by Nikki Chase
“I love you, too,” I say. And just like that, a heavy burden is lifted. A secret is shared. “But are you sure it’s not just because I’m pregnant?”
“I’ve been thinking about having this talk with you for days, and I still haven’t figured everything out. But I think I love you, and you just said you love me back. And you’re living in my apartment, carrying my baby. It seems pretty obvious what we should do here, don’t you think?” Heath asks, leveling his gaze at me.
I take a deep breath and strengthen my resolve. “Yes. We should give this a chance. This baby deserves the best family he or she can have.”
“It’s not just for the baby,” Heath says as he leans closer and finally lands a gentle kiss on my lips. “It’s for me, too. And hopefully for you, as well.”
“Yeah,” I say as I close my eyes and let Heath make me forget everything with his sinful lips, his skillful hands, and that beautiful cock between his strong thighs.
Kat
“I can tell he likes you,” Heath’s dad, David, says as he takes a sip of the wine we got him, from the local liquor store this time.
“What gave it away? My giant belly?” I grin. At four months, my belly is hardly giant, but you can definitely tell that there’s a bun baking in the oven.
“I’m an old-fashioned man. I don’t know anything about pregnancy. Back in my days, that was women's business.” As David gives me a cheeky smile, the sparkle in his blue eyes reminds me of Heath.
By that, to be more specific, he means pregnancy was Martha’s business. Heath's mom is whipping up some dessert. I can hear the clangs of pots and pans in the kitchen. I feel useless just sitting here twiddling my thumbs, but Martha insists she doesn’t need my help.
She looked gutted when she realized she was missing an important ingredient, so Heath offered to go out and buy it.
I love how Heath treats his family. Every time he refills his dad’s glass of water, I tear up. I keep thinking about us being old and grey, with kids of our own. I’d die happy if our kids treated us like he treats his parents.
I wanted to go with Heath to the store, but David asked me to stay and—hell, I can’t say “no” to the future grandfather of my unborn child, can I? Especially when he also happens to be terminally ill.
So it’s just David and me now, chilling in their living room—David in his recliner, and me on the sofa across the coffee table from him.
“It’s the wine,” David says as he lifts up his glass, disturbing the red wine inside.
“What about the wine?”
“This is good wine.”
“I know. I have good taste in wine,” I say, grinning.
“Bullshit,” he says, waving his pale, frail hand dismissively.
I widen my eyes, channeling a picture of innocence. “What are you talking about?”
“This wine has Heath written all over it. You’re lying to me, young lady. But now I know the truth.” David’s lips form a lopsided smile, not unlike Heath’s, and he says, “He picked the wine, didn’t he? And he told you to lie to me.”
I let out a big exhale and raise my hands in defeat. “You got me.”
“I may not know anything about pregnancy, but I know my wines. And this wine has strong undertones of my-son’s-helping-a-girl-impress-me.”
Something rises up my throat and escapes through my eyes as tears. God, this pregnancy… I’m so damn emotional lately.
“Dad, why did you make her cry? What did you do to her?” Heath says loudly as he enters the room. He joins me on the couch, wraps his arm around my shoulders, and wipes my tears away with his warm, gentle fingers. He grins at David. “Just kidding. I know how easily she cries these days. The smallest things set her off.”
“You don’t have to tell me about it. When your mother was pregnant with you, I had to sneak out of the house just to breathe at a normal volume.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about pregnancy,” I say.
David raises his eyebrows. “Shots fired.” He looks at Heath and says, “I can see why you like this one.”
“So really, what did he do?” Heath asks me.
“He, uh, said you like me,” I say in a small voice.
Heath bursts out laughing. “How could you, Dad?”
“Looks like everyone’s having fun,” Martha says as she brings a tray out and places it on the coffee table. On the tray are little brown squares with white cream and bits of kiwis and strawberries on top. “These are baked wonton wrappers with yogurt and fruits. Strange combination, I know. But I’ve been trying to cook healthier and they taste pretty good together.”
Martha picks up one of the little squares and feeds it to David.
“This is better than just ‘pretty good,’ dear,” David says.
I give Heath a look. Your parents are adorable!
Heath gives me a strange smile that I can’t decode.
It’s only much later, after many more dinners with his parents, do I learn the truth.
When I’m thirty weeks pregnant, Heath tells me something that I never would’ve guessed about his parents.
We’ve just had a lovely dinner together, as a family. Man, I just love the fact that I can say the word “family” and feel good about it these days.
We say our goodbyes at the door of Martha and David’s house, then Heath and I step out into the cold, winter night. The sky is bright red, and snow covers the ground.
I hold on to Heath’s arm for balance as I waddle. It’s hard to worry about being graceful with a giant bump on my belly.
“Your parents are wonderful,” I say for probably the hundredth time.
“My parents…” The corners of Heath’s lips tug up—there’s that strange smile again. “Things haven’t always been this way with my parents.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They used to… When I was little, they were separated,” Heath says.
“It’s hard for me to imagine that. They look so happy together.”
