by BJ Harvey
“Mayyybee. But I’ll deny it till the day I die. You might take it as encouragement.”
“Kiss me, baby mama,” I demand, and thankfully, she doesn’t make me wait, pressing forward and crushing her lips to mine.
I groan into her mouth but keep my hands anchored to her hips, a self-control mechanism to remind me she has a big ‘handle with care’ sign above her head.
“So, lunch and a rom-com about pregnancy and babies to scare us?” she asks, making me snort.
“Well, I’ve never seen a rom-com horror, so this will be a first for me.”
She tilts her head. “And work? I’d hate to have to complain to my contractor about the slacking architect.”
“Okay. New plan. We’ll order lunch, and while we’re waiting for the food to be delivered, you can talk me through what you want to change upstairs. Then I’ll take some notes, and do some really loose drafts on my tablet after the movie.”
“Sounds good. I’ll just get us some drinks,” she says, turning toward the refrigerator.
I gently grip her shoulders and spin her back around. “Nuh-uh.“
Gilly rolls her eyes. “I can carry drinks you know.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to. You’re doing all the heavy lifting growing our baby. My job is to make it as easy as possible for you.”
She scrunches her nose up. “Ez…”
I ignore her and press on. “What would you like?” I ask, pulling out the big guns to sweeten her up. “Sparkling water?”
“Yes please.”
“Coming right up.”
“This overbearing, protective dad-to-be act is really turning me on, by the way,” she says as I hand over her drink.
“I’ll be sure to keep doing it then.”
“You do that,” she says with a grin. “So, are you ready to dazzle me with your other talents?”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re hell on my self-control.”
“If you can turn me on drawing plans and talking drywall and load-bearing beams, then I think showing restraint will be my problem, not yours.”
“Maybe you can torture me with your legal speak. Then we can both suffer.”
She grabs hold of my hand and leads me toward the staircase. “Like re-butt-al?”
“Oh yeah, just like that,” I reply, dropping my voice all low and croony. “Give me more.”
“Clitigation…” she says, her eyes dropping half-lidded.
I bark out a laugh. “Something is seriously wrong with us.”
“If this is wrong,” she says, waving her hand between us, “then I don’t ever want to be right.”
Me either.
Gilly
My belly has popped. Apparently, that’s the “official” term for it.
In my mind, I’m in the middle of needing to lay off the ice cream and looking pregnant. Ezra loves my changing body. He’s always resting his hand over the bump when we’re relaxing on the couch or lying in bed. I secretly love it.
But now, at seventeen weeks, it’s become impossible to hide any longer, which means telling my parents. That’s where I’m driving now. Lunch at their chosen restaurant, a top Michelin-starred establishment where high-society types—or those who like to think they are—go to see and be seen. It’s a blessing because Keith and Sheila won’t make a scene—not a loud, obvious one anyway.
Ronnie—Are you sure you don’t want me to come as moral support?
Gilly—I wouldn’t subject you to them. You’re a week overdue, and you definitely don’t need the stress Keith and Sheila bring with them.
Ronnie—I’d suffer through lunch for you, Gilly-Bear.
Gilly—And I love you for it. But it’s not like they can do anything about me being pregnant.
Ronnie—Dad could make your life difficult at work.
Gilly—Equity partner, remember?
Ronnie—He has his ways.
Gilly—It’ll be fine. They should hear it from me, and since peanut has decided to start stretching me outwards, I can’t exactly hide him anymore.
Ronnie—Aww. Imagine if I have a boy too. Our sons could grow up best friends like we are.
Gilly—Stop trying to make me cry. My makeup is perfect.
Ronnie—You better have your boss bitch red lipstick on.
Gilly—You know I do.
Ronnie—Is Ezra ready to meet the parents?
Damn. I was hoping to get it over and done with before dodging this bullet.
Gilly—Ummmm…
Barely a minute goes by before my phone starts ringing in my hand.
