“A girl,” I repeat, and my goofy grin matches hers.
“And her heartbeat is some kind of drum,” Joey says, and seconds later, thunderous hoofbeats fill the air, the loud and fast thump, thump, thump of the baby’s vital organ.
It’s a glorious sound.
Roxy’s smile is the most joyous thing I’ve ever seen. When she turns to me, I’m overcome with the desire to kiss her. To take her in my arms and tell her the baby’s heartbeat is a beautiful song. That it’s a melody I want to hear again and again.
I don’t say that because this baby is hers, not mine.
But when the technician leaves to find the doctor for the rest of the appointment, and Roxy’s gaze finds mine, something melts inside me. I turn all warm, and I’m even happier. She whispers a shaky but happy, “Hi, there.”
“Hey, you,” I tell her, and I glance down, realizing we’re still holding hands.
“Thanks for coming today.”
“Thanks for letting me tag along.”
“It was better with you here,” she says.
Oh hell.
Just. Fucking. Hell.
I can’t hold back. Maybe I should, but I don’t want to. I lean closer, touch my forehead to hers, and brush a soft kiss to her lips.
She kisses me back, like a summer breeze, barely there, but still warming me all over.
It’s the opposite of our rough and hungry kiss at the reunion. This one is slow and leisurely, a stroll in the fields, a few soft notes on a guitar, and possibility.
So much possibility.
Of something beyond a plus-one, beyond a social experiment as our lips slide together, and my mind turns hazy with a deeper longing.
The snick of the door snaps us apart once more as the nurse enters.
I excuse myself for the rest of the appointment, waiting outside for Roxy. When she emerges, fully dressed, I’m not sure if I should take her hand or tug her into my arms again.
I do neither as we walk down Fifth Avenue.
Because I’m not sure how to act with her anymore.
I’m not sure what we are.
And I don’t have a damn clue what we could be.
Or if we should be.
22
Miles
Later that night, with Ben hanging out with Samantha, I meet up with my brothers for a gig in the East Village. Campbell shoots me a suspicious look as I tune my guitar backstage.
“What are you smiling about, Dodgeball?”
I look up from the neck of the guitar. “Do I usually wander in all grouchy and sour?”
“Not lately. But you’re particularly ‘smiley face’ today, as Sam would say, since she decided it’s an adjective,” Campbell adds, with a teenager’s what-can-you-do shrug.
“When was I ever grouchy or sour?”
“Well, you were definitely sour when She Who Shall Not Be Named took off,” Campbell says matter-of-factly. “But that’s understandable.”
I point at him and nod. “Right. And it was a lifetime ago that Diana left.”
Miller holds up his hands as stop signs. “Whoa. You used her name. She’s no longer She Who Shall Not Be Named?”
“Does that mean you’re over her?” Campbell asks.
I scoff. “I’ve been over her for a long time, guys.” But I knit my brow, thinking more deeply about his question. I’ve been over her for ages, that’s true. But maybe what’s new is I’m finally letting go of the lingering resentment. In her own way, Roxy has helped with that, simply by giving me the chance to talk about what went down. That conversation the night of the reunion helped me let go of the last shard of anger I’d been clutching.
“She’s so far in the past, I can’t even see her in the rearview mirror,” I add with a smile.
Campbell claps me on the shoulder. “That’s awesome, man. There’s nothing quite like fully moving on. It’s freeing, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” I say, and my heart lightens a little bit more.
“I’m happy for you, man,” Miller says, then he pinches my cheek. “But you’re particularly shiny tonight. Tell me, do you have a new skincare regimen you’re hiding from us?”
And we’re right back to the ribbing, and I couldn’t be happier.
I wiggle my eyebrows as I finish tuning my guitar. “My skincare regimen is being three years younger than your old ass, and four years younger than his grandpa one,” I say, pointing to Campbell.
“Nope,” Campbell says with a knowing grin. “It’s a woman. It has to be a woman.”
“I bet it’s Roxy. You do spend a lot of time with her.” Miller strokes his chin like he’s Encyclopedia Brown.
Busted.
“I like hanging out with her. We’re just friends. Also, she’s pregnant,” I point out.
“And we’re excited for her, but you do know that doesn’t preclude you from liking her,” Miller says.
“Yes, but it does make the prospect of anything coming of it unlikely. Since her focus is on the creature she’s growing inside her.”
“As it should be,” Miller concedes.
“Exactly,” Campbell adds, then tips his forehead to the stage. “Let’s go make some music.”
As we head onstage, their succinct words echo. More proof that Roxy and I can’t happen. She has one job, and it’s baking a person. She doesn’t need complications, especially since I’m not entirely sure what I want. Besides, it’s not just about me. There’s a little person hanging out at my brother’s home tonight, and that little person is my number one. Ben is my top priority. If someone’s in my life, that someone is in his life too. Right now, the three of us—Ben, Roxy, and I—have a nice and easy vibe going on, and I don’t want to upset the apple cart.
Whatever that kiss was today, whatever felt like a moment, was merely that. A brief moment that’s passed.
