#Bae (The Hashtag Series Book 8)

by Cambria Hebert

  The thought of waiting another full week and a half to feel I was finally out of limbo and at least trying to move on honestly threatened what ground I was finally gaining.

  Side bar: Why did the saying move on feel so wrong? It was like those two words implied I was simply walking away, forgetting about whatever I was moving on from. I wasn’t. I was just trying not to allow it to hold me hostage. I needed a better term.

  Dr. Crawford must have heard the disappointment and underlying anxiety in my reaction because she offered to fit me in before she left. By fit me in, I mean she offered to stay late the day after tomorrow (since her schedule was already beyond booked).

  One problem: Romeo wouldn’t be home by then.

  If I didn’t take the appointment, I’d have to wait until after she got back. Who knew if that would even fit with his schedule? To go or not to go?

  In the end, I accepted. It was just some tests, possibly an exam. Romeo didn’t really need to be there, other than for emotional support. I could handle the appointment. Then when she returned from vacation, she could review all my lab work with both of us. It was going to suck waiting that long for the results, but at least the tests would be done.

  It was incredibly generous Dr. Crawford offered to extend her hours for me. I wasn’t naive enough to think she was doing it just because she liked me. It was because of who my husband was. Because of my “celebrity status.” I usually hated that.

  Not this time.

  This time I was glad, and I had no qualms about using it to my advantage to get a special appointment. After all, it seemed a lot of drama and “bad” came with that status of ours… It was kinda nice to get something positive out of it, too.

  An added bonus was the offices and lab would be more private. Since the media was sniffing around so viciously, that was a definite silver lining.

  I thought about asking Valerie if she would come along, but in the end, I decided to go on my own. I was a big girl; I could handle it. I could have asked Trent. I probably should have… Romeo likely expected it. But I wanted to do this on my own. It felt really personal to me. Like something I needed to do for myself.

  It was late afternoon when I walked into the office. It was quiet, sterile, and clean. The receptionist looked up and smiled brightly when I appeared.

  “Mrs. Anderson,” she said. “How good to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, signing the clipboard at the desk. “I’m here for Dr. Crawford.”

  She nodded once, the dark, short curls on her head bobbing. She hit a button on the phone and then spoke into it. “Mrs. Anderson is here.”

  I didn’t even have time to sit down. A nurse wearing dark-blue scrubs opened the door to the back. “Right this way.”

  I followed her back and did the usual: weight, blood pressure, blah, blah. I was pretty sure I weighed about a thousand pounds more because of all the water I drank before arriving. I was hoping she’d do a sonogram, you know, just to make sure all was well. Sonograms worked better with a full bladder.

  “Rimmel.” Dr. Crawford appeared from a long hallway. “You look well.”

  “Thank you,” I said, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Ahh, I recognize that dance,” she said warmly. “Hoping for an ultrasound?”

  “If you think that might help?” I asked. I really had no idea what to ask for. I’d told her what I wanted on the phone, but she didn’t detail everything she planned to do.

  “Sure, we can do one. Come on back. We’ll do it first. That way you can empty out that bladder.”

  Again, I found it convenient that Romeo and I were “celebrities” and everyone knew he made an insane amount of money. Doctors didn’t question the things I wanted—like extra sonograms—because they knew we had the money to cover it and wouldn’t have to fight with insurance companies. I didn’t care about the money Romeo made, but it was a true blessing when it came to the health and well-being of my future child.

  After the sonogram, I peed in a cup, got a basic exam, and went to the lab for some lab work. Of course, it seemed like they took half my blood volume, and honestly, it made me a little queasy. I didn’t complain, though.

  Once I was fully dressed and had a small container of orange juice in my hand (to replenish some energy and sugar), I was led to my doctor’s spacious office, where she was already sitting behind her desk in her white coat.

  She was an attractive woman with long, dark hair, green eyes, and a kind smile.

  “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to the chairs in front of her desk.

  I did, suddenly feeling very nervous. During the sonogram, she pointed out things and generally told me everything looked wonderful, but it seemed I was sitting down right here to be given the final verdict on the chances of me conceiving again.

  I’d also like to note I realized there were a lot of women out there who suffered worse than me. More miscarriages, years upon years of struggling to conceive or even not being able to have a child at all. I realized some might find it silly I was so frazzled and worried about conceiving because it took over six months to get pregnant, and then when I did, I lost her during my first trimester.

  But how did you put a rating on pain? It wasn’t really a competition and certainly not one I would ever enter. The pressure I put on myself to get pregnant, coupled with the loss of not carrying her to term and feeling as if I failed Romeo… well, it cut me. Deeply.

  “I’ve gone over everything from your previous pregnancy, the sonogram we did today… I made a few notes from the exam,” Dr. Crawford said.

  I nodded, feeling my heart thud beneath my ribs.

  “Of course I won’t be able to go over your bloodwork until after next week,” she added.

  “Yes,” I replied, wishing she’d get to the point.

  “I see no reason to believe you won’t conceive again and go on to have a healthy pregnancy.”

  My eyes filled with tears, but I blinked them away. The relief was almost overwhelming, but even so, there was a part of me afraid to believe. “Are you sure?”

