by L. B. Dunbar
“Scarlett, I wasn’t wearing a condom.” I lean back only enough to look at her face. Her beautiful, flushed face with a crooked, goofy smile of contentment.
“It’s okay.” Her voice is groggy and rough as though she could melt into the door behind her. Then her eyes widen, and her hands tighten on my shoulders. “Oh my God. Bull, put me down.”
She isn’t upset, just insistent. I pull out of her, feeling her absence too quickly and ache at the haste to leave her body. She slides down the door, stumbles to the toilet, and leans forward.
What the hell?
Closing my eyes as if I can ignore the sound of her heaving, I reach for my pants. We just had incredible, spontaneous wall sex, and she’s getting sick from it.
“Scarlett, sweetheart,” I murmur, stepping closer to her as I right my zipper and work my belt, but her hand comes up, stopping me in my tracks. She doesn’t look up from her position, bent forward and aiming for the bowl.
“Are you okay?” I question, my voice rising in a cross between concern and confusion.
“Please, Bull. Just leave me alone.”
What the fuck?
“Scarlett.” I step toward her. Her face ashen. Her lips pale.
“Please. Go.”
Fuck. A woman doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Overall a Baby
Scarlett
The day I saw Bull and his date, and Audrey mentioned the possibility of pregnancy, I didn’t want to believe it could be true. Shelton and I didn’t want children. Correction: Shelton didn’t want children. It was never the right time, he said, and I accepted that as truth. We were both busy in our own careers. As time went on, it just became a thing about us. We were the couple without children. We weren’t going to be parents, so imagine my surprise when Shelton was having a baby with his twentysomething med student.
I remember the day like it was yesterday instead of almost eight weeks ago. I’d just been fired and gone to see Shelton at the hospital. I couldn’t believe my day could get worse.
Dr. Shelton Blake was the chief heart surgeon at Boston General. He had all the makings of soap opera swoon with a cleft chin, chiseled cheekbones, and glossy dark hair perfectly styled on his very smart head. He was still incredibly attractive at forty-five, and the small flecks of silver that speckled his occasional five-o’clock shadow only enhanced his looks. I was a lucky woman, especially as Shelton had always supported my career.
I recall bypassing the nurses’ station, breaking protocol in hopes of finding Shelton in a staff room before his surgery. Another day at the office for him, saving lives. Heart transplants. Repaired aortas. Stents and such.
I was aware of the surgical changing room and caught the door as someone exited, allowing me to enter without a security key card. Shelton had an office on another floor, but I knew he’d be here when I didn’t find him there. We haven’t seen much of each other lately, with him saving the most vital organ in every human and me scandalizing the world with the broken hearts of others. The dichotomy of us was not lost on me.
I just needed a hug. It’d been a long time since Shelton and I embraced for the sake of holding one another, and that day, I needed to be held. I needed to be assured everything would be okay. The night before, we’d made love for the first time in weeks. I was such a fool.
In my mind’s eye, I can see the raven-haired beauty, young and freshly new to her rigorous program, once I entered the forbidden room. There was a finite moment where I questioned how close Shelton stood to her, knowing something was off about the situation but only aware of it afterward with hindsight and perspective and a tremendous amount of heartache.
He’d said my name, confused by my presence. The urge to rush for him, wrap my arms around him and fall into his firm chest stilled like a gate slammed between us.
“This is Scarlett,” the younger woman had said under her breath, and I glanced from her to my husband, my stomach pitching. I had a sixth sense about this kind of stuff, the stuff that makes my nose twitch for more information, smelling for dirt.
Confused by my presence, Shelton scrubbed at his forehead like he does when he has something on his mind. I asked him what was wrong when I’d come to him seeking comfort for myself. I deferred to him first, as I found upon reflection I did too often. He’d told me it wasn’t the time to talk, but I needed to know what was on his mind. I could see it weighing on him, pressing at his shoulders. My desire to console him took over despite my day, and I’d hate myself later for putting him before me during this crucial moment in my life.
