Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  Scrambling to justify not taking the damn test, I find my reasons shredding by the second, turning into threads that wave on the wind, mocking me.

  There is no good reason.

  There’s just... me.

  When I get this way–and I don’t have words for it, just a feeling–I call Amanda or, now, Declan, to help me sort through the ephemeral emotional state called I Don’t Know.

  What’s wrong? I Don’t Know.

  Are you okay? I Don’t Know.

  Can I do something to help? I Don’t Know.

  It takes awhile, but with enough talking and doing, I Don’t Know can be broken down from the frozen chunk of ice that traps so many important pieces into a moving machinery of self, the ebb and flow of feelings eventually released from gridlock.

  But that means I have to ask for help.

  And right now, I want to be alone.

  Hopeful, I let myself touch my belly, the warmth from my hand radiating up under my ribs for a split second of comfort, of expectation. Is someone with me? Am I not as alone as I think?

  “This is ridiculous,” I mumble. “I’ll wait until I’m five days late. It’s too early now. I’d just waste the tests.” Squaring my shoulders, I sit at my desk and grab a stack of papers, half reading them.

  And two minutes later, I’m one hundred percent not reading them.

  “Fine. I’ll pee on the damn stick,” I say to no one, everyone, the baby, the non-baby. “And it’ll say not pregnant, and then I’ll knock on Declan’s door and cry and ruin my day. Happy now?”

  I have no idea who I am talking to, but whoever it is, I’m not being very nice.

  Fishing the tests out of my bag, I storm over to my bathroom, hike up my skirt, pull down my panties, and just pee. Closing off the part of me that cares is impossible at this point.

  Please please please please please.

  I set the test on the counter, right myself, wash my hands, and gently close the door. My desk chair feels extra hard against my spine as I settle back in and start to sort through papers, organizing them into meaningless subgroups. Two minutes. For the next two minutes, I will just work and check emails, answer quick requests and–

  “Hey, there.” Declan violates our policy, opens my door, and walks up to me, planting a peck on my cheek. “Glad you’re here,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks behind me.

  “Where are you going?”

  A drill starts up, pneumatic and loud, through the open office door.

  He thumbs toward it. “That. Some minor renovations in my office.” He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You seem tired.”

  “You know. PMS.”

  “Right. So, um...” He leans against the edge of my desk. “Nothing?”

  “Not yet.”

  A tiny pain in my breastbone sprouts as he smiles. “Then maybe...?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A hand on my shoulder, then he moves to go to the bathroom. In a panic, I look at the clock. Not quite two minutes.

  “I just need to use your bathroom, honey, while they repair the tile in mine,” he says before I can stop him, the bathroom door closing with the sound of all the answers to all the big questions in the universe.

  My pulse lives under my tongue, crouched there, coiled and ready.

  A toilet flushes. Water runs.

  And then Declan doesn’t come out.

  Can your skin explode from the heart pushing blood through the body too fast? If so, that’s how I am going to die.

  The time display on my computer screen moves forward.

  Two minutes.

  My bathroom door opens.

  “Shannon?” My name is a question, a calling, a magic spell, a lifeline. He’s holding the test, a bewildered look turning my insides into taffy, pulled long and hard with purpose.

  “That’s, um, I– ”

  “You’re pregnant.”

  “I’m what?”

  Improbable tears shine in his green eyes. “You’re pregnant.” He holds the stick out to me. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “I just took the test! I was waiting to find out and you went into the bathroom before the two minutes were up and oh my God–what did you just say?”

  “You’re pregnant.”

  “I’m pregnant?”

  “You are.”

  In the space between rushing heartbeats, I find a stillness, a calm that takes over my body, the air, the sunlight, those green eyes watching me with so much love that shines only for me.

  No.

  Not anymore.

  For me and one other.

  He seems hesitant, leaving space between us, offering me the first move. I take it, in his arms, his freshly shaved cheek against mine, the scent of soap and laughter filling me. Vibrations of excitement come from him in the way he grips me, our mutual elation so strong.

  “We did it,” he whispers. “We’re having a baby.” He drops to his knees and presses his cheek against my belly, hands on my ass, riding up to the small of my back. “Our baby is in there.”

  “Our baby is smaller than a grain of rice,” I say, the unreality growing stronger.

  “But he’s there.”

  “He?”

  “He. She. They,” he says, laughing, the rumble of his words shooting through me.

  Fiddling with the test, I stare at the words. PREGNANT, it says.

  “I need to take it again to make sure,” I tell him, pulling away.

  “Is there a high rate of false positives?”

  “No. I’m just that insecure.”

  “Don’t. Don’t be. You’re young, you’re healthy...” His hand cups my belly. “...and now you’re pregnant. With my baby. I put a baby in you.”

  “You put a baby in me.”

  “I really liked putting a baby in you.”

  Finally, we kiss. It’s more intense, more gravid, the tender touch of tongues a kind of passion that is new. We’re not two people anymore, struggling to find the threads that connect us. We have a conduit, one our bodies made, one my body needs to carry the rest of the way on the journey to birth.

  Love is infinite. You can use it to create more.

  How do I know?

