by Kendall Ryan
“I’ll be right here.” He perches on a bar stool in the kitchen with an attentive expression.
I’m grateful for his presence, which seems to ground me. “Wish me luck.” I press a kiss to his cheek and head toward the bathroom.
I reread the instructions for the fifth time just to make sure I don’t mess this up. Okay . . . pee in a cup, dip the test’s tip for five seconds, remove it, wait three minutes. That’s easy. I can totally do this.
After following the instructions, I set the test on the bathroom counter and remind myself to breathe. The seconds tick past at a glacial rate, but finally, something starts to happen. With maddening slowness, one pink line appears . . . then two!
“Holy shit,” I say out loud.
“What?” Emmett calls, his voice muffled through the door.
He sure didn’t stay sitting for long, but if he feels even half as keyed-up as I do, I can’t blame him.
“Hold on.” I rip open the other two boxes and use them too.
“Hey, what’s going on in there? The suspense is killing me.”
“Just one more minute.” I can barely contain myself as I wait for the tests to turn out. Was the first result a mistake, a fluke?
But no . . . the other two show double lines too. I fling open the bathroom door, spot Emmett, and throw my arms around his neck in glee.
“I’m knocked up!”
His face lights up. “Really? You’re pregnant?”
I nod, grinning so hard my cheeks ache. “All three tests were positive.” Then I squeal when he sweeps me into his arms with a sound of joy and twirls me around. We pepper each other with kisses, ecstatically bear-hugging, laughing in sheer excitement.
He sighs, looking into my eyes with tender pride. “We actually did it. How do you feel?”
“We did.” I plant a firm kiss on his lips, tears brimming in my eyes. “And I feel . . . incredible.”
When my stomach ruins the moment with a gurgle, he chuckles. “What about hungry?”
I laugh. “I’m not eating for two yet.”
“I asked about you, not the baby,” he says. “I worry about you sometimes. Knowing your workaholic tendencies, I’m guessing you haven’t eaten dinner yet.”
“You calling me a workaholic? Do I even have to say pot, kettle, black?” I poke the tip of my tongue out at him. “But . . . you got me there. No, I haven’t. I came straight home from work to take these tests.”
We order a Chinese-food feast and spread our army of paper boxes over the little dining table in my kitchen. As we dig in, silence falls . . . and with it creeps a slow melancholy that tempers the joy of my success.
Now what? The question nudges insistently. But how will he answer if I ask? Emmett promised me he didn’t want any part in raising a child and said he’ll happily get out of my way once I’m pregnant.
Hell, at the beginning, that’s exactly what I asked him to do. We were once on the same page, but since then my feelings have drifted so far. I still don’t know if I can handle a serious relationship . . . yet at the same time, now that I’m about to lose him, I realize just how desperately I wish otherwise.
I try to push away my unspoken, unspeakable doubts and make small talk. But it’s halfhearted, and Emmett answers in monosyllables, clearly preoccupied. Eventually, I give up and we eat our chicken chow mein in silence.
When the takeout boxes are empty, I crack open my fortune cookie. “Enjoy the good luck a companion brings you,” I read aloud. “That’s accurate. You’ve definitely brought me luck.”
He gives me a half smile that seems oddly tense. “Glad to hear it.”
“What did you get?”
He opens his cookie and frowns at the tiny paper slip. “‘A dream you have will come true.’ Well, that’s vague as hell.” Then, looking away from me, he says, “It’s getting late. I guess I should get out of your hair.”
What can I say except, “All right?”
As I walk him to the door, our eyes meet and I hesitate. Don’t go teeters on the tip of my tongue. Maybe a quick, formal farewell is the right thing to do . . . but I can’t bring myself to leave things at that. If this is my last chance to touch Emmett, I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t take it. I lean up to kiss him good-bye for the last time, wrapping my arms around his solid shoulders and breathing in the scent of his crisp cologne.