  She smiled kindly. “I cannot guarantee you won’t have another miscarriage. Sometimes they just happen for reasons we don’t always know. What I can tell you is everything I’ve seen and based on your age, health, etc., you will be able to have the baby you and your husband very much want.”

  I let out a silent exhale. “And the bloodwork?”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get back and go over your file. I can tell you right over the phone if you want.”

  My nod was eager.

  “I do not anticipate anything to show up, no red flags or reasons to keep you from getting pregnant. I see no reason why you and your husband can’t start trying again as soon as you like. Your body is healed from the miscarriage. It’s able to do what it needs to do.”

  “Okay,” I replied, nervous and excited all at once.

  “I know getting pregnant after a miscarriage is very frightening. I also understand you may feel some guilt. I strongly encourage you to talk to someone, anyone who is willing to listen and support you. And start taking prenatal vitamins now. That way you have all the nutrients in your system before you conceive.”

  I made a mental note to go pick up a brand-new bottle on the way home.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Relax,” she implored. “Getting pregnant is easier when you aren’t so stressed. Stress is taxing on the body. Get lots of rest. Be kind to yourself.”

  “Right.” I agreed. I knew that was coming. If only relaxing weren’t so difficult.

  “It might also be good to get in the habit of not lifting anything heavy. It won’t cause you to miscarry, but it’s better safe than sorry. You are a small woman.”

  After a few more moments of talking and her basically reassuring me, our appointment came to a close. I thanked her and walked out of the offices feeling better than I had when I walked in.

  For the first time in a long time, the possibility of a ba
by excited me, and it didn’t seem so out of reach.

  I thought back to before I lost Evie, to the joy both Romeo and I felt. The way he used to talk to my belly and bring me pickles. The way we browsed baby boutiques to look at tiny clothes. I was even looking at pink. How could you have a little girl and not look at pink?

  Even after what happened to my mother and the negative feelings I had about the girly color, Evie had given it new meaning again. That feeling was gone now. If anything, pink was even more abhorrent to me now, and I don’t think even another baby would change that.

  But that was okay. Not all little baby girls had to wear pink.

  Looking back, maybe it had been a mistake to get the early blood test to find out it was a girl. But on the other hand, knowing her sex was just one more thing I had of her. It was a blessing but also a torment. Even still, the blessing outweighed the negatives.

  The entire office was quiet and empty now as I walked toward the front door. When I stepped out into reception, I was taken aback when the receptionist smiled from behind the counter.

  “All finished?” she said, chipper.

  For some reason, her chipper-ness made me feel odd.

  “Yes, thank you. Is there anything I need to do to checkout before I go?”

  She glanced at the computer screen before her and shook her head once. “No, it looks like everything is fine. We’ll bill you any portion owed.”

  “Okay, great,” I said, shifting the Kate Spade bag in my grip. “Have a nice evening.”

  “You, too,” she called out as I walked away.

  In the elevator, I pulled out my cell and checked the time. Romeo was probably still at practice, so I figured I would wait to call him when I got home. On the way, I’d stop and get a bottle of the vitamins the doctor recommended as well.

  Nerves filled me once more at the thought of trying to have another baby. Desire also swelled deep inside me. I would be able to feel all of Romeo again, no thin layer of latex between us. I couldn’t wait for that moment, so I started brainstorming ways to make the night he came home special.

  The elevator opened. I stepped out, still daydreaming about my husband, his body, and the night he’d finally arrive home. I moved through the lobby without really paying attention, then pushed through the wide glass door and onto the sidewalk opening up to the parking lot.

  I got about four steps outside and instantly regretted not paying attention.

  Fantasizing about my husband was all well and good… but it probably shouldn’t be done in public.

  The sounds of pounding feet, shouts, and the glare of flashing cameras caught me completely off guard. I groaned out loud because the disappointment and surprise at seeing the vultures was so real.

  How did they know I was going to be here? I’d been so careful on the way, making sure no one followed me. I told no one I was coming, and I even came after hours!

  I felt like stomping my foot on the ground and having a hissy fit right there.

  “Mrs. Anderson, can you tell us what you were inside for?”

  “Rimmel! Is it true this is your doctor’s office?”

  “Are you having IVF treatments because you can’t get pregnant on your own?”

  Oh my God! Did these people have no morals? No respect for others? What kind of people would literally sit outside a doctor’s office so they could harass someone and shout the most insensitive questions at them on the street?

  I turned so I could go back in the building, but I was surrounded. It was as if I were in a bubble of people. People I was seriously considering kicking.

  I turned back and started forward, thinking I would just push past them all and make a run for it. It wasn’t parked far; I could make it.

  Everyone moved as a unit around me. It was overwhelming, and in only a few seconds, a minute tops, my limbs were shaking.

  They yelled my name, hurled questions, and continued to take pictures.

  “No comment!” I yelled, trying to push through the swarm as I walked.

  “What do you think about the list of women offering to give your husband a child?” someone yelled.

  I gritted my teeth.

  At the edge of the sidewalk, I paused because the thick line between me and the pavement was congested. I locked eyes with a photographer, a man with a greasy man bun, ratty jeans, and a bad shave, and gave him my best intimidating stare.

