Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  “Is it orange?” I drag myself up and shuffle into the living room to find Spritzy on the big leather sofa, chin on my favorite toss pillow, eyes already closed.

  “Make yourself at home,” I mutter.

  “You need an intervention.”

  “I’m growing a baby, not getting shitfaced every night.”

  “It’s hard to tell the difference. Shannon, are you sure you don’t need to see your midwife? Or the OB in her practice?”

  Alarm washes over Declan’s normally stoic face. “What? Is this–is this the kind of symptom that requires medical attention?”

  “Define symptom,” I growl. “It’s just morning sickness.”

  “You’re definitely experiencing personality changes,” Amanda chirps, looking all fresh and happy and not nauseated.

  “Or maybe I’m just so sick, I can cut through all the bullshit in the world and call it like it is.”

  Panic fills Dec’s eyes as Amanda looks at him, catching the unshielded emotion. “I’ve got this,” she tells him, patting his shoulder.

  “You sure?”

  “I just gave you an out, big guy. Go for it.”

  The only time I’ve seen Dec move that fast indoors is around my mother.

  “You didn’t drink coffee this morning, did you?” I interrogate her, sniffing.

  “I did, but I brushed my teeth before coming here.”

  She passes the sniff test.

  “And you didn’t bring any gross food, right?”

  “We’re testing orange sherbet today, on your request.”

  “Request?”

  “You asked me to come over this morning. Remember?”

  “I did?”

  “It’s that bad, huh? Forgetting everything?”

  “Take your stomach, give it food poisoning, put it in a blender with glitter, and then pour it into your eyes.”

  “I’m never having kids.”

  “Right.”

  Reaching in and pulling out a small plastic food container, Amanda peels off the top. I look in.

  Cheeto-marshmallow treats.

  “Ew! You did not!”

  “I did, too,” she retorts in a schoolmarm tone. “They are orange.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I noticed you only eat orange food lately.”

  “When I can keep it down.” I shove the container away. “Ew.”

  “Try one.”

  “What? No! The baby won’t let me eat junk food.”

  “Have you tried?”

  I eye her suspiciously. “What’s in there? Did you crush prenatal vitamins and sneak them in?”

  “Have you managed to keep them down yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no, but that’s a damn good idea.”

  “Amanda!”

  “Shannon. I want to help. My Cheeto-marshmallow treats are their own kind of magic. Whenever I am at my worst, they always make me feel better.”

  I carefully sniff the air.

  No nausea.

  Gingerly, I pull one out of the bowl. I raise it to my lips. I press it, my tongue poking out between my lips.

  “You look like Tyler when he was little and picky.”

  “Well, we’re related, so that makes sense.”

  “One bite.”

  “Fine.”

  The crunch is satisfying, the salty-sweet taste helping to quell my nausea as I chew. Better than ginger, superior to saltines and soda water, this crazy treat of Amanda’s is... working!

  “You are my new best friend.”

  “I thought I was your old best friend.”

  “You’re both. Get me some sparkling water and I’ll make you my best friend for life.”

  “But I thought I was already– ” I hug her so hard, she can’t breathe.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything.” I have no idea why this disgusting treat makes me feel so much better, but it does.

  And then divine inspiration strikes.

  “Remember those over-the-top drinks our competitor started rolling out?”

  “The milkshakes with crazy themes?”

  “Yeah. Do I have any ice cream in my freezer?”

  She looks, digging out a pint, holding it aloft. “You do!”

  “Wait!” I say, looking at the orange sherbet she brought. “Hold on. That is vanilla ice cream. Let’s stick with the orange theme.”

  She puts the vanilla away. “What are you thinking?”

  “What if we make a Cheeto-cino?”

  “A what?”

  “A Cheeto-cino! A Cheeto-marshmallow shake.”

  “With... coffee in it?”

  I shudder. “God, no. I have standards.”

  “Right. Of course.” Amanda clears her throat, tapping her fingernail on the sherbet carton. “Until five minutes ago, you couldn’t touch anything except a handful of foods. Now you want to make a milkshake filled with Cheetos?”

  “Doesn’t it sound good?” For the first time in forever, my stomach feels happy at the thought of eating.

  “It does.”

  “Look, this could be a signature product at Grind It Fresh! We could get the millennials.”

  “We. Are. The. Millennials.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  She brightens up. “Add avocado and you might have a winner there.”

  “Avocado is so 2017. No way.” I start pawing through the cabinets to find the blender.

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am. Cheetos, orange sherbet, marshmallow cream.”

  A long pause ensues. She grins. “Then let’s get cracking!”

  “This is why you’re my bestie.”

  “No, it’s not. But someone has to protect you and hold your hair when you start barfing.”

  * * *

  Declan

  * * *

  I’m at this dive bar down the street from the Westside Center for the Arts, where my ex-chauffeur and bodyguard, Gerald, likes to play pool. It’s the kind of place I’d never set foot in if it weren’t for the strange friendship we’ve developed, but at a time like this, it’s a lifesaver.

  “So you’re basically a bachelor who can’t sleep around,” he says, taking his turn on stripes.