“Hello?”
“What are you doing, Gilly? And why isn’t Ezra there with you?” Ronnie shrieks in my ear.
“I didn’t want to rock the boat, and if he came with me, that would totally happen.”
“Who the fuck cares if Keith and Sheila don’t like it? You can’t go into the lion’s den alone. You need someone to run interference when needed, and believe me, you know you need someone to have your back.”
“It’s just a standard lunch.”
“Where you tell them you’re carrying potentially their first grandson. Do you know what kind of life plan they’ll have mapped out for him?”
I shudder to think. “You never know. You might beat me to the punch.”
“Well, I damn well hope I give birth sometime soon, I can’t see my feet, let alone my vagina anymore.”
“That’s something to look forward to,” I say wryly.
“Oh, just you wait. The third trimester is hard. Being eight days overdue is sensational… not!” She sounds more than a little fed up and reports from Jax—via Ezra—are that she’s at the end of her tether now. That, more than any other reason, is why I’m doing this alone today.
“Not long to go now, Ronnie-Bear. Then you get to meet your mini-Ken or mini-Barbie.” Just the thought of my soon-to-arrive niece or nephew has me smiling from ear to ear as I pull off the freeway.
“I’m so excited,” she whispers. “I may complain, and I know I’m making Jax’s life living hell right now without meaning to, but I can’t wait to see him holding our baby for the first time. My heart may explode into a thousand tiny pieces, but it would totally be worth it.” Her voice breaks, and tears sting my eyes.
“Dammit, Ronnie. Do not make me cry.”
She sniffles down the phone. “I’m sorry. I cried when Jax gave me a two-for-one orgasm special last night. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look so freaked out,” she says with a giggle-sob.
“Holy hell. I don’t think I’ve ever cried during sex. That would be traumatizing.”
“It wasn’t for me—definitely was for Jax. Now he’s cut me off, and this is a man who has never restricted access, so take my word for it—given that I’m still as pregnant as an elephant in their last month—that sex to bring on birth does not work for us.”
“Duly noted,” I reply dryly. “Okay, well, I better leave you so I can concentrate on driving.”
“We should have a safe word.”
I scrunch my face up, even though she can’t see me. “Why? I deal with our father on a daily basis.”
“Just think of this like a blind date, except it’s like an ‘I don’t know how my uptight parents will react to me having a baby without a husband’ date that you may—okay, definitely will—need a rescue call from.”
That makes me snort giggle. “And how would that work?”
Ronnie sighs but doesn’t talk.
“Ron?”
“Sorry. I’m here. I just had to try and use touch therapy to request that my child stop doing karate jabs every which way inside me.”
“Ouch!”
“Oh, yeah. Right, safe word. How about Baker?”
“What’s wrong with simply sending a text with the word ‘help?’”
“So unimaginative, big sister. You need to work on your creativity. Lord knows you’ll need it when your peanut gets too big and tries kicking his daddy during adult fun-time.”
“Ronnie
Cook, I really don’t need to know that.”
“Just you wait. I secretly wonder if Jax closed down his personal rodeo ride because we’d simply run out of new ideas.”
I burst out laughing now, my tears undoubtedly ruining my makeup, but it’s worth it for the gift Ronnie just gave me. “You totally made me laugh on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, and it worked. It was all true of course, but not necessarily something I’d tell you while you were driving unless it was when you were on your way to face the king of ‘do what I say’ and the cold queen of the Midwest.”
“Love you, baby sis.”
Love you more.”
“That’s impossible since there’s more of you to love right now.”
She gasps indignantly before her soft laughter fills the car. “I’d be offended if it wasn’t one hundred percent true.”
“Not long to go, Ron. Then you’ll be pushing that giant pumpkin out of your cooch, and I’ll be there, crossing my legs, praying for the survival of my vagina, and blaming Ez for knocking me up and putting said lady part at risk of destruction.”
