Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  “Forty-one weeks,” I reply, trying to laugh it off.

  “No, I mean you are about to have that baby. How dilated are you?” Clicking into professional mode, he gives me a look that says he’s all business. I half expect him to glove up and do a cervical exam in the coat-check room.

  “Three centimeters,” I reply, hating this conversation. A deep, unsettled sense of fate starts bubbling inside. “But I’ve been stuck there for three weeks.”

  “Take it easy,” he cautions. “Hydrate. And don’t do anything that might strain you.”

  I lift the hem of my gala dress and show off my white sneakers. “Shhhh.”

  “Perfect.” He winks. “I hear you’re the man of honor,” he says to Declan.

  “Just another business obligation.” Dec leans in. “Is your wife here? We’d love to meet her.”

  “Josie? Here? No,” he laughs. “She’s allergic to events like this. You’re more likely to run into her at Jeddy’s Diner than a gala ball. I’m only here because someone in my practice got tickets and they like to have physicians at these events, especially when it has to do with a pediatric issue.”

  “Jeddy’s!” Declan laughs. “Haven’t thought about that place in ages.”

  Dr. Derjian shrugs as someone calls out, “Alex!”

  “Try it sometime. Gotta go. Take care!” He strides off, leaving me feeling distinctly worried.

  One of Declan’s special senses is the ability to find the most powerful person in a crowd. He zeros in on whoever that is, body tensing, just as I see someone I recognize and whose power level doesn’t matter to me.

  I just need a friendly face I’m not married to.

  “Shelby?” A part of me can’t believe my eyes. “Is that you?” Transformed by the beauty standards imposed on the charity gala circuit, with no pass given for being 1,349 weeks pregnant like I am, Shelby is coiffed, make-upped, Spanxed, and sequined into a statue of perfection.

  “Shannon?” she squeals, coming in for an air kiss that turns real, her hug genuine, if gingerly. “You are ready to burst!”

  I chuckle. “I am. Forty-one weeks today.”

  “That is ninety-seven too many. And you haven’t murdered anyone?”

  Dec gives me a look. “Not yet,” he mutters. He smiles at her. “Shelby? The nursing mother back at our store, the one who inspired Shannon to redesign every single one of our new locations?”

  She blinks rapidly. “Me?” Shelby looks at her chest. “Who knew the girls could be so inspiring?” Declan averts his eyes but laughs politely. My back aches, a long pull that makes me feel like my neck is being yanked down to my heels by a kettlebell attached to my spine.

  “How’s Coffi?” I ask, grinning as I rub my belly.

  “Wonderful! Started walking just last week. She’s a firecracker. Scares the dog constantly.”

  “Walking! That went fast.”

  Wistful eyes land on my belly. “Sure did. The time flies. People used to say that to me all the time and I hated it. Now I understand it, and Coffi’s only one year old. I can’t imagine what it’s like when they grow up and move out.”

  My dad’s words resonate. You go from from disbelief that basic biology works, to incredulity that the hospital staff trust you to go home with a living human being, to a weird grief that your children are independent. If you do your job right, that’s the best possible outcome. And yet we mourn.

  Declan touches my arm. “Water? Juice?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But the doctor said to hydrate.”

  “I drank plenty of water on the drive here.”

  “Shannon.” His touch lingers, the soothing rocking of our lovemaking hours ago embedded in my body. As he runs his fingertips down my arm, his hand instinctively goes to my belly. It’s not hard to do, given that it reaches out about five feet from my ribcage.

  The grin he gives me makes every part of me ache with love.

  Especially my back.

  I let out a sound that is half sigh, half groan. “I’m fine on water. I’ll need to pee in three seconds. What I am short on is chocolate.”

  “I–I need to go see John,” he says, clearly torn.

  “Go. The sooner you schmooze, the sooner we can leave.” His rushed kiss on my cheek leaves an indelible mark.

  “You’re really, really close, Shannon,” Shelby whispers, eyes big and assessing.

