Own the Eights Maybe Baby

by Krista Sandor

  Navigating the headset?

  She frowned. “Are you saying that our strength is that we put the headset on our heads?”

  “Ding, ding, ding! Good job, good job! You did a good job!” Stu sang out, switching to crooning vagabond, which was quite odd when the guy wasn’t dressed as a kindly hobo armed with a tambourine.

  She shared a worried look with Jordan.

  “Just to be clear. You’re saying that Georgie and I used the VR headset as prescribed,” Jordan questioned with a crease between his brows.

  Kudos to the man for trying to make it sound better.

  “Yes,” Lanny and Stu replied in unison, each donning a grin that would have earned them bonus points in a pageant.

  All she wanted to do was Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-it out of there and melt into the ground because here’s what it boiled down to. Their strength was putting a hunk of plastic on their heads. It didn’t get much more bottom of the barrel than that.

  “And sorry about breaking into song back there. It’s my go-to in challenging situations,” Stu replied with a weak grin.

  And the punches kept coming! Not only had they failed, but Stu had also labeled them challenging!

  Lenny steepled his hands and rested his chin on his fingertips. “Do either of you have siblings?”

  “No, Georgie and I are each an only child,” Jordan answered.

  “And how often do you interact with small children?” Stu queried.

  “Here and there. I own a bookshop, and we have a story time,” she answered.

  Lenny’s expression brightened. “That’s great! How do you structure it?”

  She could feel her beauty queen expression coming on. “Well, I don’t exactly structure anything. I have a high school student who volunteers and another employee who leads them. I can recommend books for children of any age, but I work more with the teens, suggesting classics and pertinent series to encourage a lifelong love of reading.”

  There! That wasn’t a half-bad answer.

  Lizzy, Jane, and Hermione, her trusty trifecta, nodded their fictional heads. Still, Georgie nearly fell out of her chair when imaginary digital numbers appeared above each member of the trifecta, noting how many times she’d suggested each of their books.

  Wowza! That insane VR experience had seeped into her fictional fantasy friend world.

  “And you, Jordan, you own a fitness establishment. Do you have any programs for young children?” Stu continued as Jordan’s knee bounced beneath the table.

  If her tell was a Texas-sized smile stretched across her face, then his was the nervous kid knee bop.

  “No, like Georgie, when it comes to kids, I mostly work with teenagers.”

  “He runs an after-school program for them,” she added, gently resting her hand on his leg, that could have given a jackhammer a run for the money. Thankfully, her touch was enough to put the kibosh on his under-the-table tap dance.

  “I see,” Stu said with a furrowed brow.

  “I think this calls for the FBI,” Lenny added with a solemn nod.

  Her jaw dropped. This debrief sure went to hell in a handbasket quickly!

  “You’re concerned that we’ll be such awful parents that you want to get law enforcement involved? The simulation glitched, and the baby gushed poo like a burst fire hydrant. Maybe we should get a do-over before you take that step,” she pleaded.

  Jordan raised his hand. “I second a do-over. And, for the record, Georgie and I grocery shop at least once a week, and we’ve never seen a surge of anything like that come out of a baby.”

  Lenny sat back. “Yes, the system glitched, but when parenting, one must be ready for life’s little glitches.”

  “Especially, when babies and children are involved, a situation can go south in an instant, and you need to be ready to react,” Stu added.

  “But does it require notifying the Federal Bureau of Investigation?” Jordan pressed.

  Lenny and Stu chuckled, and she and her husband stared blankly at the men.

  What was so funny?

  “Not that FBI. A facilitated baby intervention,” Stu explained.

  She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Between Jordan rattling on about the baby NFL and now a baby FBI, she’d need to start writing down all these acronyms.

  “What’s a facilitated baby intervention?” she asked as her heart rate slowed.

  “Think of it as a Battle of the Births remedial activity,” Stu answered.

  And her heart rate shot back up. “So, as of right now, we’re not even on pre-parenting grade level?”

