by M. E. Carter
“That’s the bad part. You can’t. You have to let it run its course. Sometimes it’ll clear up. Sometimes it won’t. Every pregnancy is different.”
I don’t have to look to know Tiffany’s face just fell. She’s been looking forward to feeling better, and it seems like it’s never going to end.
“The only thing we can do,” the doctor continues, “is treat the symptoms. The worst side effect from a medical standpoint is the dehydration. You are going to have to be very, very careful to stay hydrated throughout the day. I don’t care what you drink, water, juice, ginger ale, as long as it’s non-alcoholic and doesn’t have caffeine, it’s better than nothing.”
“But I can’t keep liquid down.” Pressing my lips to Tiffany’s knuckles, I know the thought of drinking can sometimes make her gag. Knowing she has to power through liquids probably seems daunting.
“You’re going to have to find some that work. Even if you are drinking chicken broth all day, every day liquids. Unfortunately, the alternative is an IV drip and bed rest.”
Tiffany’s head falls back against the pillow in defeat. Bed rest is the last thing she wants. Not with the sports director position on the line. But the doctor isn’t done with her instructions.
“I don’t think we’re going to prescribe an anti-nausea medication right now.”
“Why not?” I question. “She can’t hold anything down. I’m afraid she’s losing weight.”
“It’s quite possible that she is. But the baby looks great right now, and the side effects of the medication aren’t ideal. If we can control the nausea with bland foods and double down our efforts to stay hydrated, it’s really the best course of action.”
I sigh. Part of me is still discouraged, but I try to remember what it felt like finding Tiffany on the floor of the bathroom. The only thing wrong with her is severe morning sickness. That’s much better than what it could have been.
“I know that’s not what you wanted to hear,” Dr. Braden continues, “but since your doctor is in our network, I’ll go ahead and make sure he’s aware of what’s going on, and he can decide if there is a better course of action. In the meantime”—she pushes off the wall and pats Tiffany on her blanket-clad foot—“we’re going to keep you hooked up to that IV for a little bit, so try to rest. We’ll get you good and hydrated before you go. And I have a booklet with all kinds of ideas on foods and beverages to try. It comes in handy.”
“Thank you, Doctor—”
“Thanks, Felicity—” we say on top of each other as she leaves the room.
Turning to my wife, I kiss her on the forehead. “Well, it’s not ideal, but you are both going to be okay. I’m going to focus on that part.”
Tiffany chortles quietly. “I suppose there’s a silver lining after all.”
“That and I get tomorrow off.”
She lifts her head off the pillow in surprise. “You do?”
“Of course,” I say with a smirk. “You think I’m going to let you take another day off work without me there?”
Lying back down, she snuggles into the covers and yawns. “I’m not taking the day off, Rowen.”
“Like hell you aren’t. I found you almost unresponsive on the bathroom floor, and you’re in the hospital hooked up to an IV. If you think you aren’t taking the day off tomorrow, you’re crazy. I’ll even get Dr. Braden on your case if you buck me on this.”
She smiles and snuggles in deeper, leaning her head on my arm. Before she can even respond, she’s sleeping soundly.
And I feel like I can breathe again.
Peeling my eyes open, I don’t move, instead assessing my body. It’s become my normal. I’m pleased to discover warmth, I’m comfortable, I’m nauseous, but what else is new? I’ll take a little stomach churning over actually having to run for a bucket anyway.
Overall, though, this isn’t terrible. I’m not sure what the doctor put in that IV, but it made a huge difference in how I feel. I was hooked to it for a few hours before they deemed me well enough to go home with the understanding that I take today off at minimum. Tomorrow is still to be determined.
The bed dips next to me, and I roll over to see my husband situating himself against the headboard, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
“What are you doing here?” I question. Usually, I wake to an empty house because of our opposite schedules. Needless to say I’m surprised to see him casually lounging around. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”
“I took the day off.” He grabs the remote off the nightstand and flips the TV on.
Tucking my hands underneath my cheek, I snuggle down a bit. “Since when are professional athletes allowed to take a day off?”
“Since I told Coach my pregnant wife was hospitalized yesterday, and I needed to make sure she’s healthy again before we hit the road next week.”
The ramifications of that call are not lost on me.
“Shit. I’m gonna start getting some frantic texts from Quincy, aren’t I?”
Without even looking at me he replies, “If you don’t already have a few, I’d be surprised.”
Hoisting myself up slowly, I lean against the headboard next to Rowen, rubbing my stomach. His big hand joins mine, and I know he’s wishing he could feel the baby move. Yesterday was hard on Rowen. Yes, I felt like shit, but I could feel the baby moving inside me, so I knew he was okay. Rowen didn’t have that luxury, and I can only imagine where his mind went. I don’t have to ask to know he was preparing for the worst when he found me. I feel terrible that he had to go through that.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he finally asks quietly, his favorite new TV show playing softly in the background.
I bobble my head indecisively. “Not as bad as yesterday. Not as good as I did six months ago.”
He smiles at my retort. “So, feisty and nauseous?”
“That about sums it up.”
“Good.” He leans away from me then turns back to hand me my favorite Yeti, a red straw sticking out of the top. “Here. Sip.”