  “Excuse me,” I half growled.

  “Answer some questions for me first,” he intoned. “Can I get a shot of your stomach? Turn sideways.”

  “No!” I shouted. “Move!”

  He laughed, as if he thought my display of annoyance were fun. I turned from him toward the next wall of man and pushed out my arm, using it as a battering ram to hopefully get through.

  He and the greasy man bun stepped toward each other and forward, which caused me to bounce back. I tripped and nearly fell. My handbag landed on the sidewalk, and I quickly bent to retrieve it.

  This was mortifying. It was incredibly demeaning, and frankly, if I didn’t get through, I was afraid I might cry out in frustration. Some days, I would give anything for Romeo’s size and muscle mass.

  Sure, I could stand there and pose for a few pictures, maybe answer a couple questions. It wouldn’t help. They would just want more and more.

  Do not engage. That was the way my family and I had come to operate with the press. It worked, for a while.

  Clearly not anymore.

  Maybe I should have brought Trent along…

  “Rimmel!”

  I snapped out of it, and my body went rigid. Like a cannon, I shot forward, plowing right between two paparazzo, and managed to squeeze through. I stumbled out of the crowd and ran to my Range Rover, unlocking the doors and leaping inside.

  Once there, I hit the locks immediately and collapsed against the leather with a heave. My body was shaking, my chest squeezed with panic, and my mouth had gone dry. After a few short seconds, I placed my bag in the passenger seat, trying to ignore the flashes and knocks on the windows.

  They were all tinted, so I had some privacy. Except of course the windshield.

  Once I had my keys in hand, I started to turn toward the wheel. A loud thump sounded in front of me. I shrieked and spun, gripped the steering wheel. The man with the greasy man bun was lying across the hood, taking pictures through the windshield!

  He seriously needed to get a life.

  I had a moment’s thought to call the police. I even looked down at the phone in my lap. But that would require sitting here longer.

  I wanted to go home.

  The Rover started up with ease, and I glared at the man on the hood. With an evil little thought, I turned on the windshield wipers and held down the button for the washer fluid. It sprayed everywhere, including on the man and his camera.

  He gave a shout and leapt back. Actually, he slipped off the hood and hit the pavement.

  Gee, I hoped he wasn’t hurt.

  Not.

  I gunned the engine, still sitting in the same spot, and threw the car into reverse. The man who fell off the car stood with an angry look on his face.

  “You broke my camera, you bitch!”

  No. You broke it. You asshole!

  I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue. Instead, I started backing up. The movement of my car forced some of the paps to move. It took me a little longer than usual to back up, but I did, and once I was clear of the spot, I laid on the horn aggressively to give fair warning to everyone in my way.

  Before hitting the gas, I glanced around for greasy man bun, but he was gone.

  Probably gone home to lick his wounds about his camera.

  “Buh-bye,” I said and drove forward. A quick glance in my rearview showed some of the people rushing for their cars.

  I sighed. I hoped that didn’t mean they’d be following me.

  Guess I’d have to put off getting my vitamins. I think that bothered me more than anything. What kind of life would I be bringing a
baby into if I couldn’t even safely and peacefully go to the store for vitamins when I needed them?

  What if I’d had a baby with me tonight? What would I have done?

  Horror assaulted me. Horror and dread. Doubts assailed me. Was I doing this for all the wrong reasons? Would it be better if I didn’t have another child? Any baby of ours would be relentlessly pursued. I couldn’t even protect myself. How would I protect an innocent child?

  You couldn’t before…

  A sob formed in my throat; my vision went a little blurry with unshed tears.

  Bright headlights shone into my rearview mirror, and I winced, averting my gaze. I blinked and glanced up, looking to find a car right on my bumper.

  The wheel jerked in my hands. In surprise, I tore my eyes away and back to the road. Once I was straight, I glanced back up to see if I could tell who it was chasing me.

  Another car swerved alongside mine, and my head whipped around. Because this one was right beside me, I could see into the car better. It was one of the vultures, the one who nearly knocked me down with the help of greasy man bun.

  I’d bet a million dollars it was him behind me.

  I felt a slight tap on my bumper, causing my car to jerk. I screamed and gripped the wheel, trying to keep on track.

  The car beside me swerved closer, and I sucked in a breath. Panic made me weak; my breath came in gasps as I struggled to decide what to do. I could pull over, but would they pull over, too?

  Was it safer to keep moving so they couldn’t at least get to me? Or was it safer to pull over and take my chances?

  I hit a button on the dash and yelled, “Call local police!”

  The sound of my Bluetooth registering and the call going through nearly made me weep. I focused on the road in front of me as I drove, hitting the gas a little heavier than I probably should, but fear and adrenaline gave me an overwhelming desire for flight.

  The operator on the other end answered, and I just started talking, not even bothering to listen to her introduction. “My name is Rimmel Anderson. I’m on Fleet Street, heading away from Dr. Crawford’s office. I’m being chased by two men who I believe are paparazzi. They’re in two separate cars.” Something hit my back end again. I screamed. “They’re trying to run me off the road!”