Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 71015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
She held out her hand and I held on, ready to move any second if she started to tip over. Something she’d done twice now coming down the stairs of our house.
She reminded me of one of those weeble-wobble dolls that I saw Sebastian’s little girl playing with other day. They swayed from side to side as they walked, but never fell down. Although, Tru would most definitely fall down.
That’s exactly what I thought of when I saw Tru lately…not that I’d ever tell her that. Not if I desired my balls attached.
She finally made it in the back of the medic and took a seat on the cot in front of me.
“I don’t feel good today. My head’s pounding and my feet are swollen. My hands are shaky. And I missed you,” she said, looking down at her feet.
Or would’ve been looking down at her feet if the large belly she was sporting weren’t so…large.
My hand went to her belly, and as usual, I started to feel where the baby was at. It was my favorite thing to do, guess the body part.
Today, by my best guess, our child was head down, with her feet up by her momma’s rib cage.
She was lower today, though. Much lower.
“Feel like you can breathe better?” I asked in surprise.
She frowned and leaned down to look at her belly causing a piece of hair that was held by a clip at the top of her head to fall and curl around her face. “Yes, now that you mention it. Why?”
I shook my head. “It just feels like she dropped some from last night. I wasn’t able to feel your ribs last night.”
She shrugged. “According to my books, that can happen anywhere from six weeks up until delivery. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She sounded so annoyed by that fact that I had to suppress the urge to laugh.
Poor Tru had had a rough time of it.
Around her twenty eighth week, she was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. From that point on, she had to check her blood sugar five times a day, and watch what she ate very strictly.
It’d been torture to see her not eat what she wanted to eat. Poor girl.
But she’d kicked gestational diabetes’ ass, and controlled it with diet alone.
“What was your last blood sugar check?” I asked as I started rifling through her purse for the kit to check it.
Tru didn’t like checking it. The sight of blood squigged her out, which was funny since she was married to a paramedic who dealt with blood on a daily basis. I’d nearly died in laughter the first time she realized that the red on my socks had come from a person’s blood soaking through my pants.
That’d been a fun call. Not.
“I checked it when I got up this morning, but I haven’t been able to eat. My stomach’s been bothering me on and off since last night,” she explained, holding out her hand for me to check her sugars.
With a small flinch when the needle poked her finger, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut as I followed the process that I’d done thousands of times before.
“It’s low, baby. Forty six. Let’s go get some juice in you,” I said as I locked the meds back up for a later time.
She groaned as I helped her up, holding onto my hand as I led her out of the ambulance and into the kitchen.
That’s where I found the majority of the crew eating and shooting the shit as they ate game day chili. They all turned to watch us enter, and damn near every one of them got a concerned look on their face when they caught sight of Tru’s gray pallor.
“What’s wrong?” Kettle asked from his hovering position over the pot of chili.
“I don’t feel well,” Tru said as I led her to the couch where Sebastian sat on one side, and Corbin sat on the other.
Tru leaned over and placed her head on Sebastian’s shoulder, melting into his side like she did with so many of The Dixie Wardens.
Smiling, I walked to the kitchen and took a gallon of orange juice out of the fridge.
Pouring her a glass, I walked over to Tru and handed her the drink.
She took it reluctantly, almost as if I was handing her a glass of acid rather than juice.
“Drink it,” I demanded.
She stuck her tongue out at me but, nonetheless, drank her juice in one long gulp.
“Good girl,” Sebastian said, which elicited a pinch in the side from Tru.
He chuckled then went back to watching the ball game on TV. “Mariners win by four,” Tru bet as I was leaving.
“Rangers win by one,” Corbin countered.
“You’re on,” Tru said.
Laughing, I walked over to the pot that Kettle was stirring and asked, “You gonna sit there and stir it all day, or are you gonna let her have some?”
He flipped me off, but dished out a bowl of chili anyway, handing it over, knowing I wanted it for Tru.
He probably wouldn’t have given it over if it’d been for anybody else.
“Here, baby,” I said as I walked around the couch.
She took the bowl, and blew on it before smiling gratefully at me. “Is this the deer one?”
Kettle confirmed with an affirmative.
“I’ve heard all the hype, but never actually had it. It’s pretty delicious,” Tru said earnestly.
“Thanks,” Kettle said.
She devoured the bowl and fell back into her spot, leaning against Sebastian. Except this time she curled her legs up and tucked them underneath Corbin’s leg; then promptly fell asleep.
He didn’t move, eyes still focused on the game, and I just shook my head at the sight.
It was funny how one woman had the power to disarm these men.
Then again, all of The Dixie Warden women did.
“You’re baby’s kicking me,” Sebastian said, gesturing with his head towards where Tru’s belly was pressed up against his arm.
I didn’t refrain from laughing then.
Our girl was going to be a kick boxer if her activity in her mother’s womb had anything to say about it.