“What is it?” I ask, complying with his demand.
“Raspberry tea. Caffeine free, of course. The doctor wants you to sip all day, so I picked up a few things after my run earlier. I figured we can try a few different flavors today, decide what your taste buds like and what they don’t like, and go from there.”
Taking a few sips, I rest the cup on my lap. “This one’s not bad.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. My stomach is rolling a bit, of course, but not enough to make me stop drinking. And I like the flavor.”
He nods his approval. “Good. We’ll keep that one on the list. And this should help too.” He hands me one of his mother’s gingersnaps.
A huge grin crosses my face. “Thank you, babe. I seriously love these,” I mumble through my nibbles. Small bites are the best way to eat anything these days. “I need her to make me some more of these when she can.”
“Already on it. She’s whipping up a huge batch today and going to mail them priority tomorrow in between packing.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You guys are too good to me.”
He leans over and kisses me on the top of my head, rubbing his hand on my pooch again. “It’s just because we love you.”
Settling in, we spend the next little while vegging out. I hate to admit it, but Rowen’s right. FaceOff is a really interesting show and the designs they come up with are amazing.
“These people are incredible. They’re not just artistic, it’s like they’re woodworkers or something. Except without wood.”
“Like they do construction, not just design.”
“Exactly. I mean look at that.” I point to the screen. “How much muscle does it take to pry that mold open? Oh!” My hands fly over my mouth. “Oh no, don’t drop it!” I watch in horror as the mold the contestant has spent hours making falls to the ground and shatters.
Beside me, Rowen makes his own sound of disbelief. “Oh, that’s not good.”
We watch for the next several minutes, mouths agape, as the contestant frantically alters his costume design plans for a new head piece. It’s a good thing I don’t normally watch television. I am way too invested in this now.
As we continue to watch, Rowen reaches over and rubs his hand on my belly again. He does that a lot, and I don’t mind. Anyone else? Yeah, they can fuck right off. Don’t touch my baby bump unless you want to get an earful and maybe a knuckle sandwich. But it’s different with Rowen. We’re so much like two halves to a whole, it doesn’t faze me at all.
This time, though, he feels it when I do.
His head whips over to look down at his hand. “Was that…?” he questions, eyes wide in disbelief.
“I think it was.”
Sitting up on his knees and turning his whole body to face me, the flailing contestant is long forgotten. Rowen shifts so he can put both his hands on my bump and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long to feel the soft nudge coming from inside me.
Rowen’s breath hitches. “Whoa. That’s…wow.”
Moving his hand with mine, I put it in a different spot and press down harder. Sure enough, our little future athlete takes aim and kicks the right spot.
“Holy shit, Tiffany. That’s incredible. Is he… he’s really strong, isn’t he?”
I belt out a laugh, my husband never moving or taking his eyes off my mid-section. “You remember what you do for a living, right? And what I used to do for fun? He’s just practicing his corner shot.”
“Yeah he is.”
Another soft push and then we wait. And wait. But nothing else happens.
“I think he fell asleep,” I remark, glancing back up at the television. The underdog contestant seems to have made a comeback while we were distracted, painting over some sort of latex bald cap and attaching scales. It actually looks super cool.
“Does it always feel like that?” Rowen settles back into his spot but keeps one hand on my stomach.
“Um, it doesn’t feel quite the same as it does for you. I guess the best way to describe it is when you have a gas bubble or something running through your intestines. It’s like that, except it doesn’t hurt at all.”
He shakes his head, still trying to wrap his brain around this new turn of events. “I just can’t believe he’s real, ya know?”
I turn to smile at my husband. I love this side of him… the sensitive, feeling side.
“I mean, he was real before. But now he’s real.” Rubbing his hand down his face, he chuckles lightly. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. I felt the same way the first time I felt him kick. It’s not that it was fake before. It’s just this sudden realization that pregnancy means an actual human growing inside me. Not just morning sickness and peeing a lot.”
“That’s it exactly. This is our baby. He’s going to come out with those same legs that are kicking you now.”
“I know. It’s a surreal experience.” Pointing to the nightstand, I say, “Can you pass me another cookie?”
He chuckles again and grabs two, one for each of us. “You really are feeling better today.”
I grunt in response. “I hate to admit it, but I think the doctor was right about the hydration thing. The nausea is always there, but if I keep sipping it doesn’t get any worse.”
With the exception of the whole sickness and hospital thing, it’s pretty nice to take a day to ourselves. I’ve got my favorite guy. I’ve got my favorite cookies. Our favorite contestant wasn’t eliminated and moves on to the next round of competition. There are definitely perks to staying in bed and resting. But, of course, now I want to research this costume designer and see if he won the whole thing and if he’s working in Hollywood now. He should be.
Reaching my arm across Rowen’s torso, I wiggle my fingers. “Hand me my phone would you, babe?”
He grunts as he twists to get it, trying not to fall off the bed, reaching so far. “Finally going to calm Quincy’s mass hysteria?”
I snort a laugh. “Hardly. I’m waiting to see how long it takes her to finally come bang on the door.”
“You’re terrible,” he says with a chuckle.