My brothers and I play our hearts out, and this right here—making music to a packed house—is what makes me happy.
But I’m happier than I have a right to be when I return home later and find a text message from her.
Roxy: Hey! Since you like aliens so much, I thought you might get a kick out of this. They sent me the picture from the ultrasound. Like this, she totally looks like an alien!
Another message follows, and it’s an image of the baby. My stupid heart thumps hard. I shake my head, dragging a hand through my hair. What the hell is going on with me? I can’t be this excited about her baby.
Roxy: Got any great names for alien girls?
I drop my head in my hands and ask myself what the hell I’m getting into. Then I write back, and we toss out alien baby names for the next hour.
23
Roxy
May slides into June in a flurry as our busiest season kicks in. Families traveling to the Hamptons with their poodles and terriers, dogs needing summer trims, and cats requiring shorter nails keep me occupied, along with opening the second salon in Brooklyn.
I’m at Fluffy & Fabulous late nearly every day, shuttling to Brooklyn in the evenings to work with the manager there.
I see Miles a few times, usually with Ben. We’ll meet for lunch or an ice cream cone, and sometimes we’ll visit a playground. Ben will climb and slide and swing, and Miles and I will chat about Sam Cooke and true crime, Madagascar and lemurs, aliens and whether anyone will ever truly live on Mars.
In early June, Mackenzie sends out the invitations for her summer wedding at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, and Ally digs deeper into the planning for her wedding to Miller in the early fall. She doesn’t want to take attention away from Mackenzie’s nuptials, even though she and Miller were engaged first. It’s sweet the way they all look out for each other.
On a warm Sunday morning, the three of us get together for brunch and admire pictures of dresses and photos of flowers.
“I think I want an outdoor wedding,” Ally says. “Maybe in Central Park.”
“Do it on one of the bridges there,” Mackenzie suggests.
Ally’s blue eyes light up. “I lov
e that idea.”
Even though I’m ecstatic for both of them, my heart aches the slightest bit as they talk. I weigh in with an occasional cheerleader comment, rah-rah-ing their ideas. But I don’t have much to say, especially since my life seems to be veering in the opposite direction. Mackenzie’s son turns fourteen soon, and Ally’s daughter is nearly twelve, and they’re busy with weddings and puberty. I’m still waiting to see if my apartment will even come through. I’ve heard from a few other places, and the alternatives look promising, but my fingers are still crossed for my dream home.
When brunch ends, we walk with Ally to pick up Chloe from a friend’s house. When the red-haired girl emerges, she gives Ally a quick peck on the cheek. “Hi, Mom.”
Ally smiles brightly. There was a time when Ally was “Aunt Ally” to Chloe, even though Ally has raised her since she was six. To have graduated to just Mom is thrilling, judging from the way her eyes dance with happiness.
“Hey, monkey,” Ally says.
Chloe turns to me. “My friend Hailey and I think you should name your baby Maddie. She’s our favorite character on Girls Rule.”
“Duly noted,” I say, then ask her how the sleepover went, and I make mental notes about all the things a twelve-year-old likes, hoping I’ll remember it all a decade from now.
One night as I zoom into my twenty-fifth week, Miles texts to say he’s heading to a gig, but that he has new names for me.
Miles: Admit it. Luminara and Iriel are great names for chick aliens.
Roxy: So is XR-382. Should I go with that?
Miles: Hold that thought. My mom just called to say she has an unexpected appointment, and I need to see if Sam can watch Ben tonight.
Roxy: Wait, wait! Bring him here! I can watch him!
Miles: Are you sure?
Roxy: He and I have names for alien girls to discuss. I’m positive!
Miles: You’re a goddess. An alien goddess.
Miles drops him off, and since the Museum of Modern Art is open late on Fridays, I take him there. We stroll through the galleries, debating whether we like Jackson Pollock or Mark Rothko, but in the end, we both decide we like Edward Hopper best of all.
By the time we’re done dining on pizza and carrot sticks at my place, Ben crashes on my couch, mouth open, tiny little-boy snores rumbling from his nose. My heart hammers against my chest, overwhelmed with the adorableness. I snap a picture and send to Miles.
Roxy: He’s sound asleep on my couch! Look at this cuteness! It’s off the charts!
Miles: That is seriously sweet. Our set just ended, so I can be there in a half hour or so.
Roxy: Um . . . how about tomorrow morning? He can stay the night. He’s zonked, and it’s good practice for me. I can pull out the sofa to make him more comfy.
Miles: Are you sure?
Roxy: I’m positive. See you for breakfast. :)
The next morning, Ben and I meet Miles at a diner and settle into a booth. Ben and I update him on our art museum escapades, and as we do, my heart pounds harder, beating a strange new rhythm that sounds remarkably like I told you so.
Like my mother was right.
“What if you find someone in your condition? What if you meet the perfect man right now? You wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”
I guess Mom knew best. I found someone. Someone I like. Someone I like a lot. Someone I’m falling for.