  “Right. She works from home, and by the time I get back, she’s fallen asleep in bed with a plate of half-eaten orange food on the nightstand.”

  “Poor Shannon.”

  “I know.” My turn. I get the seven in the right corner pocket.

  “I can’t imagine Suzanne acting like that.”

  “Until a month ago, I couldn’t fathom Shannon like this, either. I can’t even brew coffee in our apartment.”

  “She can’t make you stop drinking coffee,” Andrew says, returning from the bar with two pints of something dark that will help me unwind. I haven’t mentioned it to Shannon, but for the last four weeks, I’ve been drinking more. Not a lot, and nothing that even touches danger territory. I’m lonely.

  There. I said it.

  I’m lonely, and a beer or two every night while doing work, the television on while I half listen, feels like a little company.

  “No. But she’s banned it from our place,” I tell my brother as Gerald takes his shot.

  And misses.

  “Banned? Who’s the man here?” Andrew’s cockier than usual today, after closing a nine-figure deal for a new property in Singapore.

  “Don’t try to conflate being an asshole with being a man.”

  “It’s not reasonable for her to put limits on you like that, Dec.”

  “It is when she’s growing my baby. I will survive without coffee in my own home for a few months. Poor Shannon throws up at the smell of it. This is how long-term relationships work. You care about the other person and put their needs first.”

  “I know that!”

  “Then act like it.”

  Gerald watches us, calm and cool, then closes his eyes and laughs. “Babies chang
e everything.”

  “How would you know?”

  “It’s a general proposition. Not basing anything on experience. But I will say, you two deciding to start a family has Suzanne and me talking.”

  “A little Gerald? I can’t imagine. Would he come out bald, wearing an earpiece?”

  “You’re half right,” Gerald cracks. He looks at me. “What did you think pregnancy would be like?”

  “I didn’t think it would be like this. I feel like she’s Sleeping Beauty and I’m not allowed to kiss her awake.”

  “Especially after drinking coffee,” Andrew adds.

  “No kidding. She made me get rid of the coffee-scented candles. The unlit ones.”

  Both guys mutter indistinct sounds of sympathy.

  “They say they’re only sick for the first trimester.”

  “That’s three more weeks, minimum. I’m doing everything I can to make her feel better, but it’s a really awful feeling to watch her suffer and have no way to alleviate her pain.”

  “If you think this is bad, wait until the birth,” Gerald says, eyes narrow as he studies me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re feeling helpless now, when she’s got an upset stomach and goes to bed early because of exhaustion? How are you going to handle an eight-pound baby coming out of her after hours of grueling labor?”

  Oh, shit.

  “That’s going to suck,” Andrew says, joking drained out of his voice. “Don’t they have painkillers for that?”

  “Shannon wants to try natural childbirth.”

  “I know quite a bit about that,” Andrew says dryly. “I pretended to be a dad for that class with Amanda. Remember?”

  “You did that so you could hit on her.”

  “Did you know perineal massage with olive oil can prevent episiotomies?”Andrew says.

  “Now you sound like your mother-in-law,” I inform him. Pam is an actuary. She does math for a living. This also means she’s a repository of obscure facts. Basically, Andrew’s wife’s mother is the female version of Cliff Clavin from Cheers.

  “You’re right. I do. But you and Shannon should definitely take that childbirth class at the hospital.”

  “The one where you told me the teacher made you draw vulvas using colored pudding?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would I want to sit through that? You mocked it!”

  “Why would you mock that?” Gerald asks, genuinely piqued. “That’s art.”

  “It was–never mind,” Andrew grouses. Never make fun of art in front of a sculptor. “Anyhow, the natural birth thing is very cool, even if it is hairy.”

  “Hairy?”

  “You’ll see.” Andrew gives me a mysterious grin. “Bring popcorn for the movie.”

  “When do you take childbirth classes?” Gerald asks.

  “Before the baby’s born, ideally,” Andrew replies.

  “I meant, how long into the pregnancy?” Gerald’s dry tone makes it clear his patience is thin.

  “I have no idea,” I confess. “Shannon knows.”

  While Andrew racks the balls, Gerald gives me an inquiring look. “Why does Shannon know and you don’t?”

  “Because she’s the one who reads all the baby books.”

  “Is this by agreement?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why aren’t you reading them?”

  “I...” I have no answer for that.

  “Is there some rule that says only the woman reads the books?”

  “Not a rule, no. It’s just–it’s her body.”

  “You don’t want to know every detail about your woman’s body?” Andrew asks.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why not read the books?”

  “I’ll ask Dave to get them loaded into my audiobook app,” I say, nodding. “Good point, Gerald.”

  Andrew snickers. “Good point, Gerald,” he mimics. “Jesus, Dec, did someone really have to tell you to read the baby books? Or did you decide you’re going to turn into Dad suddenly?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You went caveman. Full caveman. Assuming Shannon would read it all and you’d defer any need to pull your own weight.”

  “You’re way overreaching here, little bro.”

  “Am I?”

  I’m hurt. I can’t let him see it, but I am.

  He’s also right.

  That hurts more.

