by Shayla Black
“I’m here,” I assure her. “What’s going on? Tell me and I’ll—”
“I’m pregnant.” Slowly, she uncurls her fist and shows me the home pregnancy test folded inside. A pink plus sits in the middle of the little window. “It’s the third one I’ve taken.”
When she glances over at her nightstand, I see two others sitting there. I rush over and grab them. One says the word PREGNANT in the middle of the stick. The other shows two thin lines in the viewing field.
Shock freezes me. If she said she was actually Minnie Mouse, I would have been less bowled over. How? When?
Carefully, I set the tests down. “We only started trying three days ago. Is there any chance Simon—”
“No. None.” She licks her lips. “I’m guessing this happened weeks ago, after we ditched the condoms. I’d been taking the pill less than a week, but I was so early in my cycle that I never thought this could happen.”
I blink, my thoughts racing. I wouldn’t have guessed that was more than marginally possible, either. Clearly, we were wrong. And I’m totally fine with that. Inside, I want to do a crazy-happy man dance. We’ll definitely still be together when this baby is born. I’ll have at least a few months with my son or daughter. We’ll bond as a family, and Harlow will see that I’ll be here as a husband and a father.
Everything would be fantastic—hell, perfect—if she looked remotely happy.
“Baby, isn’t this what you wanted?”
Slowly, she nods. “I just didn’t expect… I realized on Saturday that my period was late by a couple of days. I didn’t think much of it. The stress of everything that happened with Simon, all the stuff happening between us”—she shakes her head—“meeting Evan, focusing on your anxiety issues… There’s a lot going on. Plus, introducing and stopping the pill in the same month was probably messing up my system, right? So this morning, I borrowed your rental and grabbed a test at the drugstore, just in case. When it came out positive, I wondered if it was wrong. It had to be. I hear they can be unreliable. So I ran out and grabbed two more—different brands—thinking that surely they would come out negative.”
But they hadn’t. She’s in shock. Since we wanted to conceive, I don’t know why she seems as if she’s not processing this development with a huge smile and a celebratory whoop.
“I’m happy as hell they didn’t.” I risk reaching out to her and gripping her shoulders because she doesn’t look as if she should be alone right now. “Harlow, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby.”
Finally, she meets my gaze. Tears well, and her eyes are green pools of worry. “I’m scared.”
“Of what? I’m here. We’re getting married in eleven days. Everything is perfect.”
She swallows and nods slowly, but I can tell her brain is racing ninety to nothing.
“There’s nothing else to worry about,” I assure her, stroking her arms up and down.
She eases away from me and wraps her arms around herself, looking down and away. Looking anywhere but at me. “I didn’t think I’d feel this way. I thought I was over…what happened. That I’d pushed all the bad memories aside. But…what if I lose the baby?”
I frown. I don’t want to discount her fears, but I don’t want her fretting over a mere possibility. Other things about her response disturb me, but I have to break this down one worry at a time. “You’re healthy. We can start doing all the right things to ensure you keep this baby. We’ll see a doctor ASAP and follow his advice to the last letter. There’s no reason to think you’ll miscarry. Is there?”
When Harlow blinks, tears roll down her cheeks unheeded. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
With a sob, she falls to her knees.
Shock rolls over me as I kneel next to her and take her in my arms. “You had a miscarriage?”
For long moments, she can’t answer me. Every soft cry and ragged pant that comes from her mouth and steals her breath stabs me in the heart. A thousand questions roll through my mind. I want to know. I need to know. But I wait until Harlow is ready to speak. She’s fragile, and instinct tells me she’d ten times rather run away than divulge something this painful. The fact that she’s reaching out for me, burying her face in my neck and holding me while she sobs, tells me she’s trying. It tells me that, at least on some level, she trusts me.
“Yes,” she finally manages to squeak out.
Dear god.
“How long ago?” Was it Simon’s baby? Or someone else’s?