  “Parenting can’t be graded, Georgie. It’s more of a spectrum of skills,” Lenny said, drawing a bell curve into the air with his hand.

  She stared at the invisible line. “Where would we be on that spectrum?”

  The man pointed into the air at a spot decidedly below and far, far from the top of the curve.

  “Yikes!” Jordan exclaimed. “We’re not even close to the bell?”

  She shook her head. They couldn’t be that terrible.

  “We’ve tried to figure out what skills we need. I googled parenting books and got two hundred and sixty-eight million different results.”

  “And I searched the phrase ‘how to be a good parent’ and got six hundred and fifteen million results,” Jordan added.

  She threw up her hands. “Where do you even start? We’d read part of one book only to have another tell you to do the opposite.”

  Seriously! What did people do?

  “The thing is, Georgie and I want to be the best parents we can for our child,” Jordan said softly, and his words went right to her heart.

  She pressed her hand to her abdomen. She wanted that, too.

  Jordan and his father had butted heads after his mom passed, and she’d loathed her mother for parading her around at pageant after pageant for a good chunk of her youth. Sure, they were in a better place with their parents now. Jordan and his dad were doing great, while she and her mom were getting there.

  Well, getting there might be pushing it. She was, of course, still trying to decide how and when she wanted to spill the beans to her mother about the little bean growing in her belly.

  But that unease churning inside wasn’t her craving a little pineapple salsa, and it wasn’t even her uncertainty on when to share the baby news with her mom. No, what had her chest tightening and her mouth growing dry was that she didn’t want their alien blueberry peanut to view them as heavy-handed or insensitive.

  There had to be a book or a course or some parent voodoo out there that could teach them how to keep their child alive and make sure they didn’t become mega-asshat parents.

  The answer had to be there. Except, there was a decent chance it was buried in the internet soup of over sixty gazillion child-rearing results.

  Lenny’s features softened. “There is a lot of information out there. That’s why we’ll implement an FBI. Stu and I will curate a hands-on learning opportunity that will ease you into parenting and also have you interacting with real babies. We’ll also put together a list of narrowed down parenting resources so you can educate yourselves on the nuts and bolts of caring for an infant.”

  “And we can center the FBI activity around your places of business. A gym and a bookshop are great venues for young children—if structured safely,” Stu finished.

  She nodded. Okay, this is what they needed. Some direction. Some guidance.

  Lenny opened a folder and slid out a sheet of paper. “Take this. It’s a go-bag checklist. We know that you’re only at the end of your first trimester, but it’s never too soon to have your hospital bag packed and ready.”

  “Have you chosen where you’re going to deliver?” Stu asked.

  If she weren’t pregnant, she’d do a cartwheel because she knew the answer to this question!

  “Ding, ding, ding! Good job, good job! I did a good job! I know the hospital!” she sang out.

  Lenny and Stu cocked their he
ads to the side while Jordan gave her what-are-you-doing-superfreak eyes.

  Another note to self: under pressure, only Stu is allowed to break out into song.

  In the blink of an eye, she channeled a composed Jane Eyre. “We’ll be having our baby at Rose Medical Center,” she answered, doing her best not to look insane and really glad she’d read the pamphlet Joyless Joyce had given her with the hospital info.

  “Rose is also Georgie’s favorite color,” Jordan added with the hint of a smirk.

  “Pink is your favorite color?” Lenny asked.

  Oh no! He did not just equate the color rose to pink.

  “Rose isn’t pink. It’s rose. The color between red and magenta,” she answered, biting back a smirk of her own.

  The color rose had quite an impact on their wedding, and it appeared to be playing a part in this phase of their lives as well.

  “You picked a hospital because it was your favorite color?” Lenny asked, and boom, they were back to looking like inept expectant parents.

  “No, no, not at all. Rose Medical Center is where my obstetrician has hospital privileges,” she finished, crossing her ankles in a demur little move to appear—again—not insane.