“This is Brittney. She’s a med student.” Cute and perky, Brittney. Freshly scrubbed and ready to take on the world, Brittney. Becoming a future doctor, Brittney. “She’s pregnant, and I’m going to marry her.”
The words were cracks in the sidewalk, and I stumbled over each of them, knowing I was missing something.
“You made love to me last night,” I blurted, staring at him. Brittney crossed her arms, jutting out her hip as her mouth popped open while she stared at my husband. My husband, who slept with her.
Med student. Pregnant. Marry her.
As I’d too often done with a story we were reporting on, I had to fill in the missing pieces, sometimes with my own presumptions. The filler I needed for this information didn’t seem too difficult to surmise.
My husband had had an affair.
He’d dipped his scalpel in someone else’s heart and torn out mine.
As I stand inside the tractor supply store, holding up a mini Carhartt pair of overalls and press the tiny clothing over my belly, I realize the universe works in strange ways.
I was pregnant.
Alone, at forty-two, I was having a baby.
Even though a pink plus sign on a stick told me what I suddenly suspected at Audrey’s suggestion, the doctor in Montpelier confirmed it an hour ago, and I’d been feeling out of sorts ever since.
Elated one minute. Shocked the next.
After that awkward moment with Audrey, I calculated the timing, discovered I’d missed my period back in March, and expressed my concern to Rita later that afternoon.
“Maybe you’re just stressed out, or maybe you’re going through the change,” she had said like a horror film announcer. I felt too young for that kind of physical shift, but I’d heard women in their early forties could start the downward spiral to menopause. I’d originally chalked up being sick each morning to a stomach bug, like I told Audrey, or stress, as Rita mentioned. I’d worked through illnesses before and figured as long as I didn’t have a fever, I could fight the fatigue, the aches, and the occasional upset stomach. That lobster roll for breakfast should have been a big tipoff.
“Scarlett?” My eyes close at the rough, questioning male voice, and my hand stills on the overalls over my midsection.
“Bull.” His name is a breathless wave of regret—deep-seated, sorrowful regret. It isn’t his fault I’m in the position I’m in. I’m not upset I’m pregnant. This is all me. Screwup Scarlett, as my parents would say. The only thing I did right in their eyes was marrying the dapper doctor, and even that was eventually a mess.
Opening my eyes, I find Bull’s deep blue gaze on the outfit against my belly, which I quickly return to the rack.
“Baby clothes shopping?” His voice teases me because, of course, why would I possibly need baby clothes unless I was having a fricking baby.
Oh sweet, Bull. I need to tell him. This is the most awkward position I’ve ever been in, but he needs to know. His hand casually comes to the rack, and his forehead furrows while he forces a smile at me. I should explain what happened the other day in the bathroom, how the motion of what we’d done brought on a wave of nausea. Energetic, enthusiastic Bull lived up to his name, and that nausea was because I was pregnant.
“It’s a gift for . . . someone.” Someone arriving in, say, nine months. Actually, the timing is more like seven or so, as a rough estimation puts me at six weeks along with a pregnancy calendar calculation of a December due date.
Bull continues to stare at me, forcing that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Bull, about the other day—”
“Yeah,” he says, looking away from me and reaching behind his neck. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.” His head turns back to me, and his eyes scan my body. This isn’t the heated stares he gave me that night or even the desperate gaze of our bathroom tryst. This is a look full of concern, and guilt socks me in the stomach. Or maybe that’s the hunger rumbling. The doctor says eating at regular intervals will help settle the morning sickness.
“I’m better,” I tell him, grateful for his concern and comforted by his asking.
“Stomach bug or something?” he asks, still looking at me with all kinds of questions on his rugged face. Questions I can’t answer yet. I just need a minute, or a day, to wrap my head around what I’ve learned about myself and my future. The future I didn’t have a plan for has just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
I was going to be a mother at forty-two.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Hey, Bull, I found that part,” a man with a store uniform vest on addresses Bull from behind him. Bull glances over his shoulder and nods to acknowledge the man.
