The laminated pages are slippery beneath my sweaty fingers, and dark is creeping into the edges of my vision. More customers have walked through the door since I walked across the sales floor to help Sister Judgy, and their voices are a whirr of sound like a motor or a blender filled with nuts and bolts. I want to cover my ears and block them out.
“Let me get someone else,” the woman says, stepping away from the counter.
“I’m fine,” I bark out, though my voice sounds weak and breathy even to my own ears. Ears which suddenly feel like they are stuffed with cotton.
The woman blanches but takes another step anyway.
“You don’t need to get anyone,” I repeat, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”
I dig my fingers into the edge of the counter and blink to clear my vision, but my brain feels foggy. My knees wobble, and I don’t think I can stand up. Maybe I should let her get someone. Maybe I should get someone.
I open my mouth to say something, but my lips only tremble, unable to make a sound.
Someone cries out just before the room goes black.
Chapter 14
Jane-Ann
When I open my eyes, the lights are blinding. It feels like I’m sitting directly under the sun, and I lift a heavy arm to shield my face. My limbs feel disconnected from my body, and I stretch my fingers to try and regain normal sensation.
“Just take a few deep breaths for me.”
The deep voice startles me, and I flinch away, blinking rapidly to help my pupils adjust to the light.
“Sorry, Jane-Ann. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Dr. Garcia.”
Dr. Garcia. The name is unfamiliar. Not my usual doctor. Not my gynecologist.
“Where’s Dr. Johnson?” I ask, my throat dry and scratchy.
Something damp presses into my palm, and I close my fingers around a Styrofoam cup.
“Take a drink.”
As I sip from the straw, the room comes into focus.
I’m in a small, standard hospital room. One bed, one sink, a counter, and a diagram of the inner-ear the only décor. The man next to my bed is wearing a white coat with his name—Dr. Garcia—embroidered above the left breast pocket. He has salt-and-pepper hair with a matching beard and kind, crinkly brown eyes.
“Do you remember anything that happened?” he asks.
I take another long drink and think. I was at work. The woman and her husband were bothering me. A leather sofa. Slowly, the details come back to me, and I remember how unsteady I felt. Light-headed and dizzy.
The more I remember, the more labored my breathing becomes. The heart-rate monitor next to me begins to beep a little faster, and the doctor glances up at it before placing a hand on mine.
“You’re okay. Everything is fine.”
“I’m okay?” I ask, looking up at him beneath my brows. “What about…”
The baby. I can’t bring myself to say it. To consider the possibility.
“The baby is fine, too,” he says.
The relief that washes through me is immense and…surprising. It was my decision to keep the baby and not put it up for adoption, but still, I hadn’t realized how much I had come to care about it—well, him or her. For the first time since seeing the plus sign on the test, I realize I want this baby.
“You passed out in the middle of the store. Gave your co-workers quite a fright. An ambulance brought you here, and we just ran a few tests to make sure nothing was seriously amiss.”
“I passed out,” I say, part observation, part question. “Isn’t that pretty amiss?”
He shrugged and smiled. “You’re also pregnant. Not completely uncommon. Though, still concerning.”
“Is something wrong with the pregnancy?” Again, fear blooms in my chest and the heart-rate monitor proves it. I want to unplug it and give myself some peace and quiet.
He rests a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Not yet.”
I frown. That is not comforting.
He glances down at the chart in his other hand and continues. “Your blood pressure is high, your iron is low, and the swelling in your legs this early is all concerning to your gynecologist and me.”
“You talked to Dr. Johnson?” I ask.
“Yes. She is out of town and can’t be here, but she sent her recommendation.”
I raise my brows expectantly.
“Bed rest.” He lowers his chin, his eyes narrowed and stern. “Lots of it until we are more comfortable with your levels or the baby arrives.”
The next twenty weeks seem to yawn before me into an infinite chasm. It already felt like a long time, but with the possibility that I’ll be spending most of it stuck in a bed, it feels like decades, centuries.
“Isn’t there a medication I can take to help? I mean…how will I work?”
He briefly runs through a list of medications I’ll be taking to help correct some of my levels, but when it comes to my job, there is nothing he can do aside from remind me of what I stand to lose.
“I know it is an unforeseen complication, but you can’t be on your feet all day anymore. If you push your limits, it could harm the baby.”
I was still reeling from the news when Blakely arrived to take me home. Her face was white with worry, and she wrapped an arm around my waist to help me to her car.
“Apparently, I’m your emergency contact. Did you know that?” she asks, holding out half of a cheeseburger to me. She stopped at a drive-through for dinner on our way home. “You should eat something.”
Reluctantly, I take the burger from her and take a big bite. “I made you my emergency contact that time I had to go to the ER for what I thought was a broken ankle.”
“Well, thank God for that,” she says around a mouthful of meat. “When I got the call, I dropped everything and sped like a mad woman. Are you okay? You seem okay. Is the baby okay?”
I run through everything the doctor told me and bite my lip as I wait for her to understand the full implications. When she doesn’t, instead offering me assurances that the baby will be fine, I bring it up.
