Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
I rest my palms on the roundness under my sweatshirt. The baby shifts, a soft roll that makes me catch my breath with something like awe. “I can do this,” I say, surprising myself with how steady it sounds. “I can raise this baby on my own. There are whole internet forums of people who do it. I have you. I have Charlotte. I have an army of aunties and a dog rescue in Denver waiting for cuddles.”
“And what if Lucas finds out there’s no Freddy?” Amelia asks, threading a bolt with the patience of a saint.
I snort, tossing my head like a very pregnant horse. “I’m sure he doesn’t care enough to try to find him. He asked, I answered, box checked, everyone gets to keep their uncomplicated lives.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, the universal sister noise for I’m not convinced, but okay. “Hold this rail while I attach the side.”
I waddle over, grip the rail, and we maneuver the crib into three-dimensional reality with the combined power of stubbornness and the promise of snacks. We fall back to admire our work: one pristine white crib, sunlight dusting it with gold like a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
I swallow a lump. “Hi, tiny person’s bed. I’m your mom. I promise not to cry every time I look at you.”
Amelia squeezes my hand. “That’s a lie,” she says fondly, then glances at the time. “I have to get to work.” She pouts.
I give her a hug. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Listen, you need food. Make sure you eat.”
I give her a salute as she grabs her handbag and heads for the door. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m serious, Mel. Eat.”
“I will,” I declare. “The baby wants lo mein.”
She heads out after telling me once more to be sure to eat. I browse through tiny clothes folded on the coffee table—onesies with stars, a knit sweater that makes me want to knit actual feelings into it—and try not to replay the baby store like a greatest hits reel. Some moments insist on playing anyway.
The baby’s not mine, right?
I exhale, long and controlled, like my prenatal yoga video told me while a woman named Sonya did impossible things with her spine. “I’m fine,” I tell a plant. “We’re fine.”
I grab my phone, and place the order. The sky over Saint Pierce goes cotton-candy pink, and the day slips into that cozy hour where the neighborhood smells like dinner and the world tucks itself in. I slip on boots and my big cream coat, shove my hair into a messy bun that used to look cute and now looks like a nest for a small bird family, and waddle—walk—to Dragon Garden for takeout because the baby and I need fresh air and also lo mein in under fifteen minutes.
The bell above the door jingles when I push inside. Warmth hits my face, and the place smells like soy sauce, orange peel, and heaven. The hostess smiles. “Order for Melanie?”
“That’s me,” I say, feeling cheerfully anonymous in my puffer and scarf. I pull out my wallet.
A voice behind me: “Hey.”
I know that voice the way my hand knows my belly. It slides under my skin without permission.
I turn. Lucas stands there, hands in his coat pockets, beanie pulled low, a dusting of snow on his shoulders like the weather voted him Most Likely to Be a Movie Poster. He looks tired in the way people look when they’ve been awake too long with purpose, not with insomnia. He looks… good. Which is deeply rude.
“Hi,” I say, aiming for breezy. It comes out breathy. My lungs are like, we’re busy housing a human, sorry.
“How are you?” he asks, and somehow manages to make it sound like he means all of it, not the default small talk. His eyes flick to my belly, then back to my face. “Everything okay?”
I bob my head, aiming for nonchalant. “Great. Hungry.”
He nods. A beat. “How’s Freddy?”
There it is. The name I invented like a place card at a dinner party. My laugh sticks. “He’s—uh—fine.”
Lucas watches me with that steady scan he does. It’s not interrogation, more like reading the room. The second I think I’ve sold the lie, my belly tightens like someone cinched a belt from the inside. I wince, hand flying to the top of my bump.
“Mel?” Lucas steps closer. “What is it?”
“I’m—mm—okay,” I say through gritted not-okay teeth. It’s like a very bossy hug around my entire abdomen. It eases, then comes back stronger, a wave I ride with a strangled little noise I did not intend to make in public.
Lucas’s hand is at my elbow immediately, warm and steady. “Pain scale?”
“I don’t know,” I breathe. “Five? Seven? Spicy?”
“How long have they been like this?”
“They?” I echo, dumb. Another squeeze hits, and I bend slightly, forehead briefly meeting his chest because physics. “Okay—ow—maybe not fine.”