  “Look, unlike you, I didn’t have a multi-national corporation handed to me. I’m building one from the ground up at the same time we’re trying to start a family. Shannon’s not even out of the first trimester. It’s not that I planned to dump all the research off on her. It’s just a sequencing issue.”

  When someone hits a nerve, you come back with a spear to the heart.

  “You’re deflecting because you know I’m right,” he replies, not taking the bait.

  Damn it.

  “You are right.”

  That stops him in his tracks.

  “You can be right and a pompous ass, too. It’s not either/or. It can be both/and.”

  “You are both an insufferable pain in the ass and an egomaniac,” he says.

  “See?” I flash him a grin. “Now you’re getting it.” I take my turn. Scratch ball. “And the comparison to Dad was a cheap shot.”

  “I know. Sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

  “No one does.”

  “Is that why Terry’s never married? Doesn’t have kids?”

  “Because you attack him with cheap shots?” I sink the five ball in the left side pocket.

  “Ha ha. No. The Dad thing.”

  “What’s ‘the Dad thing’?”

  “Dad wasn’t the most warm and cuddly father.” Andrew’s words come out as a joke, but we’re dead serious.

  “Mom could have taken an iron robot, put it in a bespoke suit and cufflinks, and we wouldn’t have known the difference.”

  “Right. So how will we know how to be good fathers?”

  My throat tightens. “Parenting is intuitive. No one has to teach it to you. It’s like walking–babies figure it out.”

  “Sure, but they have role models. They watch older humans and imitate. That’s how parenting works, too.” Andrew shrugs. “I guess.”

  “Then if there are models, are there counter-models? Anti-models? I want to be the opposite of Dad when it comes to raising kids. This isn’t abstract anymore. It’s real.”

  “And you’ve got seven months to figure it out,” Andrew adds. “Long enough to do your research, short enough to make your balls crawl into your throat.”

  “Speaking of balls–eight ball in the right corner pocket.”

  I point.

  I shoot.

  I score.

  Chapter 10

  Twelve weeks pregnant

  Shannon

  * * *

  If Declan and I go longer than a month without visiting Mom and Dad for dinner, Mom turns into the Demogorgon and starts to invade our lives through portals known only to her. Therefore, we prophylactically agree to come to my parents’ house in Mendon.

  It’s fun, mostly. Okay, sort of.

  Fine. We tolerate it only because we get to hang out with my father, Carol, the kids, and sometimes Amy.

  I thought that finally being pregnant would help. That Mom would back off, be happy, chill out a little and mellow.

  But I’m wondering if pregnancy gives you a little-known form of amnesia. Maybe placenta-related dementia? Because I seem to have forgotten what my mother is like.

  “We need to start planning your baby shower,” Mom declares as Dad and Carol do the dishes, Jeffrey delivering the serving plates from the large table where we all just ate dinner. Well, the rest of them ate. I picked at a sweet potato and popped Cheetos in my mouth when I could. Come on, week thirteen... I’m six days away.

  Please let me be like Carol. Please. The last time I begged God this hard to be like my sister was in sixth gra
de, when I wanted a rack like hers.

  God gave me one.

  Plus so much more.

  Mom whips a pen out of her hair and magically conjures a note pad with colored sticky notes all over it, as if Staples has some kind of witchy spell you can say to make office supplies appear out of thin air.

  I sprint for the bathroom.

  If there are any two words my mother can say to make me nauseated when I’m not even pregnant, it’s baby shower. Hell, anything shower. After the fiasco with our wedding, I can’t even fathom what’s coming.

  I find myself in the bathroom, stomach emptied, the cool porcelain familiar and almost pleasant, in an odd sort of way, against my hot cheek. I reach up to flush, and for whatever reason, the steady vibration of the water going down is an added relief.

  And then:

  Scritch scritch.

  I ignore him.

  Scritch scritch.

  It’s Chuckles.

  There’s no litter box in here–it’s in the other bathroom–so I don’t know why he’s trying to get in.

  “Chuckles?” Mom calls from the other room. “Where’s Chuckles! I need to see if we can get the baby bonnet and little kitty diaper on him. He’ll be so cute at the baby shower!”

  A little paw creeps under the opening at the door’s base.

  “Meow!”

  That’s the universal language for Get me the hell away from the crazy lady.

  With whatever energy I have left, I reach for the doorknob and grant him asylum. If we’ve learned anything living with my mom all these years, it’s that teamwork keeps us all sane.

  Chuckles gives me a stoic look but begins rubbing against my calves. I’m on the bath mat, the sour feeling doing the slow descent, settling back into the base of my belly. I just breathe, and eventually he purrs, a slow, steady hum that helps calm me more.

  Chuckles only purrs for Declan. I’m honored.

  And then it hits me.

  I’m carrying a part of Declan inside my body. Literally. Our child is part Declan, and he or she is growing inside me, fed by the organ that my blood has to build in this first trimester. The placenta is the nutrient center for this baby.

  Declan’s baby.

  Chuckles must sense it.

  A cold flush courses through me, the metaphysics of all of this too much, too fast, combined with my sick stomach and mother’s unveiling of An Event. When Marie Jacoby deigns herself organizer of An Event, watch out.