“Tractor part,” Bull says back to me and double pats the clothing rack where he placed his hand.
“Gotta fix the tractor,” I awkwardly say, “in order to milk the cows.”
“Tractors are for fields,” Bull says, still watching me, and I swipe loose curls over an ear.
“Right, well, go do farmer stuff,” I add, sounding even more like an idiot.
“Right,” Bull says. Taking a step back, he spins away from me and then circles back to face me after a few paces. “You know, if you need anything, like say food, we could get food together. To eat, that is. We could go to dinner. Or hang out.” He holds out a hand to emphasize his point, and his clumsy approach is endearing. My heart skips a beat. He’s awkward in the sweetest manner, but once he hits the bedroom, that awkwardness disappears, and a self-assured man takes over. My privates do a little dance of remembrance mixed with a sigh of regret that they’ll never experience him again. Under different circumstances, I’d totally take a chance on this man, but it doesn’t seem like a good idea in my current condition. However, I’m full of bad decisions lately.
“Maybe,” I say. Biting my own lip, I fight the grin on my face. “Come see me at the Bean sometime.”
It isn’t what he wants as an answer, and I instantly read it in his expression. I’m hurting him, and I hate myself.
“Yeah, well, see you at the Bean sometime.”
I nod before Bull turns and walks away again, leaving me next to the baby clothes rack. My heart drops to my feet as a sense of aloneness washes over me, and the hollowness in my belly is not from a lack of food.
A few days later, I meet Rita at the Busy Bean Café even though I’m not on the schedule to work. She likes to claim the peach plush couch as her place to think, and we need to brainstorm. I only have a couple of days left on my rental and no future place rented. Rita suggested I move in with her, and it isn’t a bad idea—roommates again—but it also doesn’t seem ideal. Rita and I are both set in our ways a bit, and I can’t lasso her with my condition or my future child. I need to find a place of my own.
However, we are sidetracked and scrolling the internet on her laptop for other things.
“I can’t believe I’m looking at these,” I say, staring at the white crib and baby bedding printed with sweet tiny ducks. “Who’d have thought? Me. Pregnant at my age.”
“You’re what?” The shout is enough to snap the chalkboard beams overhead, and Rita and I both jump at the strong male voice coming from before me. I look up and lock eyes with Bull.
“Hello, handsome,” Rita mutters beside me.
“I . . .” I don’t know what to say, as the heated seductive stares he’s given me in the past have morphed into a tempestuous storm.
“Start talking,” he demands. If his tone wasn’t so growly, it’d be sexy, but he has every right to be upset.
“I just . . .” My eyes shift to Zara working the counter today. I’ve already told both my bosses about my condition, hoping for their sympathy for my situation and some continued compassion for my working here. I don’t want to give up the job, and they’ve both been tremendously understanding.
Zara walks around the counter and crosses to us. “There’s a nice bench out on the lawn facing the river. Why don’t you two go there to talk?”
Rita pats my leg as I glance back at Bull. Zara is right. Bull and I need to step outside as several patrons are staring at us, curious about the wreck of a woman who can hardly make coffee and the steaming bull upset with her.
I can’t run off to the restroom like I did the other day. With shaky legs and a weak stomach, I stand. As I pass Zara, she reaches for my wrist and squeezes.
“When I told Dave about my situation”—Zara had a baby but didn’t know how to find Dave—“we were sitting on that bench, and things worked out for us. Maybe it will bring you good luck, too.”
As I trudge outside, I am not feeling fortunate. The Busy Bean is located on the Winooski River. When we reach the bench facing the water, we sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the ripples race before us. It’s the very end of April, and a beautiful spring day with a mild temperature. And I hate that I’m considering the weather because I don’t know where to start.