“I had just turned nineteen when I found out. I didn’t mean to get pregnant…”
Her first year of college. Maxon pegged the time frame right. I hope like fuck some frat boy didn’t play games with her or seduce her and not give two shits when she had to deal with the consequences. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“It hurt.”
Physically? Emotionally? “I know.”
“You don’t know. You can’t! I wasn’t even sure how I felt about the baby and before I could make up my mind…”
Her pregnancy ended. Her someone to love unconditionally was gone.
“I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” It’s not much but I don’t know what else to give her now beyond my deepest apology and sincerity.
She dissolves into racking sobs. “I haven’t spoken a word of it since the day I lost the baby.”
Not once? She’s bottled it up all these years? Yes, that’s like Harlow. She shoved her pain down, which is why she still has unresolved feelings years later.
And she chose to tell me. That speaks volumes. So does the fact she’s already worrying about this baby. Harlow is older now, her situation more stable. We’re going to be fine. Great, even. She’ll be a fantastic mother. I’ll be the kind of father my dad was before he passed away. We’ll have a happy, wonderful life. If I can help her heal.
First, I have to calm her down. “Harlow, deep breath. This isn’t good for you or the baby. You have to relax for me.”
She nods…but the agony of her sadness lingers thick between us, echoing in every one of her cries. I try to soothe her, rub her, whisper to her and reassure her. Nothing.
Finally, I take the pregnancy test from her hand and kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be right back.”
Rushing around the house, I gather everything I think might help her. Within minutes, I dump an armful of stuff in my bedroom, then head back to hers, scoop her up, then lay her in the middle of the bed.
When I ease back, she grabs me tighter. “Don’t go.”
My heart stops. She never wants me to see her vulnerability, but now she’s not only allowing me to stay while she’s falling apart, she’s begging me to. “Oh, baby, I’m not leaving you, just setting up a few things to make you more comfortable.
With a nod, she releases me and sniffles, trying to stop her tears.
Dashing around the room, I light the citrus candles she found to help me. I downloaded an album of all the soothing atmospheric music from the video game she’s been playing and I meant to surprise her when the time was right. As much as I’d love her delight, I’d far rather see her calm now.
As the strains of the wind instruments fill the room, I put the happy yellow squeeze ball in her hand and read it. “Focus. Listen. Breathe.”
“What if I lose this baby, too?” she asks, eyes so full of worry and misery that my heart breaks.
I caress the hair from her face. I still have so many questions about her previous miscarriage. Now isn’t the time. “We’ll try again. We’ll see the doctor, find out if there’s anything else we should be doing. I’ll take care of you. I’ll stay here and hold your hand and tell you every single day how happy I am that you came into my life because I always knew I had the capacity to love…but I never knew I would fall for someone as perfect for me as you.”
A fresh wave of tears racks Harlow. “You’re ruining me.”
The words sound like an accusation, but I hear surrender in them. I feel it when she flings herself against me. With those words, she’s
admitting something. She’s opening doors between us.
“You ruined me the night we met,” I admit softly.
Harlow jerks back. “I’m not that girl. I won’t make an idiot of myself over a guy. I don’t cling.”
She’s so adamant, I immediately back down. “You’re never an idiot and you don’t cling. But if you lean on me for support when you need it every now and then, there’s nothing wrong with that, baby.”
Somehow my soothing tone seems to have the opposite effect. “I don’t commit, damn it.”
Because she’s afraid to.
I take her by the arms and pull her against me. “You didn’t in the past. I don’t know what happened with the guy who got you pregnant so young, and you don’t have to tell me until you’re ready. Maybe he left you when he found out. I don’t care about him. But I love you. You’re having my baby now. And I’m staying. Get it through your head that I’m not the guy from six years ago. I’m a man who understands responsibility and knows what he wants. I want you and our family, Harlow.” I slide one hand down to her still-flat belly. “Try to believe in me. In us.”
“I don’t know how,” she admits with a whimper, crying against my chest.