  “I’ve been stuck at three centimeters for almost a month, Shelby. No jury will convict at this point if I kill someone for asking if I’ve had the baby yet.”

  “Oh, gawd, yes, sister. I remember that. I’ll shut my mouth. Want some pie?”

  “They have pie?”

  “They have everything here, sweetie. What do you want? How about some sweet tea and shoo fly?”

  “How about some no and nope?”

  She chuckles.

  “Do they have sparkling water and key lime pie?” I ask, hopeful. My belly is so big, my bladder a thin, overstretched balloon, and my stomach is somewhere around my collarbone, but by God I’ll suck down a piece of good key lime pie.

  “Indeed they do. Let me get you some. Gives me an excuse to eat some, too.” She flattens her palms against her tight, not-pregnant belly. “I don’t even care if the Spanx complains. No charity event is tolerable without alcohol or sugar, and at the rate things are going, I’ll need both.”

  My polite laugh turns into a sharp inhale as this back pain gets worse. My evening gown is large and flowing, but it still feels like a rubber band over every inch of my body. Back pain is common at the end of pregnancy, but this is getting worse by the minute. How do women manage this? I channel our childbirth classes and my hypnosis tapes and breathe the pain into pressure, down, down, down, noticing all the tension in my body, trying to release it where it’s needed more in the universe.

  And then I inhale peace.

  Exhale pain.

  Inhale love.

  Exhale–

  “Shannon? Are you having an asthma attack?”

  Steve. Steve Raleigh. My ex.

  Low groaning noises are all I can respond with, and they have nothing to do with my pain.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally grunt out.

  “My company is one of the donors. I assume you’re here because of him?” Steve’s voice has an affect, turning low with disapproval at the end.

  “Him?” I point to my belly. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “I meant your husband. So it’s a boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice.”

  “Thank you.” We’re lobbing words back and forth like a tennis game no one really wants to play. Faking recognition of someone in the crowd, he scurries off to talk to anyone but me.

  And that makes the pain astronomically easier to manage.

  “Who was that?” Shelby asks, her tone making it clear she has a very acute bullshit detector and it’s going off ding ding ding.

  “My ex.”

  Shelby chortles. “Your ex?” Her eyes narrow as she watches him. “Wait a minute. Is that the sleazy narcissist who sucked up to Tom and tried to get him to buy a bunch of bullshit products from some financial investment firm?”

  “You really do have an uncanny ability to assess people, Shelby.”

  “That’s why I like you so much, Shannon,” she says, handing me a pale-green piece of comfort topped with real whipped cream.

  I take a bite.

  I moan.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  I can’t stop moaning.

  “Now hold on there, sugar. The pie ain’t that good. Are you in labor?”

  I shake my head. “No. Just my back. It’s killing me.”

  “Enough to make you moan like a French courtesan being forced to screw two guys on a bed of gold?”

  “I really do love key lime.”

  “Shannon.” Shelby hands me my water, the back pain dropping. “Drink up.”

  “Why?”

  “Y
ou need to hydrate. Where, exactly, is that back pain?”

  “Somewhere below my breasts. I haven’t seen anything down there in two months, so I just have to guess.”

  “Any bloody show?”

  “No.”

  “Pee that ain’t pee?”

  “No.”

  “Contractions?”

  “Just back pain.”

  “Could it be back labor?”

  “Why do you sound like my midwife?”

  “Maybe because I just had a baby a year ago and I know what you’re going through?”

  “But this doesn’t feel like labor. Just more cruelty from a God who thinks it’s fun to torture me.”

  “Sounds like the very definition of labor to me, sugar.”

  I stand, squaring my shoulders as much as I can while wearing a forty-pound sack of sand attached to my boobs and abs. “I think I just need to take a walk.”

  “SHELBY!” a woman cries out, rushing over to us in a blur of silver sparkles and burgundy fabric. “I wondered if you would come.” Long blonde hair, perfectly straight down her back, comes attached to a body only a jerk could date.