“I won’t be able to work,” I finally say. “I’ll just do what I should have done from the start and move in with my parents. They have been really supportive and will understand completely.”
Blakely turns to me, glancing between me and the road, her face screwed up in a mixture of confusion and disgust. “Excuse me? Why do you not want to live with me anymore?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to live with you,” I say quickly. “It’s that I can’t pay rent. I’m interrupting your life and being a freeloader. I don’t want to be a burden to—”
“Stop right there!” Blakely pulls into her parking space in front of her apartment and slams the car into park before pivoting to me and placing a hand on my knee. “You are not a burden to me, Jane-Ann. You are my best friend, and I told you I would be there for you during all of this. And I will be.”
I sigh, tears welling in my eyes. “You have been amazing, Blake. You have done more than enough, and—”
She interrupts me again with a wave of her hand. “And nothing. I love you, and I want you to stay with me. I’ve been paying rent on this place by myself for two years already. I can handle it for how many ever months it takes for you to get this baby safely into the world and find yourself a job. So, relax. You aren’t going anywhere. I forbid it.”
Tears are spilling over my cheeks, and I wipe them away, embarrassed by the show of emotion. Pregnancy hormones have made me into a softy.
Blakely laughs and rubs a tear track from my cheek. “Stop your blubbering and get inside, pregnant lady. You have a bed you need to rest in.”
I laugh and let her help me upstairs. As soon as we get inside, I let her lead me to my bed and decide to make myself cozy. I’m going to be spending a lot of time there.
Chapter 15
Jane-Ann
Three Months Later
The third trimester hit me like a semitruck. Head-on. Even being mostly sedentary, my hips and knees
ache, my bladder has become a fetus’ jungle gym, and I am either ravenously hungry or so full and bloated I can’t move.
I couldn’t just hang out in bed and not do anything but be a burden to Blakely. So I found some online job sites, set up profiles, and now spend my day helping people who are sometimes halfway across the world. I get paid to be a beta reader, which means I give my opinion after reading a book. The pay isn’t much—but at least I’m able to buy some things to prepare for the baby. I offered to give the money to Blakely, but she insisted I use it for baby stuff.
The hardest part for me about being pregnant and on bed rest—aside from the physical pain—is knowing that I’m eating Blakely’s food. My mom and dad have pitched in some money here and there to pay for things, but it isn’t enough. Not when I’m eating for me and a baby. Not having a regular paycheck is unbearable. Every time Blakely makes me dinner or offers me a snack, I think about the fact that I didn’t pay for a bit of it.
If I wasn’t more concerned about the baby growing at a healthy rate, I’d probably try to cut back a bit, but instead, I swear to myself that I’ll pay Blakely back for everything.
And right now, even though I spend all of my day resting, I’m not completely useless. I have legs. So, I decide to get off the couch and make dinner. When Blakely is home, she hardly lets me stand up, but she is still at work, so I have two hours to make a gourmet dinner for two.
I find thawed chicken breasts in the fridge, breadcrumbs in the pantry, and a refrigerator drawer full of fresh produce. Bending down to grab all of these things is the first hurdle I have to overcome, and by the time the ingredients are on the table, I’m panting. I sit down for a quick break.
Then, I lug myself to my feet again to grab a knife and the cutting board. I dice all of the veggies and set them aside. Then, I slice the chicken breasts in half. After another five-minute break, I make an egg wash and drench the chicken in it before coating them with the bed crumbs. Finally, I place the chicken on a pan with the veggies, which I’ve drizzled in olive oil, and put it all in the oven.
I’m in the middle of cracking eggs into the banana muffin batter when I hear Blakely’s key in the front door. Quickly—or as quickly as I can move with a twenty-pound beach ball hanging off my stomach—I lower myself into the kitchen chair and begin whisking the mixture together. When Blakely comes in, I don’t look up, trying to act like this is completely normal.
“What are you doing?”
“Hello. How was your day?” I ask, smiling.
Blakely pops her hip out, one eyebrow raised. “Did I miss something or have the rules of ‘bed rest’ changed?”
“I’m sitting down,” I argue, holding out an arm to gesture to the chair like a model on a game show would gesture to a new car.
Blakely pulls open the oven and peeks at the dinner. “This looks like a lot of work, J-A. And dessert, too?”
“Cinnamon banana muffins.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively.
She pulls the bowl out of my hands and begins dumping it in the pre-greased muffin pan. “You did not need to do all of this, Jane-Ann. You are a few weeks away from giving birth. You don’t want to push your luck now. Not when you are in the home stretch.”
I wave a hand away. “I took lots of breaks and sat down for ninety percent of the prep. Seriously, I’m fine.”
When she is finished filling the muffin tin, she pops it in the oven and then grabs the oven mitt from the counter and pulls the chicken and veggies out. After checking the chicken with the meat thermometer, she grabs two plates from the counter and begins dishing out the food.
“This was supposed to be my treat to you,” I say from my chair, knowing my small window of freedom is over. Blakely isn’t going to let me lift a finger for the rest of the night. What did I do to deserve such an over-protective, wonderful best friend?