  “We’ll make sure to add an FBI activity that incorporates Rose Medical Center,” Lenny said, taking out a notepad from his pocket and jotting down the information.

  Jordan leaned forward. “Can’t you guys tell us exactly what we need to know—what we need to do? We’re up for the challenge. Our whole relationship is basically built on challenges.”

  The parenting experts watched them closely.

  “And love,” she blurted, not wanting Lenny and Stu think they were a pair of lunatics who only wanted a baby as a challenge.

  “Yes, absolutely! Tons of love, but also a decent amount of challenges,” Jordan said, amending his statement but still managing to step in it.

  Lenny chuckled. “You two will be great parents. But every parent is different, and every child is different. You’ll have to figure out what works for your family.”

  Family.

  There it was. A family unit. Their own tribe. A party of three.

  “You can retrieve Faby now. We’ve kept you long enough,” Lenny said, cutting into her thoughts.

  She glanced at the dolls, who all looked like Faby.

  “We’ll be in touch in the next week or so with a facilitated baby intervention activity,” Stu added as he and Lenny stood and pushed in their chairs.

  She and Jordan followed suit, coming to their feet, but neither of them moved. She glanced at her husband, who nodded contemplatively at the spread of plastic infants.

  He didn’t know which one was Faby either!

  “Your infant care simulation doll has a band around its ankle with its name,” Stu said over his shoulder as the men left the room.

  She turned to Jordan, and they stared at each other until the door closed behind the parenting experts, then each released a relieved breath.

  “Which one is ours?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

  “I don’t know,” she answered as he gathered her into his arms.

  “What do you think?” he asked, resting his chin on her head.

  She leaned into him. “I think I could do with a bowl of tortilla chips and an endless supply of pineapple salsa.”

  He chuckled and rubbed soothing circles between her shoulder blades. “No, about today, Ms. Pineapple Machine.”

  She gave a slight shrug. “When you’re the worst, there’s nowhere to go but up. And, at least for today, nobody’s reporting us to the real FBI.”

  He gazed down at her with a sweet boyish grin. “I love you, messy bun girl.”

  This man. Her Emperor of Asshattery and reigning Sovereign of Scat. They’d figure this out. Jordan wasn’t entirely wrong when he’d said their relationship had been built on challenges. She’d challenged his Marks Perfect Ten Mindset philosophy, and he’d challenged her Own the Eights attitude. And look at what happened. They found love and were living the life they’d each dreamed of—with a twist. If the perfect ten and the dependable eight could figure out a way to make it work in the game of love, they had to have a chance at not completely screwing up in their brave new world of pregnancy and parenting.

  She held onto this moment, warm and safe in her husband’s arms, when her stomach growled as if a ravenous bear had taken up residence in her abdomen.

  Jordan’s eyes went wide. “Come on! Let’s grab our fake baby, and then we can get you a tub of pineapple salsa.”

  She scanned the bands on the doll’s ankles and found their Faby, while her husband retrieved the fake baby’s diaper bag. They left the creepy nursery and gave the simulation area one last look before exiting the building. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a black limo screeched to a stop in front of them, and the breath caught in her throat.

  It couldn’t be.

  “What time is it in India?” she whispered.

  “What does that matter?” Jordan whispered back.

  She stared at the car. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think it’s your mom?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  It couldn’t be…could it?

  She hadn’t checked her phone in hours. Could they have texted, and she’d missed it? What if they’d learned of the pregnancy from someone else? What if her mother was here to take her shopping for maternity rompers? Did those even exist?

  Her thoughts whirled as question after question fueled a frenzied mind tornado until the tinted window lowered.

  Georgie’s heart sprang into her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut like a naughty child and waited for her mother’s flowery voice to call out. She braced herself for a Lorraine Vanderdinkle tongue-lashing but was met with a husky German accent instead.

  “Georgiana! Jordan!” called their former wedding planner from the driver’s seat.

  “Cornelia, I didn’t know you drove this thing,” Georgie said—because saying “thank God you’re not my mother” seemed somewhat tactless.

