by BJ Harvey
“Thought you’d never ask,” he mutters before his lips are on mine, and I’m gripping his shirt like a hooker holding her pole, never wanting—or planning—to ever let go.
His ex-wives may have been idiots, but I’m not. I know what I’ve got, and I know what he gives me, and it’s everything I’ll ever need or want.
“You ready for some pasta now?” Ez asks with a half-smirk.
“Your son is,” I retort.
“And what our boy wants, our boy gets.”
With one final hard and fast kiss, he strokes his thumb over the apple of my cheek and shoots me a wink before straightening and returning to his side of the table.
To his credit, the waiter doesn’t say a word—he just grins at both of us.
And, for the record? Best. Pasta. Ever.
Gilly
I expected to be hit with a wall of tiredness the second I crossed into the third trimester, but surprisingly, I’m feeling okay. At least my attempts to reduce stress and take the time to not do everything by myself has meant even my naughty uterus has been behaving.
Work has been busy as per normal, but with so many other things to look forward to on the horizon, I count the hours until I can come home more than I ever did.
Ezra has a lot to do with that, and what’s more exciting is that from tomorrow, my house will be his house, and it will be our home.
Ezra and his dad have spent the past two weekends painting the first floor. The nursery is still empty though, as with everything else going on, and a one-day Lamaze class last Saturday, plus a baby-wearing class Ezra insisted we do the Saturday before that, we haven’t had time. But that is going to be my focus once we’ve gotten past the imminent combining of households.
There’s still one thing left to settle before I start my last six weeks and begin maternity leave. That’s why I have arranged a late afternoon meeting with my father.
Gilly—Wish me luck. I’m about to walk down the corridor to what might be the execution of my career.
Ezra—Sweetheart, whatever happens, I’m here. I’ll drink all the alcohol on your behalf. You can scream and cry and break anything you want, and I’ll still be there for you.
Gilly—Any woman that let you go before you met me is a complete idiot.
Ezra—Um… thanks? I think…
Gilly—I’m serious. You’re a complete catch. I wish I’d met you ten years ago. We could’ve had five kids by now.
Ezra—Gimme a minute… I’m calculating if I can swing five college funds.
Gilly—I’m not saying I want five kids NOW!
Instead of a text message like I expect, my phone rings against my desk.
“Hello,” I say with a giggle.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack then.”
My brows knit together as I check my watch and see I still have five minutes until my meeting. “Why?”
“Because I love you and will give you anything within my power, but five kids might be two more than even I can deal with.
A snort escapes my mouth. “Aww, but I really had my heart set on five. We’d start with this boy,” I say, rubbing my belly instinctively. “Then a girl, another boy, and then twins of either gender.”
He coughs, sounding like he’s choking. “You’re not joking?” he rasps out.
I bite my lip. “Oh, I’m totally messing with you now.”
“Thank fuck for that. Sorry, sweetheart, but damn. Five? I’m nearly thirty-eight; that would take me through till at least forty-five with a newborn in the house, and I can’t have my girlfriend the way I like to have my girlfriend with five kids. The fact I don’t think we could extend your house to fit five kids and us, notwithstanding.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I’m a lot funnier without the thought of five kids—including twins—in my future.”
“I love you,” I say with a giggle. “I better get going. My meeting with Keith is in five minutes.”
“I wish you’d let me be there with you.”
“It’s effectively about employment issues, first and foremost, and daughter issues second,” I say gently.
“Even still, Gilly.”
My heart swells. “Just knowing you’d be here if you could be is all the support I need.”
“Want me to pick you up afterward? I’m in the office today.”
“If you’re sure it won’t be a hassle.”
“Sweetheart…” he growls. “I’d drive across the state for you, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”
My lips twitch. “Only the state?”
“Yeah, baby. A foot into Michigan is my limit.”
I grin. “I thought for sure you would’ve said Wisconsin, being a Cubs fan and all.”
“Milwaukee city limits.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind if I ever decide to run away.”
“Oh, runaway rules are different,” he says, matter-of-factly, like we’re talking about the weather instead of how far he’d hypothetically chase me across the state or country.
“There are variances?” I ask in disbelief.
He sighs. “Of course. If you were on the run for robbing a bank, I’d need to know why you committed the crime to determine how far I’d be willing to go, but if you were escaping for your life to keep you and our son safe from the zombie apocalypse, there’d be no limits whatsoever.”
My mouth drops open because he almost sounds deadly serious.
Then a chuckle in my ear breaks the dead air down the phone. “I’m totally messing with you.”
“I’d totally hit you, then kiss you if you were here.”
“Feel free to do whatever you need to do to me when I pick you up.”
I only focus on one part of that comment. “Anything.”
“God, I love pregnancy hormones,” he says.
“You can show me just how much once we’ve finished packing your kitchen.”
“You sure you’re going to be up for that? I can always call Mom and see if she can come do it tomorrow. I’m sure my new tenants will—”
“You will do no such thing, Mr. Baker. How can I pick and choose my way through your belongings if I don’t pack them myself?”