A small noise of surprise escapes him before his arms close around me tight and his hand cradles the back of my head. For a long moment I linger, savoring the feel of his lips, his solid body, trying to imprint it into my memory so I’ll never forget—so I can carry at least that small piece of him with me.
He pulls away slowly, as if he, too, feels reluctant to part. “I . . .” He takes a breath. “Um, if you want to keep me posted about how the baby is doing, how you’re doing with the pregnancy, I . . . would like that.”
“Oh?” I blink, then smile. “Okay. I will.”
I watch him walk away down the hall. Only when the elevator closes behind him do I shut my door. I turn out the lights, brush my teeth, and change into pajamas. Then I lie down in bed, stroking my still-flat belly, wondering what the future holds and how I’ll fare as a mother . . . and how it will feel to let go of Emmett, the father of my unborn baby.
Dammit, this is stupid. I’ve done exactly what I set out to accomplish. My hard-won success has finally arrived. So, why can’t my heart get with the program? Why, under all my excitement and nervousness and pride, do I feel so down?
I know why. But I still try to convince myself that my weird mood is just a standard case of pregnancy jitters.
As I snuggle under the covers, I place the call I’ve been waiting to make for a long time. “Hey, Mom,” I say when she answers.
“Tell me some good news, baby girl.”
“You’re going to be a grandma,” I say, my throat tight.
When she lets out the biggest squeal of joy I’ve ever heard, tears spring to my eyes.
We talk for a while longer, all about baby names and birthing plans, until the conversation shifts to the sperm donor I chose. I don’t know how to tell her about Emmett. Don’t know how to explain him and his role at all. Yes, he was my donor, but he feels like more. Instead, I make an excuse about needing to get ready for bed and end the call.
A ding interrupts my conflicting thoughts. I check my phone to find a text from Emmett.
Make sure not to eat any raw fish from now on. I’m sure you already knew that, but just saying.
My lips twitch up. Of course, I reply.
Another text appears almost instantly. And don’t sleep on your back.
That’s not until I’m much further along, I type back, my smile growing.
Yet another message. Did your doctor recommend you take any prenatal vitamins?
He keeps texting me little tips and factoids and questions until it gets so late, I have to say good night.
I turn off my phone and snuggle under the covers, feeling a little more cheerful. Even if we’re not sleeping together anymore, maybe I won’t have to say good-bye to his friendship after all.
Chapter Eighteen
Emmett
It’s been two weeks since Jenna’s pregnancy tests came out positive. Two weeks since we were together. And I’m slowly but surely losing my damn mind. I’m pretty sure half of my staff is ready to quit with how on edge and snappy I’ve been.
Although I’m dying to see her, I have no convenient excuse to call, now that we’ve succeeded at the entire reason we started sleeping together. I would have to come out and admit that I just want to be near her and ask if she wants that too. And I already know that leap of faith wouldn’t end anywhere happy. We’re both so independent—we’d probably never work—yet I’m having a hard time remembering why.
But, damn, I can’t deal with this much longer. I can’t even seem to relieve tension by myself. At some point, I realized that if she doesn’t need me to have a high spe
rm count anymore, my dick belongs to me again. That I can go back to jacking off whenever I want. But the first time I tried, I ended up stopping after a few halfhearted minutes because it wasn’t any fun—and I haven’t bothered with it since. I don’t want to use my own hand, alone in an empty penthouse. What I want is Jenna, but she’s slipping further away by the day.
Trying to convince myself that she still needs me, that our connection doesn’t need to be broken just yet, I started obsessively researching pregnancy. I ordered books online and had them shipped to me overnight. I read medical articles and mommy blogs in my office while I was supposed to be working. What started as an attempt to quiet my neurosis soon backfired, though, because I became genuinely terrified of all the dangers lurking in pregnancy.
Jesus Christ. I’m perched on my sofa after work, my eyes glued to my latest purchase, speed-reading a litany of bloodcurdling hazards. Gestational diabetes, pre-eclampsia, early labor, infections, a thousand other potential complications.