“You cooked everything. The least I can do is serve it up,” she says, sliding the plates onto the table and sitting across from me. “How are you feeling?”
I take a bite of chicken and groan, both in annoyance and because the chicken is cooked perfectly. “I’m fine, worrywart.”
“I’m not talking about physically.” Blakely’s lips are stained a deep maroon that contrasts sharply with her pale skin.
It is only now that I realize how pale she has gotten. Sure, it’s only April, but April in Texas is like August anywhere else. Our winter is mild and Blakely keeps a healthy tan all year round. But after months of sitting inside with me, watching television and old movies and taking care of me constantly, she is lighter than I’ve ever seen her. I know how much she has sacrificed for me, but seeing a physical reminder of it really drives the point home.
I wave her away. “I’m fine. Physically, mentally…spiritually. Perfectly fine.”
She twists her lips to the side and tilts her head. “You are a terrible liar.”
I know this, and yet I still try.
“Come on,” she says, dropping her fork and directing all of her attention to me. “You’ve been bouncing off the walls the last few days, and I know you. When you’re stressed, you like to be busy. So, tell me what is on your mind. Is it because you are going to have a baby in less than a month?
My chest tightens at the questions. “Yes,” I admit, too exhausted from cooking dinner to evade her questions. “And no. It’s lots of things.”
She props her head up on one fist, her cheek smooshing around it, and curls her fingers in a gesture for me to hit her with it. “Come on. Tell Blakey your problems.”
I laugh, feeling the dark cloud that has been hanging over my head lighten ever so slightly. “My life is about to change, which is really scary. But it isn’t just me I have to worry about. Your life is going to change, too.”
“It is,” she agrees. “I’m about to become a kick-ass aunt.”
I smile before it fades back into lip-biting. “And be woken up by a newborn baby ten times a night. And have poopy diapers everywhere.”
“Not everywhere,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You got a diaper pail at the baby shower. They will stay in there, I’m sure.”
“Still,” I say, eyes wide. “It’s going to be a big change.”
Blakely reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “And I’m ready for it. And so are you.”
Tears blur my vision, and I look up at the ceiling to keep them at bay. Then, the next words burst out of me in a flurry before I can stop them.
“I’m also freaking out because I think maybe I should have found a way to contact Christian and tell him about the baby, but now it feels like it is too late, and I’m going to have to do this all alone.”
Blakely looks worried and opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, I continue.
“I know he made it pretty clear he wasn’t interested in anything beyond a one-night stand, but he also didn’t think I was going to get pregnant. Even though I think he’s kind of a jerk and a player, I also think he’s a decent enough person that he would want to know about his child should he have one. Royalty or not, he is going to be a dad, and he doesn’t even know. He deserves better than that. But I screwed it up, and now I don’t know what to do.”
Blakely’s pale face is flushed, and her fingers are drumming against the table. She looks like she wants to crawl out of her own skin.
“What is it?” I ask. “I know you were supportive of whatever decision I wanted to make, and I was in a place where I needed that, but now I want the truth. Do you think I should have told him?”
Blakely opens her mouth and then closes it. She cuts off another piece of chicken and chews it slowly, not making eye contact with me.
“You are freaking me out.” I stand up and move around the table to her, and when she doesn’t chastise me for standing up, I realize that whatever she is about to say is really bad. “Spill. Now.”
“I don’t want you to get mad at me,” she says finally, the words coming out in a half-sob.
I squeeze her shoulder and shake
my head. “You’ve let me live with you rent-free for months. I can’t get mad at you. It’s impossible.”
She purses her lips together and studies my face as if she is trying to see how serious I am about what I just said. Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets it all out. “I wrote Christian a letter.”
The admission falls between us like a rock hitting the water’s surface. It sinks and each ripple is a small wave of understanding, implications, questions. She wrote a letter to the prince. She told him about the baby. When did she send it?
“I wrote it in December, but didn’t send it until two months ago,” she says.
Apparently I asked my question out loud.
I nod, thinking. “Did he write back?”
She bites her lip, and I know the answer without her saying anything. The tangle of guilt that had been growing in my stomach suddenly loosens.
“Well, I guess I was right to think he didn’t want to know,” I say with a humorless laugh.
“He’s a prick.”
I nod in agreement and then turn to her with a stern finger. “Don’t think you are off the hook so easily. Why didn’t you tell me you thought I should contact him? You could have told me the truth and let me make my own decision.”
“Because I didn’t and don’t think you should contact him,” Blakely admits. “He has never had a serious relationship, and he is going to rule a small country. He is the quintessential workaholic husband with commitment issues. I don’t want you having to deal with someone like that.”
My shoulders slump forward as I sag a bit in my chair, exhausted from cooking and this conversation. My lower back hurts, and if I had any faith that I could lift myself in and out of the tub, I’d go take a hot bath right after this.
Blakely senses my frustration and continues. “I only sent him the letter because I thought you would regret it if you didn’t reach out to him. But I also knew that if you sent the letter yourself, you would stew about it for weeks and months waiting for his reply. And I didn’t know if he would respond. I didn’t want you or the baby under that kind of stress, so I did it for you.”
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