“Have at it then, baby mama. I’ll let you go—just remember there’s only one thing to focus on during your meeting, and that’s not to let him get to you. You’re the one with the power here. It’s your job, your life, and your child to raise how you see fit. No one can strong-arm you because any decisions about our child are for us to make, not the almighty Nelsons.”
“Have I told you how much I love you today?”
“Probably not. You make it so hard to know how you feel about me,” he says, teasingly. He’s so full of shit.
“Oh well, I won’t tell you that you’re one of the best men I know.”
“And now she’s saying things that make me wanna kiss her.”
A good kind of shiver courses through me. “T minus half an hour till you can do whatever you want.”
“Knock him dead. Well, not literally—I’d rather you avoid any criminal proceedings before the birth,” he replies, his voice full of mirth.
“I’ll do my best. See you soon then?”
“Yeah. I’ll meet you downstairs in case it doesn’t go well, and we do have to go on the run.”
I’m smiling huge now. “Deal. Bye, baby daddy.”
“Go get him, tiger. Love you.” Then he’s gone, and I’m staring at the clock approaching three-thirty, the time for my meeting.
With a deep breath, I look down to my stomach and cradle my bump. “Wish me luck, peanut. Something tells me I’m going to need it.”
I knock on my father’s open door. He looks up from his desk, a professional smile plastered on his face.
“Gillian, come in,” he says, rising and sweeping his arm out toward the chair opposite him.
I nod and walk across the large corner office with a view over the lake, then ease myself down into the seat.
“Are you
feeling okay?” he asks, sitting himself.
“I’m great.”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted Louise from Human Resources to sit in on this meeting, but she is on standby if we need her.”
I tilt my head. “Do we need her, Keith?”
He leans back, studying me like I’ve seen him do many times across the boardroom table. “Honesty, Gillian, I’m not sure. You’re somewhat… unpredictable right now.”
“You mean pregnant, right?”
“No,” he says, stoic in his defense. “I’m talking in a professional capacity. This is not a typical father-daughter conversation, is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure we’ve had a typical father-daughter relationship since I was sixteen.”
His lips twitch in an uncharacteristic show of amusement. “I guess you’re right about that.”
“Or since I supported Ronnie’s decision to live her life by her own terms.” The humor disappears like a receding tide.
“Veronica is and always will be entitled to make her own choices. As are you.”
I pause for a moment, and we lock eyes, neither one of us seeming willing to end the deadlock.
Surprisingly, Keith breaks first. “Have you thought any more about the changes I proposed?” Shortly after announcing my pregnancy to my parents, my father came into my office and offered me unlimited paid maternity leave and the choice to come back—or not at all. It was framed as a ‘supporting you to stay at home’ situation, when I took it as being a case of ‘you can’t take care of yourself and neither can your baby daddy, so we’re making it easy for you.”
What my father—and in turn, my mother—forgot about was my determination not to have anything handed to me on a plate. If I don’t earn it, I don’t want it.
“I have, and I must respectfully decline.”
His entire body locks in response. “Gillian. You need to think this through.”
“I have. I’ve also discussed different options with Ezra, and—”
His brows knot together. “I’m not sure what this has to do with the father of your illegitimate child. Your mother and I are simply trying to—”
“I’m going to stop you there, Keith. Ezra does have a say in this decision as it will have an impact on our household and family moving forward.”
My father’s head jerks back. “Your household? He’s living with you?”
“He will be. He moves in tomorrow.”
Keith opens his mouth to say something back; I beat him to the punch.
“And no, there is no agreement between us to protect my assets—or his—because I trust him, and he brings just as much to the table as I do. It is an equal relationship in all ways. There are no secrets; there are no lies. It is something pure and good, and we are both focused on creating a strong family unit for our son when he arrives.”
Keith’s body language is no longer relaxed and is definitely not controlled. But I am, which is why I decide to stop this professional meeting and offer my counter-proposal.
“I do not want to continue on your payroll while I stay at home with my son. Thank you for your generous offer. Someone else in my position may have taken you up on it, but if you knew the woman that I am—the woman I have become—then you would know that it was never going to be acceptable to me. I also believe that not only can the firm not sustain that liability without my billable hours bringing in revenue, but I have never wanted to be a kept woman, and I’m not willing to start now.”
He sits there deathly still, as if in shock.
When he doesn’t offer any rebuttal, I continue. “Honestly, having had time to reflect on my career and where I wanted it to go, it was never in corporate law. My passion was always in helping people—helping families.” I feel compelled to soften the blow before I drop the hammer, driven by the memory of the dad I used to have back when Ronnie and I were children, before the weight of expectation was dropped on our shoulders by my mother as the dictator and my father as her dutiful husband. “I do appreciate all the opportunities you and this firm have afforded me in helping me establish my career and build my reputation,” I say softly. “But I would not be the woman you raised me to be if I didn’t stand up for what I believe in. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman whose focus has changed due to circumstances but also because they needed to.”