“Scarlett, just tell me everything,” Bull says as if reading my thoughts. Taking a deep breath, I dive into the highlights, explaining my job loss and my husband’s infidelity. As I’m on a roll, I add in my parents’ disappointment.
“They act like it’s my fault that my husband slipped his raisin into someone else’s cookie.”
Bull bitterly chuckles. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means I’m a failure in their eyes, Bull, even though he’s the one who stepped out on me. I didn’t do all that a woman should do. Work, wife, motherhood—”
“Yeah, sweetheart, let’s jump ahead to that last point.” I have to admit every time he calls me sweetheart, I melt a little bit, and a part of my soul dies because of what I need to explain.
“The issue is, I’m pregnant now.”
He sits up a little straighter next to me, and his chest heaves. Hope fills his eyes. “Is it mine?”
My voice falters as what I have to say next might crush him. I close my eyes, shutting out the river. “I don’t know who the father is yet.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know yet?” Bull’s voice is steady but stern.
“According to the doctor’s estimation a few days ago, I’m six to seven weeks along. Considering how close we did what we did to my leaving my husband, it could be his.” I swallow the lump in my throat at the possibility I could be pregnant from Shelton, and I don’t want it to be his baby.
“You fucked your husband.” The incredulous sharpness of his tone isn’t unwarranted, but it still unsettles me.
“Yes, I fucked my husband.” Shame fills me at the admission, which is disconcerting on a multitude of levels. A wife should have sex with her husband, and in turn, a husband should have sex with only his wife, not a twenty-three-year-old med student. That same husband should love his wife, not decide he wants to do right by the pregnant girl and marry her when he’s still married to someone else. What about doing right by me, his wife?
Bull stands upright, walking in a small circle before turning back to me and waiting on more details. I can’t look at him and glance back at the river as tears fill my eyes.
“Shelton and I had been . . . estranged a bit, but I didn’t recognize how distant we’d become. The night before I left, we’d had sex for the first time in weeks. I thought it was the start of us reconnecting as though we’d just had a little blip in syncing our lives. I had no idea he’d been using his stethoscope with a med student. None.”
Bull nods.
�
��I’d lost my job the next day, and when I went to him, hoping he’d console me, I found him with his student. He blurted out the truth. She was pregnant with this child, and he was going to marry her. I was such a fool, Bull. When Rita called me later that day, I was packing with no idea where I was going. Then I ended up here, and one week later . . .”
“I see,” he mutters, softly, shakily. “I see.” My hands curl around the seat of the bench. Taking two steps forward, Bull stops. His mouth opens and then shuts.
“And you haven’t been with anyone else? I was your only one-night stand.” There’s no accusation, only a need for clarification.
“I’ve never done anything like I did with you before or after. I swear it on everything I am.” Which isn’t a good person.
“What were we in the bathroom a few days ago then?”
Pregnancy hormones. He just looked so good, and the tension between us set me off, especially when he stepped toward me. Or maybe I stepped to him. It didn’t matter. We were like magnets drawn to one another by sexual attraction. His kiss brings me peace.
When I don’t answer, he steps forward, pauses and, stands taller. “I guess it doesn’t matter, though, if it isn’t mine.”
“But it might be,” I offer weakly, knowing it’s no consolation. Maybe a baby is the last thing he wants. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place if ever that cliché was true. “After our incredible night together—”
“You thought it was incredible?” The surprise in his tone shifts my position on the bench, and I stare at him. Large, soft midnight eyes meet mine, and the hesitancy I see in them almost breaks me in half.
“Of course, it was incredible. You’re amazing, and that thing you do with your tongue . . .” I drift off. Now is not the time to recall his tongue or fingers or even his thick thingy. I clear my throat. “It was incredible because you’re you.”
I gesture my hand up and down, emphasizing his body—the muscles, the mass, the strength, the stamina. A slow smile breaks out on his face, crooked at first, but it does things to my body. Bull should come with a warning: may cause heart palpitations, pulsing between the thighs, and a brain malfunction.