Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
What to take, what to leave, and how the heck did I end up owning all this stuff anyway? I’ve only been here a matter of months. But the January sales were just too tempting. It seemed almost rude not to treat myself to a new wardrobe to match my new life. Nothing to do with filling the empty space in my life with shopping, right? And not that my new clothes will do me any good in the coming months.
After, though. I become aware of a flutter of anxiety in my chest. I will return to work after this, though what I’ll be doing is anyone’s guess at this point. Babies and trading aren’t exactly a marriage made in heaven. I have only known women in more-senior positions who’ve made it work, but at what cost? You take a few months out of the game, and your clients are handed off to others, which is bad for income. For networking. For morale, and the Lord only knows what else.
It’ll be fine, I reassure myself. Something will turn up—there isn’t anything in this world I can’t do. Including raising a child by myself, if it should come to that.
I pee, brush my teeth, shower, and all that stuff, while my brain revolves around a never-ending list of unknowns I’ll be facing in the coming months. There’s the literature the doctor handed me last night—the dos and don’ts, the what-to-expects, including a bunch of stuff I hadn’t even thought of.
And then there are the practicalities of my return to New York next week. From getting a new phone number to finding somewhere to stay, beginning with an Airbnb. And, of course, discovering how Matt will fit into all this. Also, if how he’s feeling right now will last. The safest thing is not to buy 100 percent into his involvement. It wouldn’t be the first time I have been stung by a man.
Pretty sure the pattern began while I was in utero.
Out of the shower, I examine my body in the mirror. It looks exactly the same as it did yesterday. Except my boobs are a little bigger, so maybe my favorite bra didn’t shrink in the dryer.
Maybe I’ll be one of those moms-to-be with a cute bump, I consider, both hands splayed there. All round and petite like I swallowed a soccer ball. Considering the size disparity between me and my baby daddy, maybe I won’t. So maybe I’ll elect for a C-section to save my poor hoo-ha.
Something else to consider.
Or not.
It’s weird to think I’ve been undergoing changes for weeks without even realizing. It’s also good to know that the food and water here don’t really taste weird. It’s just that my taste buds are a little . . . hormonal. Slipping into my fluffy white robe (another recent purchase), I consider how externally, things are pretty much the same, while internally, my world has shifted.
I make my way to the kitchen, with a detour to the bedroom to grab my phone. I find a text from Martine asking how I’m bearing up, not that she knows anything but that I no longer work for Theta. I’m beginning to text out a reply when my phone vibrates with an incoming text from Matt.
Matt: Fancy some breakfast?
Me: A girl has to eat.
I feel way too fluttery for my reply. It’s not a date, I remind myself. It’s just breakfast. With your baby daddy. The one you’ll be leaving in a few days.
Me: Don’t you ever work?
Last night, Matt was insistent on taking me home after our appointment, despite my reassurance that I’d be fine in a cab. The standoff over, I sat in his passenger seat, holding the ultrasound image of our little bean as the radio played low in the background. It’s the strangest feeling in the world to know I’m currently cooking a small human. Such a lot to get my mind around. I guess he must’ve sensed that as he pulled up outside the building.
“Whatever else,” he’d said, taking my hands. “I promise you’re not alone in this.”
Which is a whole something else to get my mind around. I have a bazillion questions about how this will work—the logistics, for one. And his family—will he tell them? Will our little bean have involved aunts, cousins, maybe uncles? Grandparents, even, who’ll live so far away? Will he visit? Will he want to bring the bean back for the holidays? Will he be there for the birth? And how long can I expect before our little bean gets a stepmom? How is it I’m already jealous of her?
My phone dings again.
Matt: I’m not saying I’m lazy, but if there was work on a bed, I’d sleep on the floor.
And then a second follows.
Matt: Now imagine that in my dulcet *Oirish* tones.