Keith braces his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers in front of him. “Are you saying you wish to return after your twelve weeks’ maternity leave?” The one surprising thing about our firm is the generous parental leave benefits. It’s something I fought hard for when I became an equity partner, and my father begrudgingly acquiesced, seeing the wisdom in supporting staff with families to foster good morale and loyalty.
“No. I think the time has come to put some separation between myself, Mom, and you.”
His entire body jolts. “You’re leaving? Is this because of that man you’re seeing? Gillian, your mother is concerned about the influence those boys have had on our daughters, and this decision has me thinking her concerns might be valid.”
I bite my lip, trying hard to retain my composure. When his eyes narrow on me, I know I’m wearing absolute disbelief on my face, and I give up the fight, covering my mouth and laughing.
I push up out of my chair and slowly stand, leaning my hand into the desk. “There is not one thing that the Cook and Baker families have taught us that I would ever say was bad. In fact, they are the best things that have ever happened to me and to my sister. They all support each other and love each other unconditionally, and Ezra Baker is the best man I have and will ever meet, present company included.”
His mouth gapes open, but I’m done. I didn’t plan to lose my cool, but my hormones are unpredictable at the best of times, and there’s one thing I promised myself I would never let stand—criticism of myself or Ronnie or our new extended family.
“You will have my formal letter of resignation in your email within the next ten minutes. I will continue working until the Friday of my thirty-fifth week, and I will forfeit any projected profits owed to me after this quarter.”
My father stands, bringing him level with my eyes. “Gillian, I insist you reconsider.”
“Keith, if you know me at all, you’ll know this is not a decision I would make lightly, let alone one that I would ever feel the need to change my mind about.”
“But our grandson…” he says, his tone unreadable.
“Your grandson is going to be raised in a home filled with the love of two parents whose sole purpose is to give him the best life he could possibly have, with the freedom to be whoever he wants to be. However he wants to get there. He will never once doubt the support of his parents and will never have to make a decision between the family he’s chosen to build and the family he was born into by being offered money to ‘save face’ in society circles or simply so they can keep control over him. Just like his mother and father, he won’t give a flying fuck what people think about the way he chooses to live his life as long as he’s happy and fulfilled.”
I’m almost out the door when Keith says the most stupid thing I think he’s ever said. “Your mother will be disappointed.”
I turn to look back over my shoulder at him. “She doesn’t even factor anymore.”
“What about what I think?” he asks. I see the briefest flash of my daddy in his gaze, and I have to swallow down hard to hold back my angry tears.
“You think whatever Sheila tells you to think, Keith, and it’s sad to see that even you’ll soon have two estranged daughters, you’re still your wife’s puppet, and you always will be.”
“We just want what’s best for you.”
I scoff and shake my head, needing to leave. “Sheila only wants what is best for her, and I’m not quite sure you’ve known what’s best for anyone for a long time. Have a good night.”
Then I’m walking as fast as I can across the floor to my office, closing my door and sagging back against it, letting all my tears fall freely.
It’s cathartic; it’s freeing.
Moments later, having sent the resignation letter to my father, I receive a notification on my phone telling me Ezra is waiting downstairs.
One thing is for sure. The smile on my face is one hundred percent genuine, and the weight on my shoulders is light. The only expectations on me are mine and mine alone.
Now, I’m looking forward to a night of packing up a kitchen, enjoying one of Ezra’s world-famous foot rubs, and falling asleep in the arms of the man I love for the last night in his bed.
Because tomorrow, we’ll be sleeping in our bed, under our roof, and I can. Not. Wait.
For a man who’s been divorced twice, I’d expected him to not have a huge amount of stuff. By God, was I wrong.
I especially hadn’t expected him to have as much stuff in his kitchen.
But thankfully, Ezra doesn’t have an emotional attachment to anything other than his expensive coffee machine—which is better than mine anyway—so the packing part of our evening is quick and painless.
“Have you thought of any baby names?” he says, pulling me out of foot rub euphoria.
Of course I’ve thought about it, but I was hoping something might just come to me in big flashing lights one day, and hopefully, Ezra would like it too.
“Have you?” I ask, my eyes slowly drifting open.
He shrugs and digs his thumb in, starting a particularly impressive swirl that renders me a little breathless. “Faith suggested I look at Pinterest for some ideas.”
I shift onto my back to look at him. “Pinterest,” I say, dumbfounded. “You went on Pinterest.”
His brows bunch together. “Yeah. There’s so much stuff on there. I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” I say, as in duh. “Okay, then. Hit me. What names tickle your fancy?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep. I’ve been waiting for something to grab me, and nothing has as yet. Give me some ideas. We might just find one we like. Saves a whole lot of trouble, and nobody wants to call the baby John Doe for the first few weeks of his life.”
His chest puffs up, and it’s a little bit cute, a whole lot adorable. “Okay,” he says, leaning forward to grab his tablet from the coffee table. “Scooch over. Let’s get comfortable.”