Her admission breaks my heart. She doesn’t trust much of anything or anyone—not her parents, not the institution of marriage, definitely not the father of her unborn baby because that ended badly once before. But she wants to trust me. She hasn’t run away. She’s beginning to tell me her truth and give me her pain. It’s more of her heart than I had yesterday.
“I’m patient. I’ll help you figure it out. I’ll show you that I’m not like your father. I’m not like the guy who knocked you up and ran out. We’re getting married, and I’m here.”
“For a year,” she mumbles, sounding as if that fact makes her miserable.
Telling her again that I love her or want to be with her forever won’t work. They’re words. For all I know, someone else told her those same things before he turned out to be an asshole of the highest order. Actions speak louder, and I’m going to have to find a silent way to shout my love.
“For at least a year. If I have my way, it will be forever.” When she opens her mouth to speak, I lay a finger over her lips. “Don’t say anything. Don’t argue. And don’t tell me I don’t know what I feel. Just let the words sink in. Repeat them to yourself a few times. Remind yourself what I said when you feel worried or alone. If you do it enough, maybe you’ll start believing that I mean what I say. If not, I’ll show you every day that I do. But one way or another, I’m going to convince you that we’re meant to be together.”
The following day, Cliff begins buzzing my phone at six a.m. I really have to introduce him to the concept of time zones and that mine is six hours behind his.
Groping around on my nightstand, I reach for my cell, gratified to see Harlow still slumbering beside me. After hoisting myself up and snagging my shorts from the ground, I exit the room and press the device to my ear. “Hi, Cliff. Why the fuck are you calling so early?”
“I know it’s morning.”
“The sun isn’t even up yet. I shouldn’t be, either.” I sigh. Cliff wouldn’t call without a reason, and I should get down to it instead of bitching at him. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the network. Mercedes Fleet keeps giving interviews…and she gave one that ran this morning with the ‘intimate’ details of your hookup.”
“The one that never happened? She’s making this shit up out of her head.”
“There are witnesses who said they saw you go into a bedroom with her…”
“I didn’t,” I swear. “I’ve never met her. I would remember doing her if I had, so those people have faulty memories or are being paid to remember incorrectly.”
“It’s your word against hers, man. And I have to tell you, right now it doesn’t look good.”
“I want a DNA test. That will prove I’m telling the truth.”
“That was going to be my next suggestion…if you’re really sure you never—”
“Ever. I did not touch her. I want this test ASAP so I can prove to the world that I’m being straight-up honest.”
“I understand. We’ll have our legal team reach out to her and start the negotiations to have a NIPP test conducted. She’s more than eight weeks pregnant if she conceived when she says she did. But it will still take a week to get the results once her blood is drawn. In the meantime, the network is nervous. Mr. Chickman—remember him, the president, COO, and executive producer—is seriously considering retracting the offer. I’ve spent all morning talking him out of it. You need to accept now.”
I can’t. Sure, Harlow and I have a plan in place to keep my anxiety in check and we’ll be following up with a doctor later this week, but I’m not ready to commit to the job. I’m still not certain I can even do it. Nothing like failing miserably on a really public stage… There’s no coming back from that.
“When I’m ready, Cliff. Not before.”
“Goddamn it, Noah. I worked for months to broker this deal and it’s about to dissolve under your feet like quicksand.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t meant to be.” Saying the words is like stabbing myself in the chest. I love football. I miss football. I’ll be gutted when July rolls around and training camps start in earnest without me. I fucking want this job. If it weren’t for my unpredictable loss of speech, I would have agreed to the deal weeks ago. It’s sweet and right up my alley. “I have a lot of things going on here.”
“Like what? What’s more important than this gig you practically begged me to secure for you?”
I feel like a shit to keep secrets, but I skip telling Cliff about my issues. He’s professional and really good at his job, but I don’t want a word of this breathed to the network, even inadvertently. They will worry. And there will be leaks. No thanks. I just want my problem solved so I can accept their offer and move on.