  “I don’t. But when I saw you enter the warehouse with a doll, I put Hans on spy duty.”

  “Aren’t you with clients?” Jordan asked, looking equally relieved.

  “We left them with the dildo guy. They’ll be fine,” Cornelia said with a wave of her hand.

  “You two look wonderful! How was Fiji?” the kind Hans asked.

  Cornelia whipped off her dark glasses. “Hans! How can you ask about Fiji? Georgiana, are you pregnant?”

  Cornelia Lieblingsschatz did not beat around the bush.

  “Yes, I am. What tipped you off?” she answered.

  Cornelia’s gaze dropped to Faby. “I had a hunch there was some baby business near the Denver Wedding Underground.”

  She glanced at the baby doll in her arms. “Are you thinking of expanding and adding parent training to the Denver Wedding Frau empire?”

  Cornelia and Hans looked at each other, then broke out into mad giggles.

  Cornelia gasped. “We wouldn’t touch parenting prep with a ten-foot pole. Who’s running your classes? The Music Men or Natural Birth Nadine? Those are Denver’s hottest pre-baby planners.”

  “Lenny and Stu, the music men,” Jordan answered.

  “You’re lucky,” Cornelia replied.

  “What do you mean by that?” Georgie asked.

  “A few years back, Hans and I almost worked with an expectant couple who wanted to get married, but they were already with Nadine.”

  Georgie frowned. “You didn’t help plan a couple’s wedding because they were expecting?”

  “Of course, we plan weddings for expectant clients all the time. Hans and I don’t discriminate. We’re very modern in our thinking,” Cornelia replied.

  “Well, then what was wrong with the Natural Nadine couple?” Jordan pressed.

  Cornelia shuddered. “Natural Birth Nadine doesn’t allow her clients to shave or use deodorant for the duration of their pregnancy. She insists on a compl
ete caveman and cavewoman experience. The smell is atrocious.”

  Hans grimaced. “We tried working with the couple, but the poor dildo guy fainted from the odor.”

  Now, there’s something you don’t hear every day.

  “Okay, we’ll be sure to steer clear of any Nadine,” Jordan replied.

  “Your families must be so happy,” Hans said, shifting gears.

  “Yes, they are. My dad can’t wait to become a grandfather,” Jordan answered.

  “And your mother? I imagine she and Howard are over the moon with joy,” Cornelia pressed.

  Georgie shifted Faby. “Yeah…well…I’m sure they will be.”

  The frau pegged her with her sharp wedding planner gaze. “You haven’t told them?”

  “They’re out of the country at a spiritual retreat in India,” she replied like a teen making a half-assed excuse after getting caught breaking curfew.

  “Really?” Cornelia said with an amused grin. “Looks like you have me to thank for that.”

  Georgie chuckled. “She takes her psychic gifts seriously.”

  “You should tell them, Georgie,” Hans added gently.

  “But not while holding that creepy doll,” Cornelia answered when a phone resting in the car’s center console pinged.

  Hans glanced at the cell. “It’s the dildo guy. We need to get back. Congratulations, you two!”

  Cornelia lowered her sunglasses. “Tell your mother soon, Georgiana.”

  “Will do!” she replied with her beauty queen smile stretched across her face, then crossed her fingers behind her back like a disobedient child.

  10

  Georgie

  “Georgiana Jensen-Marks, why haven’t you told your mother yet?”

  Georgie leaned forward and cradled her head in her hands. “I figured Becca would have mentioned that to you.”

  Georgie peeked between her fingers at Irene, who scowled at her over video chat.

  “One,” her friend said, raising her index finger. “My sister is surprisingly hard to connect with these days.”

  Irene wasn’t wrong.

  While Becca managed the bookstore, she’d also started her last semester of college this month. But when she wasn’t in the shop, she was damn hard to get ahold of. She’d text or call back, eventually, but she’d definitely been preoccupied for the last few months or so.