  “Jessica,” Shelby says, giving me a look I can’t quite decipher. They air kiss, then Jessica turns to me, pretending to only now discover my presence.

  “Why, Shannon, I guess congratulations are in order. Not only did you bag Boston’s most eligible bachelor, you’re the size of a small whale in order to give him an heir. How wonderful that you have those nice, wide hips for childbirth.”

  Shelby’s entire face turns into puzzle pieces of abject horror, then rage on my behalf.

  I keep my smile nice and steady, silently telling her I’m okay.

  “We can’t all be like you, Jessica. The whole package. Some of us need more than a full-length mirror and a vibrator to meet our need for love and connection. Sorry to hear about the bot purge on your Twitter account. It must suck to be down to seventeen followers, and knowing thirteen are your own dummy accounts.”

  Shelby snickers.

  Jessica looks murderous.

  “Cranky pregnant women are mean,” she says to Shelby, losing her edge.

  “At least I have an excuse,” I say, flouncing off, if by flouncing you mean waddling like an animatronic extra in a Godzilla movie, moving at under a mile an hour and still tortured by their conversation.

  “Oh, Jessica,” Shelby says to her. “Bless your heart.” She leans in, pulls the curtain of her cousin-by-marriage’s hair behind her ear, and adds: “In the South, that means you should go fu–”

  “Why, look at you. The most beautiful woman at this ball,” says a man who wraps his arm around her waist like he has the right to do so, which means he must be her husband, Tom. “Let’s dance, Shelby.”

  “What are you doing?” she hisses.

  “Rescuing you from yourself. If anyone is going to tell Jessica to go perform sex on herself, it’ll be me. You don’t get to snipe that honor from your husband.”

  As Tom takes her away, Shelby’s pique melting as he charms her, I laugh until the sound dies in my throat, replaced by a tightness around my hips that is crushing. It’s the opposite of having Declan squeeze my hips for relief, and it’s brutal.

  Relax, I tell myself, willing the pressure down to the soles of my feet, where the universe will take it away to wherever it’s needed more.

  Huh. Those hypnosis tapes actually work, because a minute later, the pain recedes.

  And now I have to pee.

  The event is in full swing, so there’s a line to use the women’s restrooms, but here’s one of the best benefits of being enormously pregnant: women push you to the head of bathroom lines. After lots of thank yous and appreciative smiles, I’m next in line in a row of twenty women, and grateful for the sisterhood that gives my bladder relief.

  As I wash my hands, another wave of painful pressure takes over my pelvis.

  Ah, baby. There you are.

  By the time I make it back to the event, I see Declan and Andrew, heads huddled, serious expressions on their faces. I know Amanda’s in Vegas right now at a mystery shopping industry convention, but it feels empty to be here without my best friend. Who am I going to snark with about women’s ball gowns? Then again, as I look down at the basketball doubling as a belly button on my torso, maybe other people are snarking about me.

  Rarely do I notice the resemblance, but when Dec and Andrew are this close to each other, I see it. Our little boy will look like a blend of me and Declan. How much will he resemble Andrew? Terry? My nephews Jeffrey and Tyler? My own father?

  Ever-ready tears fill my eyes as Declan happens to look over and see me. Threading his way through the crowd, his steady, warm presence is suddenly there as the band of pain recedes.

  I can breathe again.

  And then I can’t.

  Long, slow, controlled breathing is getting me through the backache when I’m interrupted by the view of a man I never, ever expected to see again. Our eyes meet. He glides right past me, then reverses course, catching my gaze, looking down.

  Widening.

  Mr. I’m Important.

  He does that frozen gazelle move we all have when we’re caught in a moment of intense consideration, unsure of the next move but knowing we need to be decisive. Whatever evolutionary process speeds through his rat brain, it ends with a decision to acknowledge me.

  Damn it.

  “Shannon.” Paul looks over my head, not bothering to extend a hand for me to shake. “Declan’s getting ready to give his speech, I see.”

