “It’s Ramsey.”

“Hi!”

“Hello.”

It feels so nice to hear from him, but he sounds distant. Not just physically—geographically, which of course he is— but also emotionally. Maybe he’s just bummed. Or maybe he’s not as happy to be talking with me as I am to be talking with him.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he snaps. “Of course I’m okay.”

His tone suggests that he wants to add, “I’m calling you, aren’t I?,” but he doesn’t. And I want to say, “You
are
at war, you know?,” but I don’t.

It’s strange that so many things remain unsaid between us, after those times we spent talking so late into the night, or over dinner, or while walking on the beach. I’m beginning to wonder if any of it was even real, and if it even meant anything… other than the creation of the baby, of course, which certainly wasn’t planned, and which Ramsey doesn’t even know about.

I think about telling him right now, but it sure sounds as if he’s depressed or something. I don’t want to burden him if it would make things worse instead of better.

“I’m glad to hear from you,” I tell him. “How are things?”

“They’re fine. We just arrived at a stable base where we will probably stay throughout the end of our deployment. Just doing local training, at this point.”

“Oh good.”

I feel relieved, knowing that it means the dangerous part of their mission is over.

“Of course there’s no phone number that rings through here, but I have an address for you, if you want it.”

“Sure,” I say, taking out the first writing utensil I can find— a marker that’s part of a kids’ toy that Becky wanted to share with the baby. I also pull out some labels I’ve been using to organize the bins of clothes by month.

He tells me the address, and I write it down, excited that he’s giving it to me. I figure that has to mean
something
. Maybe he’s in a better mood than I thought he was. Maybe he is calling because he misses me. Maybe I should tell him about the baby.

“I’m sure that being over there is kind of hard sometimes,” I say, trying to test the waters. “But I just worry that your…”

I hesitate, knowing I shouldn’t say “PTSD” on the phone.

“…that you might be depressed,” I finished.

“I’m not depressed,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean depressed. More like, stressed, or anxious…”

“Of course I’m stressed,” he says. “I worry about my mom. I worry about the safety of my unit, including Harlow. But you tell me not to worry about other people, and only worry about myself. So I’m sure you don’t want to hear about why I might be stressed.”

“Yes I do,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean…”

I trail off. There’s no use. I should not have started down this trail.

“Well, how are you?” He asks. “What have you been up to?”

“Uhhhh. Nothing.”

I squirm in the rocking chair, looking at the framed picture of us that I had just hung in our baby’s room. The baby he doesn’t know about. He doesn’t know about anything that’s going on with me, and I’m not sure if I should tell him, or how. It doesn’t leave me much to talk about.

“Are you seeing someone?” he asks suddenly, his tone sounding angry, or annoyed.

“What?”

“I’m just wondering. If you’ve been seeing someone else.”

“No,” I tell him, even though now
I’m
annoyed.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he says.

“You’re right.”

How dare he want to know if I’m seeing someone, after he told me he didn’t want a relationship? After he laughed at the thought of letting his family know we had anything to do with each other? The nerve!

“Why are you being so weird?” I ask him. Realizing that could sound really bad, I clarify. “So… cranky?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, as if
I
should know. “No reason, I guess.”

“Okay.”

There’s an awkward silence and then he says, “Well, others are waiting to use the phone…”

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you for calling.”

I want to ask when he can call again, but I don’t think the question will make him too happy. And if the next call is like this one, I’m not sure there’s any point.

“You’re welcome. Goodbye.”

“Stay safe. Goodbye.”

After I hang up, I think of all the things I wish I could have said.

I miss you.

I’m thinking about you.

I’m having your baby.

I love you.

But that call didn’t go the way I thought it would. Nothing between Ramsey and I has gone well since that last day at my house, right before he left.

I look down at my stomach, which is finally starting to protrude a little bit. I rub my just- appearing baby bump and say, “I love you, baby boy.”

Perhaps it’s time to give up on the fantasy, and concentrate on the reality.