“Yeah. The separation lasted three years. They couldn’t stay apart for long. It was stupid.”
“How old were you?” I ask, sensing the hint of pain in Heath’s voice.
“About seven,” Heath says, not offering more information.
“Did you live with your mom, or your dad? Or did they continue to live together?”
“I lived with my Grandpa Joe. My dad’s dad.” Heath lets out a sigh. “I guess my parents had me too young. They had to drop everything and become adults. Eventually, they cracked under pressure, I guess.”
“Heath!” I hear Martha call from behind us. I twist to see her waving something in the air—something black and familiar. “You left your scarf.”
Heath looks at his mom, then he turns to me. Handing me his car keys, he says, “It’s cold. You’d better get inside the car first. This could take a while. My mom can be really chatty.”
As Heath strides briskly back to the porch that we just left, I blow on my hands, trying to keep them warm. I press the button to unlock Heath’s car doors, then I start to walk toward the black sedan, the top up now that it’s winter.
When I take my step, I realize something’s wrong. There’s no friction. My foot slips further, past the point where I can regain my balance. With my pregnant belly changing my center of gravity, it’s hard to correct my stance.
Just like in slow motion, I fall toward the ground. The grey cement slabs are covered by a thin veneer of slippery ice. I let out a shriek. From the corner of my eyes, I can see Heath looking my way.
And then, I hit the cold, hard ground. My whole body hurts. But what’s worse than that is, as the sound of Heath’s shoes pounding the sidewalk echo in the background, I feel something warm leak out of me and I see blood staining the crotch of my pants.
Kat
“Bed rest?” Jane asks from the other end of the line.
“That’s what I said.” I wrap my hand around the cup of warm, caffeine-free tea and raise it to my lips. I take a sip.
“Jesus, as if you weren't already getting enough rest. You were already stuck in that apartment all day,” Jane says. “What about me? I work, like, sixty hours a week. I need a doctor’s note so I can skip work and lie around in bed all day.”
“You think I want this? Jesus, I swear I’m dying of restlessness. I can’t even do laundry or go to the store,” I complain. “I read somewhere that bed rests aren’t even a good idea in a lot of cases. It could cause blood clots and reduce bone mass.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I researched it and found this scientific study. I showed Heath. I even saw another OB/GYN to get a second opinion. He said bed rest doesn’t have any proven benefits.” I let out an irritated sigh. “But Heath wouldn’t listen. He actually wants me to be horizontal 24/7, except for maybe about fifteen minutes a day.”
“You know, if you’d said that a few months ago, it would’ve sounded sexy. But now, with you practically incapacitated… I don’t know.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’m not getting any either.”
“Damn.”
“I know. At least I can still write.”
“That’s really sweet of him, though, to insist on the bed rest and do everything for you. I never would’ve thought the ruthless Heath Anders to be such a softie.”
I giggle. “He’s only aggressive when it comes to his investments. With me and his parents? He’s super sweet. He wasn’t even mean when I was his personal assistant—just kind of distant.”
“I’m really happy this worked out for you, Kat. When you told me you were starting to catch the feels for him, I thought it was going to end in a disaster.”
“Yeah. You were all doom and gloom,” I say.
“You can’t blame me for that. You two had an agreement—a legal contract—detailing the rules of your relationship. You were supposed to be a service provider, and he was supposed to be a customer. It wasn’t meant to develop into a real relationship. I didn’t expect the two of you to get married and ride off into the sunset.”
“That’s true. But then again, what is marriage, if not just another legal contract?”
“That’s also true,” Jane admits. “So now that the two of you are a legit couple and you’re having a baby together, are you getting married, too?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about it. But it just feels like a lot of things happening quickly, all at once. Maybe we should take it slow.”
“Says the pregnant woman, about her relationship with the unborn baby’s father.”
I laugh. What can I say? Jane has a point. Besides, if not for her phone calls, I’d have lost all contact with the outside world.
The days go by in a blissful blur.
Despite the bed rest, life doesn’t suck. And I can thank Heath for that. He’s been nice enough to handle all the chores, errands, and meals—he doesn’t do those things himself because he has to work, but he hires people to make sure I don’t have to lift a finger.
And even though one of the reasons I cited for moving in here was to be able to have sex during the horny months of my pregnancy, that’s not happening either. Heath is too scared of hurting me.
Or, in his own words, “I don’t want to put a dent in our baby’s head.”
Yep. Charming, I know.
I feel conflicted.
On one hand, Heath’s attentive care makes me feel loved. He treats me like I’m something precious, and I’ve never had that before.
On the other hand, I want to scream because I know all this fuss is not necessary. And I feel like one of those prime-cut cows who get fed premium grass and receive regular massages, just so it will taste good when they finally take it to the slaughterhouse.
Wait. Maybe that came out wrong.
Heath isn’t taking me to any slaughterhouse, of course. He wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. But it sometimes feels like he’s doing all those things not because he cares about me, but because he cares about the baby.