No wonder “died in childbirth” is such a cliché of old tragic stories. How the fuck has the human species survived this long when there are so many things that can go horribly wrong with reproducing?
I force myself to put the book down and try to calm my breathing. This is only driving me further down the rabbit hole than I already am. She’s perfectly healthy, I tell myself firmly. Hell, I’ll prove it. I grab my phone and text Jenna, Are you feeling well? There. I’ll hear straight from the horse’s mouth if anything is wrong, but there definitely won’t be, so I have no reason to lose my marbles.
I can’t sit still. I pace around my living room until she replies, I’m fine.
Shit . . . that was the exact response I hoped for, but it doesn’t calm me down at all. I text her back, Are you sure? Any pain, nausea, fatigue? Cravings? I can swing by the store later if you want me to pick something up. Some distant part of my mind whispers that I’m acting like a lunatic and I need to back off, but I can’t stop myself.
No, I promise, she replies, I’m totally fine. Relax, Emmett. I can just picture her expression right now, amused with a touch of gentle exasperation.
“See?” I say out loud. “You heard the lady. Chill out.”
Then my phone buzzes again. Except . . .
The bottom drops out of my stomach. Except what? What is it? I rush to type back.
A minute, then, Never mind, it’s no big deal.
I almost let out a hysterical laugh. Holy shit, she can’t just backpedal on me like that. Please tell me what’s wrong before I have a panic attack. I type frantically, correcting a myriad of typos as I go.
Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just . . . you’ve obviously been doing some research, did you come across anything about increased libido during pregnancy?
I stare at her words for a moment, reading them over and over to make sure I understand what she’s asking . . . then I close the message and call her. I can’t handle this conversation through text. I need to hear her voice—not to mention talk without anxiety-inducing pauses between every sentence while I await a response.
As soon as she picks up, I answer her question. “I did see mentions of that, actually.”
“Oh, thank God.” She sighs. “I’m so horny, and I thought I was losing my mind. But I guess this is just normal.”
“Huh,” I mutter. It seems a little early for that symptom to appear. I thought it wasn’t supposed to start until late in the first trimester. But everything I’ve read says that every pregnancy is a little different, and this doesn’t seem dangerous.
I’m sure as hell not complaining about the chance to touch her again. I thought that door had closed two weeks ago, and here I am standing right in front of it again. She needs me, but not for my sperm this time. That ship has sailed. She needs my dick for much bigger reasons . . . possibly nine months of bigger reasons. My dick is very happy at this turn of events.
“Huh, what?” she asks.
“Nothing.” My mood much improved, I say, “I was just thinking I know exactly how to help with your little problem. Hell, I can drive over right now if you want.”
“Is that a good idea?” She sounds uncertain. “Shouldn’t we keep our distance?”
“Fuck that. Listen, if you’re mentioning it to me, I’m guessing that masturbation isn’t doing it for you anymore, right?”
“Uh . . . no,” she admits quietly.
“So you need a man, and I’m well-qualified for the job. I mean, we know we work well together. Besides, I’m not about to let you go off around the city picking up strangers who will do God knows what to you and the baby. It’s a safety issue, really.” That concern isn’t a complete lie. I’m just not mentioning my other two motivations—the overwhelming desire to see her and touch her again, and the idea of her fucking another man makes my blood boil. “I know that knocking you up was all we explicitly talked about, but it’s also my job to make sure you get the baby you want. So, protecting you both comes with the territory.”
I resist the urge to add and this is my baby too. That’s not what we agreed to. That’s not what it says on all the legal paperwork we signed. My baby was never part of the legalese; it was always her child. But that knowledge, that biological reality, nevertheless draws me in with irresistible force.
She pauses for so long, I start wondering if my phone lost signal. “All right,” she replies at last, and there’s a softness in her voice that does strange things to my insides. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
I almost bark out a laugh. Mind? Getting another chance to have sex with her? She’s obviously already suffering from pregnancy brain. “Not at all.”
