Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
He nods before looking down at the floor and swallowing thickly. “The nerves will pass soon, and then the excitement will set in,” he comforts. “That first sound of the heartbeat. The first picture of a tiny human inside… We’ll never be the same.”
I want to ask him where he gets his wisdom—how he’s smart enough to recognize the little things in the midst of a scariness neither of us has ever known. It’s a whole other level of the human experience to be responsible for a person other than yourself.
“Beatrice Bishop?” the same dark-haired nurse as before calls from the door by the front desk. It’s a little awkward, walking toward her, knowing Tad is walking behind me while other women in the room watch just as I did with Jasmine before.
But it’s good awkward. It’s new. It’s joyful. It’s fulfilling.
Tad’s right. I have a very, very strong feeling I’m about to be irrevocably changed.
Once we’re through the door, the nurse leading the way, I glance back at him. For once, I don’t bother hiding how nervous I am. I’ve commanded many rooms in the last two decades, negotiated million-dollar art deals, and stood toe-to-toe with men who thought I didn’t belong in their world of obscene wealth.
But this feels like stepping into the unknown.
I’m entering into a new endeavor that has a hell of a lot less room for failure and much higher stakes.
Tad reads it all easily, hurrying his step to put his hand on my back and whisper in my ear, “It’s all going to be okay.”
I nod. I know he can’t know that’s true, and I can’t either—but somehow, the comfort of him saying it anyway is enough to settle my stomach.
“Step on the scale for me,” the nurse directs, gesturing in front of her and waiting as I scramble to hand Tad my purse and sweater and coat and scarf.
He takes it all with a gentle laugh. “Definitely don’t get on there with all this shit. It’s at least twenty pounds.”
The nurse smiles, and I step up on the scale. I expect her to read my weight aloud—like the unbothered nurses in New York always do—but she doesn’t, sending me a wink as she writes it on her clipboard instead. “All right, we’ll just need a urine sample. Restroom’s right behind you, and the cups are on the counter. Label it, cap it, and bring it back out with you. You’ll be in room number four, and your…” She looks directly at Tad, and I don’t have a clue what to call him.
When Farm Daddy is the only title that pops into my head, I just about swallow my tongue and start choking on my own saliva.
“Boyfriend,” Tad eventually supplies with a smile that looks completely at ease with the label.
“Your boyfriend can wait in there for you.”
“Great,” I say through a burning throat, my mind running like a racehorse with extensive training and a need for glory.
Within the span of a few months, I’ve gone from perpetual single gal in the city with balls of steel to a pregnant, small-town girl who nearly weeps over the simple designation of the title boyfriend by the boy himself. If I showed the Breezy of last year this version of me, she wouldn’t even recognize herself.
Slightly embarrassed but on a schedule, I lock myself in the bathroom and do the impossible—point an unruly hose with no aim capacity into a plastic cup beneath me and get it all in without peeing on my hand.
Once I’ve washed my hands and labeled everything, I head to room four, where Tad’s already waiting. He’s sitting with his ankle crossed over his knee and his arm stretched along the back of the chair beside him. My things are neatly folded and piled on the empty cushion.
He’s just kind of staring off into the distance. He looks relatively calm—calmer than I feel—but pensive, and I try not to call too much attention to it as I enter the space.
“Hey,” he says, jolting slightly when I walk in. I set the cup on the counter as inconspicuously as possible and awkwardly climb onto the exam table. The paper crinkles obnoxiously beneath me, and we both laugh.
A knock comes almost immediately, and the nurse reappears, rolling in a small computer cart. She dips a test strip into my sample, then turns to me.
“Okay, while that test is processing, let’s talk about your symptoms and a little bit about your medical history.”
I nod, trying to look composed even as Tad sits a few feet away. We’ve gotten close, sure, but this level of intimacy feels like diving off a cliff.
Pretty sure the cat is too far out of the bag to stuff it back in, Breeze.
Yeah. It’s safe to say that, whether we like it or not, we’re going to be knowing a whole lot about each other for the next nineteen years at minimum. And even after that, pretending we won’t be involved is a joke—children are for life, accidental or not.