  We just did.

  Declan breaks the kiss first. “We have to tell everyone,” he says, grinning like a fool.

  “You just want to make sure Andrew knows you beat him.”

  “What? No.”

  I give him a look.

  “No. Really.” He halts. “Unless you don’t want to tell people.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Some people like to wait.”

  A dark cloud rushes in. I don’t want to think about that.

  “No,” I say firmly. “Let’s tell them. But,” I add, pulling him back to me by his lapels, “can we keep it a secret between us just for a little longer?”

  “We can do whatever you want. Whatever you need. Shannon, I’m here. I’m here with you for the rest of my life.” He touches my belly again. “Forever.”

  Chapter 9

  Eight weeks later

  Shannon

  * * *

  Every waking moment of my existence feels like I live in a post-apocalyptic dystopian world called Nausealand District 40. In this society, everyone is deeply sick to their stomach, and the battle between good and evil hinges on the ability to consume just enough calories to maintain the life force that keeps the universe going:

  The Placenta Quadrant.

  In a battle to save the human race, pregnant women must face the ultimate challenge: eat enough micronutrients to propagate while vomiting out the body’s perceived poisons until every blood vessel in their face explodes.

  “Represent,” I mutter after my morning barf. At six weeks on the dot, the morning puke kicked in. I’m at ten weeks now. You try throwing up every morning, like clockwork. My Fitbit tells me I’m burning about thirty-three calories every time I retch up my morning bile. Small
comfort to know the system is fed data by crowdsourcing, which means other women are in the same boat, face in the toilet the second they’re conscious.

  Welcome to pregnancy.

  My belly’s still flat. Well–as flat as it’s ever been. My face looks like I’m ready to star as a mutant in the next Avengers movie. And a disturbing trend has emerged in my dietary habits:

  I can only eat orange food.

  “Shannon?” Dec calls out from the other side of the bathroom door. “What can I do?”

  “Keep your breath away from me! I can’t believe you made me throw up!”

  Oh. Right. Another, even worse trend:

  I cannot stand the smell, taste, sound, feel, or sight of coffee.

  “I’m so sorry. I normally chew some gum before I kiss you, but–”

  “The whole apartment smells like it! Did you bathe in it?”

  “I went to work,” he says in that infuriatingly rational tone of his that makes me want to poke his eyes out with a coffee spoon. “Had a single macchiato. Drove home. Tried to kiss you, but you turned into a–”

  “I can’t believe you did that. Are you sure you didn’t brew any in the house?”

  “I’m sure. All the coffeemakers are downstairs in storage, right where you made me take them four weeks ago. Along with the espresso cups, all coffee-scented candles, the coffee bean art your sister made, and the box of sugar cubes you said reminded you of coffee.”

  “And you didn’t bring any home in a to-go cup?”

  “Shannon. I swear. Can I come in?”

  “Yes.” I start to cry. “This is horrible.”

  “I know.”

  “How the hell would you know, Declan? You’ve never been pregnant. Or do you mean it’s horrible for you because I’m a terrible garbage person who isn’t being nice to you? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I am so sorry.” My shoulders start to shake with sobs, but the movement makes me queasy again. Immobilizing myself, I try to cry with as little movement as possible.

  “That’s not at all what I meant. I was expressing sympathy.”

  A heavy, cement-like feeling pulls my stomach down into my womb, where it twists into a pretzel. A nauseating pretzel. From there, the sensation of paresthesia takes over every pore, until I’m not just nauseated.

  I am nausea personified.

  “I hate this!” I sob. “It’s been an entire month! Mom said she went through seven months of this. What if I’m like her? What if it’s genetic? I feel like someone’s crushing me between two giant slabs of stone after making me eat tainted fish!” As those last two words come out of my throat, my gut spasms. Even talking about being sick makes me sick.

  Dec pulls me to him, not too tight, because that makes me sick, too. “I’m sorry. Carol said hers ended right at week thirteen, remember? She woke up one morning and it was like a light switch had been flipped.”

  “That’s still three more weeks. And I can’t even come to the office! I’ve been working from home for a month as COO of a new company and I’m a failure,” I moan, the air in my throat expanding and contracting like a womb in labor, my emotions fighting to figure out what to do next.

  “You’re fine. Everyone understands.”

  “I don’t want them to understand! I want to work in my own office!”

  “Well, honey, that’s hard given the circumstances. We’re directly above the microroasting room downstairs. The whole point of locating HQ there was to be with the coffee.”

  “Whose stupid idea was that?”

  He goes silent.

  Oh. Right.

  It was mine.

  “Is there anything you can eat that helps?”

  “No. I’ve tried everything. You know that.” I reach into his jacket pocket, knowing I’ll find a wrapped piece of ginger hard candy. “This is it,” I say, popping it in my mouth. The cloying taste is getting old fast, but it helps.

  Barely.

  “Carrots still okay?”

  “Only raw.”

  “Sweet potatoes? You said the midwife told you they’re full of micronutrients that help.”

  “Yes. I can choke down one a day, with a little cinnamon.”

  “And peaches?”

  “Yes, but it’s hard to find ripe ones.”