  “Mmm,” is all I can answer, my belly tightening, the ripple effect hard and hurting. These aren’t contractions–not like they’ve been described to me, and definitely nothing like the little Braxton-Hicks twinges I’ve felt before.

  He evaluates me, eyebrows together, puzzled. “Nothing I say gets me an audience with your husband.”

  “Same here,” I choke out.

  As if I’m sending out subsonic signals, Declan appears from behind Paul, who now has his eyes on Shelby, who looks like she’s sucking on a lemon while speaking with a well-known local amateur historian who thinks high society should be based on Mayflower blood.

  “Who is that?” Paul asks me, pointing to Shelby.

  “A friend.”

  “Shannon,” Paul says loudly as Declan appears, his arm going around my waist, or what’s left of it. I breathe into the touch and lean against him, suddenly exhausted. “Good to see you.”

  Paul’s show doesn’t register for Dec, who checks in with me. “How are you?” he asks me, clearly concerned.

  “Ready to go home.”

  “Can you wait forty minutes?”

  “No.”

  Dec pulls out his phone and texts, then waits, watching me the entire time.

  Completely ignoring Paul.

  Seconds later, he nods at his phone. “Andrew says Gerald’s circling the block. He’ll take you home.”

  “But Gerald doesn’t work for us.”

  “He’ll take you home,” Declan says firmly. I know that voice. There is no arguing with that tone.

  Thank God.

  “Good,” I say.

  “I wish I could leave. My speech...” Declan’s torn. I don’t want him to be.

  “I just need some rest. Feet up. You know.”

  He kisses my cheek and heads for the podium.

  I start to move toward the elevator when Paul says, “That woman. You said she’s a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any chance you could introduce us?”

  “She’s married.”

  “So?”

  “That’s the woman you were an ass to in my coffee shop ten months ago.”

  “When was I an ass to a woman in your coffee shop?”

  “When weren’t you?”

  With that, I move to the elevator, away from all of this.

  Just... away.

  Steve. Jessica. Paul. Could more jerks be at one social event?

  The
n again: Shelby. Dr. Derjian. Declan.

  The universe always provides balance, right?

  A man in a crimson uniform with a name tag that says Jerry nods at me, opening the interlocked iron door, gesturing for me to enter. I do, pressing the Ground Floor button with relief. The next few steps in my progression to peace are simple. Get off elevator. Find Gerald. Ride home.

  Breathe.

  As the doors start to close, I lean against the wall and let my back scream.

  The elevator door does that weird, spasmodic motion that indicates someone has pressed the door button. Three fingers slip between the doors, the machine programmed to retreat in the face of an obstacle.

  And then I realize I’m programmed the same way.

  Because that obstacle?

  Is Steve Raleigh’s hand.

  Deftly, he slips into the elevator, looming over me with a look that says he’s about as interested in being in this elevator as he is in hearing me do a review of his lovemaking skills. Before either of us can react, the uniformed elevator worker pulls the inner metal grate shut with a rattling sound, and then the outside doors slide closed.

  We stare at each other.

  The elevator begins its slow descent.

  “Shannon.” His eyes drop to my boobs, then my belly. Or maybe my belly, then my boobs. That whole region has merged together, like Pangea. The arctic is kissing Costa Rica, and I can’t see the Cape of Good Hope without a mirror.

  “Steve.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” I gasp, the back pain radiating with an unusual rip. My muscles seem to tear in a band around my lower back, then move down. It’s as if someone is pulling a sheet down to the end of a bed, only instead of a sheet, it’s every muscle in my belly.

  Steve’s eyes narrow. I do my best to hide what I’m experiencing. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because Steve doesn’t deserve to see me have an emotion. I spent too many years being invalidated by him to waste one precious drop of authenticity on him.

  Besides, he has a nose for weakness. Trying to hide weakness around Steve is like hiding leftover Halloween candy from my nephews. Good luck.

  “When are you due?” he asks, eyes glued to my belly/boobs.