I know it’s stupid, but a part of me is still afraid that Heath’s only staying with me because I’m carrying his baby, that he’s going to leave me once this is all over. Which is dumb, of course. He’s taken me to see his family and everything. And I can feel the sincerity in his every word, in every little touch.
Then, I get the phone call. Jane calls me and I stupidly think we’re just about to have another easy chat together, when in fact bad news can come from anywhere.
“Where are you?” Jane asks.
“At the skate park, doing back flips.” I laugh. “Hello? Bed rest? Remem—”
“You need to turn on your TV. Channel Two. Now.” She sounds urgent. She doesn't even let me finish my sentence or laugh at my joke. Sure, it's not my best joke, but it's not that bad.
“Wow, you’re bossy today. PMS?” I ask as I lean forward in the couch and reach for the remote control on the coffee table. It sounds easy, but with a baby bump the size of a beach ball… it’s a feat of willpower and determination.
“What have you been doing today, that you don’t know about this?” Jane asks.
“About what? I’ve been writing. Didn’t I tell you, that’s the one thing I can still do?” I ask as I press the red button to turn on the TV. “Heath doesn’t even like it when I laze around on the couch like I’m doing right now, because he wants me to be in bed instead.”
Channel Two shows up on the TV and my jaw drops. “What the hell…?”
“I take it you’re watching it right now?” Jane asks.
“What is he doing?” I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“Looks like he’s leaving,” Jane says. “That’s smart. I don’t think this is a good time for him to make a statement.”
“A statement about what?” I watch, dumbfounded, as I watch Heath make his way through the crowd of reporters on the TV screen. This looks like like big news.
“About you, and the baby,” Jane says, sympathy in her voice.
Heath
“Raunchy Account of Seduction in the Workplace by Heath Anders’ Ex-Assistant.”
I run my fingers through my hair as I stare at the title of the blog post on my big computer monitor—all the better to see my problem with.
The Internet is abuzz with activity, and TV stations, too. Soon, the magazines will catch up when they release their latest editions.
I just wonder what their headlines will be. How bad will they get?
The winner for the worst title ever goes to Exposé, a celebrity gossip TV show. The winning title: “Sexual Harassment Alive and Well in Wall Street.”
Yeah, I know it’s not as stupid as some of the other ones. It sounds serious and shit. That’s exactly why it’s the worst.
If a gossip show can come up with a title like that, I’m screwed as soon as mainstream newspapers get a sniff of this.
“Heath, we need to make a decision,” Angela says. She’s a veteran PR executive, who has handled multiple crises before. She looks tense, which is probably not a good sign. “If we stay quiet, it’ll be taken as an admission of guilt. It’ll look like you have something to hide.”
“I don’t know what else these people have on me, Angela. I swear I’m innocent, but they may have some dirt on me that they can use to hurt my reputation and credibility.”
Normally, I like my office. But today it feels like the walls are closing in on me, even though this place is just the same as ever.
“If you’re innocent, it’s best to come clean,” she says, across the desk from me. “Be honest and just put a positive spin on things. Have the girl make a statement that there’s no sexual harassment going on, and everything will go back to normal.”
“No,” I say swiftly. “I’m not having her make any statement, or show up in any way on the media.”
“Why? Because she may have a different story than you?” Angela asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Jesus, Angela.” I can’t believe this. “How long have you been working for me? Have you ever seen me make
someone do something against their will?”
“So you’re saying it’s all consensual?” Angela asks. “If it is, you have nothing to worry about. But like I said, the girl will have to make an appearance. Because otherwise, you’ll only have your own words to back you up. And in my experience? The words of men accused of sexual crimes don’t mean anything to the public.”
I see her point.
On the other hand, she’s asking the impossible of me. I can’t parade Kat in front of the cameras just so strangers won’t blame me for any crime they imagine to have taken place.
Firstly, she’s on bed rest.
And secondly, I promised to maintain her anonymity in our contract. Things are dramatically different now that we’re together for real, but I want to do that for her.
I want her to remain in the shadows, at least until after she publishes her first book and it becomes wildly successful—which I have no doubt will happen. I know how important it is to her that she’s not just known as my girlfriend, or even the mother of my child.
No, she doesn’t want people reading her book and guessing which aspects of the story have been taken from her real life. She wants her story to stand on its own merit. She wants people to pick up her book and judge it by its artistic value—not its association with public figures.
“Heath,” Angela says, reminding me again that I need to make a decision, “the clock is ticking. The longer it takes for us to issue a statement, the more suspicious it looks.”
I clasp my hands together and turn to look at Angela. “Tell them to mind their own fucking business. I’m not making her face the media for me.”
“Okay. So we can say something like… we request them to honor your privacy. Maybe also mention the fact that these rumors stem from hearsay. All they have is whatever Jeff’s telling them.”
My blood boils at the sound of that name. “I swear, if I ever see that guy again—”
“And this is why I’ll be facing the media on my own,” Angela says. “You need to stay calm, Heath. You’re usually good at that.”