  “What about frozen? Or canned?”

  I gag. He moves back an inch. I haven’t thrown up on him yet, but the guy is quick on his feet.

  “We’ll stick to fresh. I’ll have Dave order some to be sent regularly until this clears up. Anything else?”

  “Cheddar cheese. But it has to be orange. I seem to be able to eat only orange food.”

  “At least it’s healthy.”

  “You try eating four things a day that are all the same color. I’ve turned into a sick episode of a preschooler’s television show on repeat.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Quit saying that.”

  “But I am. I’m fine. Nothing’s changed for me. I eat whatever I want, get up and go to bed when I want, do work when I want. But here you are, throwing up and asleep by five every night, dragging.”

  I yawn.

  Dec walks out of the bathroom after kissing the top of my head. I stare into the mirror. What was the word Dave used that day at work, a month ago? The day I found out I was pregnant?

  Oh, yeah. Peaked. I look peaked.

  Three more weeks of this is going to suck.

  This first trimester thing is bullshit. Bullshit. My body has this incredible superpower. I am building an organ. An organ that did not exist until now. No, I’m not regenerating my liver or cutting off a foot and growing a new one. But while gestating our baby, my body has to create the placenta from nothing but pieces of me and what I eat.

  That’s pretty amazing.

  From what I gather from reading every book on pregnancy I can find (and avoiding the worst of the online website articles), my body is rejecting all these other foods–including coffee–because it perceives some chemical in them as a threat to the baby. I’m not sure I believe it, but what I believe doesn’t matter these days.

  Biology is all that counts.

  And biology has decided to play a sick joke on me, the co-owner of an emerging national coffee chain, and make me hate the drink with the passion of a thousand suns.

  And one stunning gag reflex.

  You know what is even worse than all this? I am showing no signs of actually being pregnant. I look like a strung-out junkie most days, when in fact I am twenty-five percent through with the miracle of making a baby with my own body. Instead of getting attention and praise and ooohs and aaaahs, I’m ooohing and aaaahing into the toilet.

  So not the same.

  I’m not showing yet, I can’t feel the baby move, so as far as I know, this is all a whole lot of suffering for nothing.

  Sure, sure, in a few weeks it’ll all change, but when you spend the day feeling like an extra from The Walking Dead minus the makeup, it gets old. Fast.

  I shuffle my way through a shower, sipping some warm water from the spray, and make my way into the bedroom to put on whatever loose pants and baggy shirt I can find. If I can’t work at the office, might as well take advantage of being at home.

  Dec walks back into the bedroom, car keys and phone in hand, and finds me toweling my hair. I look up as he comes in for a kiss.

  He is so hot.

  I don’t mean attractive hot. Of course he is. I mean that I am married to a man who is the full package. Trim and muscular, wearing a tailored coat that is unbuttoned, his shirt flat against his torso, tucked in. The belt bisects his body, the dark navy slacks ending with cuffs perfectly aligned with Italian leather shoes in a shade of brown only nature can make. He’s wearing no aftershave, the clean scent of soap hard enough for me to handle. We’ve barely touched for a month, because I’m so brittle.

  I hate this.

  “Dec,” I say, voice shaking as he turns away to leave.

  Stopping in the doorway, he turns around, ever attentive. “
Yes?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  “I’m a mess. I won’t have sex with you. I eat nothing that isn’t orange.”

  “Oh, Shannon.”

  “And you’re–” I wave at him. “You’re all that.”

  He looks down at himself. “All what?”

  “You’re this hot billionaire who wears fine Italian suits and smells like sex and everything in the world that is perfect and sophisticated and I smell like ginger and frumpy.”

  “Is that the name of a new cartoon? Ginger and Frumpy? Are we going to memorize the jingle after our toddler makes us watch it a thousand times?” he asks softly, smiling as he sits next to me on the bed, taking my hand, being all patient and perfect.

  I married the perfect guy.

  Which means I should be perfect to match, right?

  But I can’t do it.

  I drop, flat on my back, my unrestrained breasts doing their best to rappel down my ribs. “Stop. You know what I mean. I’m a mess and I don’t deserve you.”

  “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve what you’re doing for me, sweetie.”

  “Millions of women have babies every year. They don’t fall apart like this.”

  “I’m sure some of them do.”

  “I should be stronger than this.”

  “You’re plenty strong enough.”

  “Quit invalidating my pity party!”

  “Sorry. But I’m not joining in.”

  “If you loved me, you would.”

  “If I loved you, I’d negate your self-worth?”

  “Yes!”

  “Pregnancy has definitely changed you, Shannon.”

  “No kidding.”

  Bzzzzz.

  Our doorbell rings just as Declan gives me major side eye. “Expecting a delivery?”

  My phone buzzes. I look. “It’s Amanda.”

  The relief in his face is comical. “Oh! Great! She can cheer you up.”

  “Don’t look so happy.”

  “I’m always happy to see Amanda.”

  I let that one slide as he goes out to the front door and I hear the unmistakable sound of Amanda and a jingling dog collar in my living room.

  “Did you bring Spritzy?” I shout.

  “I did! And ice cream.”