Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Sarah looks up. “Salmon burger with a spinach salad. Boom.”
“Sounds good,” I say, even though the thought of anything fishy turns my stomach. “Okay, now spill, honey.”
Sarah launches into telling me every swoon-inducing detail about Jonas popping the question, stopping only to chomp on her salmon burger when our food arrives. And when Sarah’s done telling me every last thing about Jonas’ incredible proposal, we begin poring over the huge stack of bridal magazines I’ve brought, formulating ideas for the wedding of the century a mere twenty-six days from now (oh my God!).
“Okay,” I finally say after almost an hour of brainstorming. I look down at the lengthy list of questions and ideas scrawled on my notepad. “Do you want me to go with you to your meeting with the wedding planner tomorrow?”
“No, I know you’re busy getting your new business up and running—I’ll handle everything from here on out.”
My stomach clenches. God, I hate keeping anything from Sarah. It makes me feel even more like throwing up than I already do. “Sarah, I’m the Party Girl, remember?” I say. “I live for parties—and weddings are just the granddaddy of all parties. Plus, I’m the maid of honor, after all—let me help you pull it all together.”
Sarah beams a huge smile at me. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“I must admit I’m a bit overwhelmed. Jonas says he’ll pay for everything and show up, so I’m kind of on my own here.”
“I’m thrilled to do it. Anything you need, whatever it is, I’m your girl.”
“Thanks so much, Kat. You’re the absolute best,” Sarah says. She emphatically closes the bridal magazine in front of her on the table. “So enough about me, me, me. I’ve talked your ear off this whole lunch. Tell me what’s going on with you, you, you? How’s Golden Kat PR coming? When’s the launch date, you think?”
“Um,” I say. I bite my lip. “Hmm.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Sarah says. “What do you think about ‘Kitty Kat PR’? Too juvenile? It’s certainly memorable.”
I don’t reply.
“Yeah, you’re right. Probably too juvenile,” Sarah says. “So how’s the planning going? Are you having fun?”
I take a small sip of ginger ale, trying to figure out how best to answer Sarah’s seemingly innocuous questions without unleashing the kraken on her. Shit. I suppose I should tell Sarah about Colby, but I’m certainly not gonna tell her about my accidental Faraday, not when she’s in the throes of planning her dream wedding—plus, the sonogram at my doctor’s appointment later today might reveal the accidental spawn is smoking and losing altitude, you never know. And if I’m not gonna tell Sarah about my accidental bun in the oven, then I sure as heck won’t be telling her about Josh’s so-called marriage proposal, either, or about how I’ve been crying my eyes out ever since.
“So, come on—tell me everything,” Sarah says, sipping her wine.
“Well...” I begin slowly, my stomach in knots. “Um.” My lower lip begins to tremble. My eyes water.
Shoot.
I take a deep breath, trying to quell the despair rising up inside me—and then I burst into big, soggy tears.
Thirteen
Kat
“The doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse says, taking the blood-pressure cuff off my arm.
I shift my weight, eliciting a crinkling sound from the wax paper underneath me. “I’m nervous,” I say softly.
“About what?” Sarah asks. “A sonogram doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“I’m not nervous the sonogram will hurt,” I say. “I’m nervous about, you know, what it might show—that something might be wrong.”
Honestly, I’m shocked at how anxious I am that something might be wrong with my little accidental Faraday. Two weeks ago, when I first peed on those pregnancy tests, the baby going bye-bye on its own was all I kept praying for. But with each passing day since then, I’ve surprisingly found myself more and more attached to the idea of having a baby of my own—perhaps a little boy who looks just like Josh? Despite myself, I keep imagining a dark-haired boy sitting at the Morgan Family Thanksgiving table in a little blue suit to match his sapphire eyes, or maybe throwing a football in the backyard with Colby, or learning how to play guitar with Dax? Or, craziest of all, I keep finding myself imagining Josh and me cuddled up in a warm bed with our cute little guy, giggling and whispering about how happy we are. It’s crazy, I know, but I can’t stop thinking about it.
Sarah juts her lip with sympathy as only she can do. “Aw, don’t be nervous, honey.” She opens my dog-eared copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting and flips to a marked page. “I was just reading in your fascinating little book here that being a barf-o-matic is generally regarded as a great sign—that it typically indicates your hormones are at high levels, which is good.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” I say. “And thanks for coming to this appointment with me. I didn’t realize it would be so comforting to have someone here.”