Too bad Cupid is hitting me with an arrow at the worst possible time. I don’t know how to have a relationship when I’m not pregnant, let alone when I’m ballooning with a stranger’s baby. There is no guidebook on how to date when you’re six months pregnant. At least, none that I’m aware of. Besides, Miles is a sexy, in-demand rocker. I’m a watermelon.
My shoulders sag a little bit, but I do my best to keep a cheery attitude. When the French toast arrives, my phone buzzes. The number on the screen makes me sit up straighter.
“Is it the doctor?” Miles asks, a touch of worry in his voice.
I shake my head, twisting my index and middle fingers together. “Genevieve. The woman who runs the co-op board.”
When I answer, she tells me my application has been approved and the place is mine. “We’re having a little reception next week, and we’d love to invite you. Bring a friend if you’d like.”
I nearly bounce in the booth. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
When I hang up, Miles is patiently waiting, his eyes wide and eager. “Well?”
I bat my lashes. “Can I cash in another plus-one ticket?”
“Anytime. And anywhere.”
The words slide over my skin like a caress, and I don’t think it’s pregnancy hormones that are making me feel like anytime, anywhere means more than plus-one.
It’s the way he says it. It’s how he looks at me.
It’s the way I want him so much.
This is getting to be a habit.
My mother is right about another thing. The dress is perfect. The rose-gold fabric shimmers like a jewel. At almost twenty-six weeks, I’m not quite a basketball, but I’m on my way. Somehow, this dress has all the space my big bump needs.
Maybe my mother is a fortune-teller. I’m so impressed with her skill in picking the right size that I snap a mirror selfie and send it to her.
Roxy: Thank you so much for the dress! How did you know it would fit so well?
Mom: It’s stunning and so are you!!! And I have an eye for these things, and a hunch you’d need something lovely at some point. Where are you going?
I take a breath, setting the phone down as I decide whether to tell her or not. I head into the bathroom, grab a clip, and twist my hair into a quick updo. I slide in earrings then consider my reflection.
Lip gloss, mascara, boobs for days, and a belly you can’t miss. Yet, with this dress and these shoes and this man and the way we are, there’s a part of me that keeps hoping it’s a date.
I lift my chin, pucker my lips, and make a decision. Picking up my phone, I reply to my mother.
Roxy: I’m going out with Miles.
Mom: On a date?
Roxy: I’m not entirely sure, but I hope it becomes one.
And I make another decision too. To let her know we’re all good. I’m going to be fine, and she doesn’t need to worry.
Roxy: Also, I’m so grateful for the dress. And for you. I know you think I’m crazy, and I know you worry, but I’m going to be fine, Mom. And that’s partly because I have you.
Mom: I love you, sweetheart. And you do have me. Always. I’m on your side. And, dear Lord, you look amazing. I can’t imagine that man will see you tonight and want anything less than a date. Don’t break his heart!
Roxy: I promise I won’t sit on his chest. :)
Then I head downstairs and find Miles waiting for me in the lobby, leaning against the wall. He’s usually wearing jeans and casual clothes. But he takes my breath away in his dark pants, dress shoes, and a white button-down shirt that I want to rip off.
His eyes roam up and down my body, and I swear he’s thinking the same thing I am.
This dress is coming off tonight.
24
Roxy
The second his lips brush my cheek, I go boneless.
I wonder briefly if someone will mop me up from the lobby floor.
I’m warm all over. I don’t know if it’s from the second or two that his lips linger on my cheek, or if it’s because I’ve decided.
I’ve decided I want what comes next after the kiss on the exam table, after the kiss in the high school hall, after the almost kiss on my couch.
After this.
The night has barely started, but I want the ending of it so badly. I can’t think about tomorrow, and I don’t have a plan for more than one night, but I ache for him. Exquisitely and everywhere.
As we separate, the way he whispers, “You look amazing,” makes me feel like I’m not anthrax. It makes me feel like he’s Prince Harry and I’m Meghan Markle. But I can’t process all that’s entailed
in that analogy, so I try to root myself in the here and now as I regard his handsome frame.
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I say, trying to sound flirty and playful.
“Yeah, I have a few non-T-shirts and jeans in the old wardrobe.”
I nudge his waist. “You have a suit. I saw the Grammys last year.”
He lifts a brow. “You watched the Grammys?”
“Watched, rooted, cheered, screamed in excitement.”
“Damn, that’s hot.”
“Me watching you on TV?”
He shoots me a mischievous grin. “You watching me is hot,” he says, and he takes my hand. As his fingers link through mine, my chest flutters and my skin tingles.
We walk ten blocks in the summer night, strolling along the quieter streets lined with brownstones. The whole time I feel like I’m floating. We talk as we go, about New York in the summer, our favorite blocks with the best stores, and what Ben is up to tonight as he hangs out with Campbell and his crew. We talk about my dress again, too, because he can’t stop looking at me, and I’ve never felt so beautiful.
“You look incredible,” he says when we near my soon-to-be building. He seems to catch himself, shaking his head with a smile. “I think I said that already.”
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