“Oooh, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember to yell at Jax for all of that when I’m at the angry stage of labor.”
My head jerks back. “There’s an angry stage of labor?”
“I saw Ax being born, remember? If there’s an emotion to go through, it’ll happen during childbirth. I swear April turned into the exorcist at one point.”
“Can’t wait to experience that,” I mutter. “Gotta go. I’ve just arrived at the restaurant, and I’m about to pull up to the valet.”
“Call me straight after, okay? Or send an S.O.S.”
“It’ll be fine.” It has to be.
“Good luck. Give peanut a rub for me,” she says before dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Please tell me Ezra doesn’t say that because it sounds so dirty.”
“Bye,” I say with a grin.
“Remember, S.O.S. And don’t look the monster directly in the eye. Always worked for me. See ya,” she says, ending the call just in time as I pull my car to a stop.
I hop out and hand my keys to the valet, who looks barely old enough to work, let alone drive.
Part of me wishes Ezra was here to give my hand a squeeze like he always does and promise me this will be a walk in the park. But since he doesn’t know I’m doing this, that’s a moot point.
I reposition my purse strap on my shoulder and smooth down the cute mid-length tea dress I bought from Michigan Ave yesterday. It doesn’t make the bump obvious, but it’s not baggy enough to hide it either. It’s a halfway maternity dress.
I stop at the door to the restaurant and take one last fortifying breath before plastering a smile on my face and walking in. I’m ready to face what could be the final nail in the coffin that is my relationship with my parents.
They’ve already lost one daughter. If this goes bad, they might just lose another.
Walking through the door, I check in with the maître d, who leads me to the table where both Sheila and Keith Nelson are already seated. Mom is dressed in her high-society lunch best, and Dad is in his own version of office casual—grey slacks, a business shirt, and a sweater and blazer.
My parents turn my way as I reach them.
“Can I take your coat, madam?” the waiter asks. Not knowing whether I’ll need to make a quick escape, I shake my head. “No thank you.”
He nods and pulls out a chair for me, repositioning himself to face the three of us once I’m seated.
“Can I take another drinks order?”
My father looks first to my mother, who taps her martini glass. “Another one, thank you,” she says with about as much niceness as a grizzly bear.
“Gillian?” my father asks. I look up at the waiter and smile. At least one Nelson at the table can be polite.
“I’ll have a cranberry juice, please.”
My mother frowns. “Is that all? You normally have a dry white with lunch.” She tips her head up. “Our daughter will have a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.”
“No,” I blurt out a bit too loudly. “Sorry, I’ll just stick with my juice. Thank you.” Mom’s shrewd gaze burns into me. Shit! I don’t want her to guess yet. “I’m on a cleanse,” I blurt out.
Sheila’s eyes brighten. “I see. I did wonder if you’d put on a little weight.” And there it is—my mother is starting, and she intends to continue. She returns her attention to her husband. “Keith?”
I shake my head, my inner Gilly stomping her feet and rolling her shoulders, much like a heavyweight fighter loosening up before a fight.
“I’ll have the same again.” He tips his scotch glass in the air.
The waiter bows his head and disappears.
“You look well, Gillian. That dress is nice, but you should get it tailored? The fabric is bunching around the torso.” my mother remarks.
I draw my shoulders back and straighten my back out of instinct—not that any changes in posture will help what my mother described as ‘bunching.’
“Hello, Mother. Nice to see you.” My tone is bitter, and it’s not some weird side-effect of reflux.
My father frowns, and I know there will be a rebuke if I keep this attitude up. But it’s being fed by self-preservation and the anxiety churning my stomach. Why was I so determined to do this alone?
“Hello, Gillian. Are you well?” Sheila replies flatly, taking yet another sip of her martini. If she keeps this up, she’ll be three drinks in by the main course and ready to party.
“I’m fine, Sheila. How are you?”