Flipping through my phone, I ignore the four waiting text messages, but before I open the internet, I realize I have a voicemail. Weird. I wonder if my doctor is following up on yesterday.
Soon enough I realize it’s not the doctor. It’s something even stranger.
Noticing me making a call, Rowen peels his eyes off the screen. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know. HR left me a message.” Before he can ask another question, she answers.
“HR, this is Naomi.”
“Hey, Naomi. This is Tiffany Flanigan. I got your call.” Anxiety courses through me. With the way things are going these days, she could be calling about any number of reasons and left me no indication on which one.
“Oh, hi Tiffany!” Her tone turns cheerful. “I’m glad you called back. First thing’s first. How are you feeling?”
Rowen looks at me quizzically. I just shrug in response. “Better. Not one hundred percent of course, but I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
“No rush. If you need to take another day, that’s fine. We can accommodate you.”
“Well, thanks. But really, by tomorrow I’m going to be ready to get out from under my husband’s thumb.”
Naomi laughs, and I smack Rowen’s hand away when he pinches my leg.
“As annoying as that can be, I’m glad he’s taking care of you. And truly, if you need to take a day off here and there before maternity leave, just let me know.”
“I really appreciate that.”
“It’s no problem at all. Okay!” Naomi exclaims, and I have a feeling we’re switching gears. “I know you’re wondering why I’ve called. I’m excited to say we’re ready to finalize the open position, and we’d like to officially offer you the sports producer job.”
My face must pale because Rowen nudges me and says, “Babe?” But I’m too busy letting her words sink in. “What?” I finally say.
“It was clear from the beginning that you are the best choice for the job. Not only are you already here and know the way we run things, the staff respects you, and I even got with our web guys just to look into a few things. After the piece you did ended up on the Hart to Heart website, we saw a spike in our own visibility, which was huge for our online sales. You didn’t know that part, did you?”
Shaking the stunned off me, I respond quickly. “No. I had no idea. That’s amazing.”
“Well, we’re very impressed with the work you do, and for it to cross over into other departments is remarkable.”
I grab Rowen’s hand and squeeze. I think he knows what’s happening. In fact, I’m pretty sure he knows, but he’s just waiting for me to say the words out loud. He has to wait.
Naomi and I spend the next few minutes making plans. Since I’m already an employee, it doesn’t change my medical insurance or accrued vacation days, but I do have to go in a few minutes early tomorrow to sign off on my new pay increase. An increase I wasn’t expecting but shouldn’t be surprised to be getting. That’s what happens when you’re the boss. You make more money.
I’m the boss.
Talk about things feeling surreal. That’s going to take some getting used to.
Finally, we hang up and I sit there staring at my phone, rubbing my thumb over the screen absentmindedly.
“Babe?” Rowen finally asks, waiting for me to tell him.
Looking up into his handsome face, a smile finally breaks free. “I got the job.”
“I knew it!” He high fives me, which is as little weird, but I’ll get over it. “I knew they’d see your value! It’s effective immediately?”
“Yep.” I nod. “And she’s calling Caleb right now to offer him my old job.”
“Tiff, this is fantastic. Look at you breaking that glass ceiling.”
“Right?” I bounce just slightly in my excitement and a wav
e of nausea rolls through me. Mental note—don’t try to jump for joy.
“How do you want to celebrate?”
I don’t even have to think about it when I say, “I want to stay right here in this bed with you for the rest of the day.”
A surprised and slightly disappointed look crosses his face, but it disappears only a moment later when he realizes there’s not a lot I can do comfortably anyway.
“Can I at least order Chinese Food?”
“As long as you get me some ginger rice, it sounds perfect.”
He leans over and kisses me sweetly, pulling away to look in my eyes. “I’m really proud of you.”
Biting my lip, I try unsuccessfully to stifle my smile. Because I’m proud of me too.
I got the job.
And I have cookies.
Best. Day. Ever.
Closing the door behind me, I try not to intrude on the quiet. It’s been hell getting back to Houston.
First, our flight was delayed due to weather, then our team bus broke down, so we ended up getting home way later than anticipated. After five days away, everyone was antsy to get home. Maybe antsy is the wrong word. Cranky is more like it.
Glancing at the clock to see it’s three-sixteen on the dot, I tiptoe my way to the bedroom. I need a quick shower to wash the travel off me, then I’ll be wrapping my body around my wife. Man, I’ve missed her.
When I cross the threshold into the room, though, I stop. This is not what I expected to find happening in my bedroom, with my wife of all people. My almost six-month-pregnant wife.
“Um, what are you doing?” I’m thoroughly confused as to why she’s jumping up and down in the middle of the night, one hand holding her belly in place.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she says through her exertion as one arm raises and lowers.
“It looks like you’re doing half-ass jumping jacks.”
Stopping her motion, she climbs back on the bed and lies down, eyes closed and groggy sounding. “Still as observant as always.”
“Ouch,” I respond, not actually hurt from her snark. “Someone’s cranky. Did you miss me that much?” Dropping my bag on the floor, I toe off my shoes then climb on top of the covers, careful to keep my sweaty socks off the bed and kiss her hello.