“Why are they in such a hurry to get this done? I don’t need to be in a booth for months.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you. This shit with the pregnant hookup has them worried about your image. The NFL has had its share of…let’s say less-than-sparkling domestic relationships in the press.”
I know that. It’s been a black eye on the league for a while. “Look, the thing that’s more important right now than saying yes to this job is the very thing that should make them feel better. I’m getting married.” I don’t mention the baby just now. It will make his head spin.
“What? That brunette you’ve been seen with on the island?”
“Harlow. Yes. We haven’t made any announcements because we don’t need the press crashing our wedding. It’s going to be small and quiet. We’ll send out a press release after the ceremony. I’ll text you details if you want to come to Maui for the event.”
“You’re important to me, Noah. I’ll be there. You know, I think this is a great strategy. She’s educated and beautiful and you look good together. She’ll be an asset and she should make the network feel better about your hound-dog ways. Smart move, buddy. Glad you thought of it.”
Cliff seems happier, so I don’t bother arguing with him about my reasons for marrying Harlow. He’s not a hearts-and-flowers sort of guy, so if I tell him I’m deeply, truly, madly in love, he’ll simply snort and tell me that it’s a great shtick.
“I try. Let the network know that we’ve spoken that and you’re satisfied I’m not going to be an image problem for them.”
“Will do. It would help if you reacted publicly to Ms. Fleet. She keeps running off her mouth to anyone who will give her press and you haven’t said anything beyond the brief statement you let me issue denying her claim.”
“I don’t think we should say anything more until the results of the DNA test come back. Why give her the attention she’s seeking with this stunt and encourage her to double down? After the prenatal paternity test results, I’ll have plenty to say.”
“All right.” Cliff sighs. “I hope li
ke hell that woman’s blood proves you right. I’ll see about asking Mr. Chickman to be patient. Can I tell him you’re getting married?”
I grit my teeth. “If you have to. If nothing else will save this deal. But I’d rather keep Harlow’s name out of the press for as long as possible, and I fear that if we give the head of a sports news organization exclusive information about my upcoming wedding, it will become a circus.”
“True. I’ll do what I can. Don’t forget to send me the details about your ceremony.”
“You got it. Hold Chickman off a little longer, and this will work out. I believe that.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Days rush by, and I’m finally able to wake up with one thought resounding through my head: It’s my wedding day.
The last week and a half has been a whirlwind of activity. My mother and Harlow’s sisters-in-law got together to design a wedding dress for my bride that I’m assured fits her style perfectly. My aunt dropped her life to make it in record time. I own a tux, but asked Trace and Harlow’s brothers to stand up with me, so they’ve rented theirs to match. She asked one of her sorority sisters, as well as Keeley and Britta to be her bridesmaids. It’s a sunny, breezy day. Not a cloud in the sky.
I wish I could say everything was perfect, but I’ve got some worries. Since discovering that she’s pregnant, Harlow’s mood has been day to day. She’s happy at times, and our visit to the doctor was full of smiles. She seems a little anxious about losing the baby still, especially late at night when she’s tired and asks herself if she should be slowing down. She can be moody first thing in the morning, which evens out as soon as we start journaling, doing yoga, and engaging in other visualization or breathing exercises. The best thing? She wants sex. All. The. Time. It’s so awesome that I’m more than happy to deal with whatever mood Harlow is in because she’s always putting a smile on my face.
But other issues in life still hang over my head. Mercedes Fleet came forward with a list of demands mere days after Harlow discovered she was pregnant. Through lawyers, I saw her ridiculous list of “must-haves.” I placated her until she finally agreed to that damn DNA test. Interesting that she dragged her feet… But yesterday, she finally gave a blood sample. Within a week, I’ll be off the hook. Harlow and I haven’t talked about the whole mess any more. I don’t know whether she believes I didn’t get that woman pregnant. The worry niggles at the back of my head.