“Then come on over, big boy, and I’ll put you to good use.”
I hustle to the car so fast, I almost forget my keys.
At her apartment, she answers my knock right away. She looks tired, is wearing stained sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, and all I can think is, God, how can a woman be so beautiful? How have I stayed away from her so long? Is this the pregnancy glow, or am I just a smitten fool?
And most importantly, What the hell was I about to say?
“Hey,” she says, her voice soft.
Jenna’s messy ponytail makes her look even younger, and I have to physically resist the urge to cup the back of her neck and use it to pull her in for a kiss.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, stepping inside as she closes the door behind me.
“Good. Great, actually.” Her lips twitch with a smile, and God, it’s so fucking good to see her.
I pull a small plastic bottle out of my coat pocket. “I bought you these prenatal vitamins from the drugstore. The books I’ve been reading said you should start tak—”
“Later. Come here.” And she yanks me by the lapels into a ravenous kiss that makes up for every lonely moment of the last two weeks.
• • •
Jenna flops back onto the pillow with a sigh of exhausted satisfaction. “Whew . . . I really needed that.”
Me too, I don’t say. “Glad I could lend a hand.” I smirk at her. “And a tongue, and several other body parts.”
“Shut up,” she says with a chuckle. She scoots over to rest her head on my chest, her arm draped over my waist, and for a long, blissful while, I just stroke the soft skin of her back and listen to her quiet murmurs of pleasure. I haven’t felt so relaxed and content since the last time we shared a bed.
Just when I think she’s fallen asleep, she mumbles, “Hey, do you want to order a pizza?”
Come to think of it, I haven’t had dinner yet. I was too engrossed in reading, and then in rushing over here so I could make Jenna scream. “I could eat. Anywhere you’re in the mood for?”
She makes a noncommittal noise. “Doesn’t really matter to me. Whatever’s open at this hour will have to do.”
“Hmm . . .” I really don’t feel like letting go of Jenna. “How about Mama Jo’s?”
“Sounds good to me. Who
’s going to be the one to put on pants to answer the door?”
I laugh. “I’ll do it.”
“But that means I have to stop lying on you,” she points out.
“Shit, you’re right.” I ponder. “Well . . . we have until the pizza gets here. And then you can get right back on me again.”
I call the pizza place, order a large pepperoni with mushrooms, and bring it back for us to eat in bed once it’s delivered. After we’ve each polished off a slice, Jenna says, “So . . . getting together tonight turned out to be a great idea. You want to keep doing this? For as long as I’m able to, that is.”
I suppress the urge to fist pump and holler hell yes, opting instead to reply as casually as I can manage, “If it helps you, of course I do.”
I know this only pushes our relationship’s expiration date out a little further, but still . . . there are no words to describe how relieved and happy I am for this stay of execution. Hopefully, Jenna will continue to enjoy my company for the next eight months.
We eat and chat about nothing, just like old times, until the box is half-empty and neither of us can fit another slice in our stomach. When I come back from putting the leftovers in her fridge, I find that Jenna has fallen asleep sitting up.
I stifle a laugh. She must have been worn out. I hope I can take that as a compliment to my sex skills, because the alternative is that she’s been working way too hard.
Careful not to wake her, I tug the blanket up over her and turn off the light. Then I just gaze at her peaceful face for a few moments, unable to force myself to walk away. Of course, all the books I’ve read said that the first trimester is the most exhausting with hormones and a baby growing inside her . . . but I’ll let her sleep with the knowledge that I sexed her so good and that’s why she’s fast asleep.
But I don’t want to leave. I want to fall asleep holding her in my arms, wake up with her beside me, maybe get breakfast together if there’s time before work. But she didn’t specifically invite me to stay the night, and even though we’ve already shared a hotel bed a few nights, sleeping over at her place feels like crossing a more significant line.