She sighs dramatically. “It’s been a very busy week.”
Having cocktails, barking orders at the household staff, gossiping with fellow society wives about who is sleeping with who, who’s getting divorced, whose husband has gone bankrupt… I bet it’s been super hectic.
“And how is our Veronica doing?” Sheila asks. “She must be almost due.”
My brows shoot up. Since “our Veronica” cut my parents out of her life, I’ve never seen her happier. I discreetly rest my hand on my stomach under the tablecloth, the connection I feel to my son anchoring me almost as much as knowing I have Ezra in my life, working with me to build a family of our own. One very much different from the one Ronnie and I were raised in.
“She’s good. Really good. And yes, the baby is due any day now.”
For a moment, I think I catch a flash of sadness crossing my mother’s Botoxed expression. Then I remember it would be impossible since her brows don’t move… ever. “Oh.”
Dad clears his throat, diverting attention. “How’s the house going?” he asks, and I’m grateful for the change in subject.
“I’m actually starting renovations upstairs. Demo work starts on Monday.”
“Oh,” my mother says. “And where are you living while they’re being done? I’ll need you to send me your temporary address.”
I frown, not understanding why I’d need a temporary address. Then it hits me. My parents have always had money, and Sheila would never want to risk a single speck of dust disrupting her seemingly perfect life, so of course she’d assume everybody would have the means and/or inclination to move out while construction work was being done. “I live downstairs, so there’s no need to move out while Jamie, Ezra, and the contractors are working.”
“Who are Jamie and Ezra?” my father asks. “I haven’t heard you mention them before. Were they recommended to you? If you’d asked, I would’ve gotten our contractor to call you.”
“Jamie is Jax’s brother. They have a company that flips and renovates houses. And Ezra is…” Perfect. Kind. Sexy. Going to be the father of your grandson…
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and offer up a rare prayer that my parents won’t be assholes about what I have to say next—I just need to work up the courage.
The waiter reappears and slides our drinks in front of us. Without hesitating, I lift my glass and bring the straw to my mouth, taking a long sip.
> After taking our food order, the waiter collects the menus from the table and walks away.
My parents are watching me, and I realize they’re waiting for me to continue. “Ezra is an architect and a friend of the Cook family. He’s designed the plans to reconfigure the entire first floor. I’m moving the master bedroom upstairs along with a new master bathroom and a new guest bedroom.”
My mother’s eyes narrow. “Are you planning to list the house? Is that why you’re renovating? I did wonder if the property would be enough for you.”
I shake my head. “I love my house, and it’s more than enough.”
“But it’s so…” She waves her hand in the air, “…homely. Especially for a woman of your means.” And that’s a perfect example of the extent of Sheila’s maternal instinct.
“I’m happy where I am, thanks.”
“If it’s a money issue, I’d be happy to help you into a new home,” my father says, and my blood pressure rises at the offer. I want to yell at them, my tight restraint struggling to hold my heavyweight fighter back. She’s against the ropes and pushing to step in the ring.
“Money doesn’t solve everything,” I state matter-of-factly.
“It sure does help,” my father says with a smug grin.
“Some things are more important.”
My mother tilts her head, her gaze speculative. “Something is different about you.”
How intuitive of you, Mother.
“Really?” I ask, intrigued as to where she’s going with this.
“Yes. You’re glowing. Your skin looks amazing. Did you finally go see Marquita for a little…” She points between her brows and to her cheeks.
My eyes near-on jump out of my skull and roll off the table onto the floor.
“No, Sheila. Despite years of you telling me I need work, I’m surprisingly confident in my own skin. I won’t be visiting Marquita. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Gillian…” my father warns.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
His eyes widen. I never call them Mom and Dad anymore.
“But I thought I was here for a nice family lunch. Then again, it’s not really a family meal, is it? Since Ronnie chose a happy life over living with the constant criticism and the high expectations impressed on the both of us.”