by Moss, Brooke
Oh, good Lord, I was going to hell. Where was Pastor Irm when I needed him?
The shock on Marisol’s face melted away, and as quickly as she’d appeared startled, she sank into a warm, pleasant smile. Her manicured hand went out towards Martha, who appeared to be as enamored with Marisol’s glamorous looks as much as her father was. “There she is. I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, uh…”
Her brown eyes darted in my direction. I mouthed the name “Martha,” then pretended to busy myself with the rolls. Good grief, Marisol didn’t even know her boyfriend’s kid’s name? I still remembered his stupid dog’s name, for heaven’s sake!
“Martha!” she finished with a glorious smile. Twenty bright white porcelain veneers were enough to cover her flub, and both Fletcher and Martha broke into sheepish grins. “You’re such a doll! Come on, let’s go get a smoothie, hmm?”
My stomach clenched as Fletcher took Marisol’s hand in his and laced his fingers with hers. His eyes were locked on her face like a tractor beam. I’d seen that look plenty of times. Men stumbled towards her, zombie-like, their eyes glassy and mouths slack. Apparently her powers were not lost on Martha, who was gazing up at Marisol’s glossy hair and ample curves with an open mouth.
A flash of jealousy rushed through me, and I bit the insides of my cheeks to stifle it. I had no right to feel that way. Martha was supposed to like Marisol. Even if it meant forgetting how well she and I had gotten along a few minutes before. It didn’t matter if Martha thought Marisol was infinitely more glamorous than I was. In a few months time, I was going to have a child of my own to impress.
So why did it feel like I’d swallowed a boulder?
“Lex? Are you in there?” Marisol snapped a manicured finger underneath my nose.
I looked up. “I, oh, yeah. Sorry. I was concentrating.”
Marisol blinked. “On the rolls?”
My cheeks warmed. “Yeah.”
“Well, then,” she said brightly. “Since you’re having so much fun with that, can I sneak away to get a treat with Fletcher and Martha?”
My eyes flicked to Fletcher’s face. His stare was locked on the side of Marisol’s face. Crap.
“Sure!” I squeaked. “Go ahead. I’ve got this covered.”
“Thanks, darlin’.” The threesome—looking like a happy, and frighteningly lovely, family—walked away. Just as Fletcher and Martha rounded the end of the table, my friend wheeled around on her four inch heel and flashed me the thumbs up sign.
Sighing, I went back to cutting the rolls, letting the crowd swallow the sight of her excitement up.
Well played, Marisol.
Chapter eleven
“Ma, you bought enough. Stop. Seriously.” I looked down at the bags hanging from my wrists and shook my head. My mother was nuts. For real.
She’d purchased five maternity shirts, and three pairs of maternity jeans for me. Surprisingly enough, they were cute, too. No circus tent frocks for me. But she’d also gotten the baby two Cabbage Patch Dolls. One boy and one girl. Dressed in matching overalls. With matching orange yarn hair.
It was a little much, and I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to sleep with those dolls in my house, but I was trying hard to make our relationship work. I’d heard through Candace that she’d asked Pastor Irm, and the entire congregation at the church, to pray for her wayward daughter and her bastard grandchild. When I’d confronted her, she’d cried and asked me to forgive her.
After much introspection, and a few bowls of ice cream that came right back up, I forgave my peculiar mother and accepted her shopping invitation. She didn’t know I secretly planned on leaving the pudgy-faced dolls in the trunk of my car. All she needed to know was that I knew she loved me, and I wanted us to get along. If it meant buying my unborn child creepy dolls with names like Angus and Petunia, then so be it.
“Oh, shush.” My mom patted her hair helmet as she padded along side me. “I want to spoil my daughter. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No. I just don’t want you to spend any more money on me.” I gave her a sideways glance. “But I do love spending time with you.”
She tittered and adjusted the gold cross hanging around her neck. “I enjoy it, too, dear.”
“Listen, I know this is hard for you.” I caught a whiff of soft pretzels as we passed a snack kiosk in the center of the mall, and my stomach rolled. “But I’m glad you’re getting into the grandma thing. It’s not so bad, is it?”
My mother’s face lit up. “Goodness, no! I’m having a ball picking out baby clothes and blankets. And as you can see, I’ve already got her doll collection started.”
“Her doll collection? So you think it’s a girl?” One of my hands automatically covered my potbelly affectionately. I was really starting to show now. My stomach was starting to stretch the bottoms of all of my best vintage rock tee shirts. But I didn’t mind. I spent most of my alone time talking to my baby and singing it classic Aerosmith songs.
My mom’s smile widened. “I don’t know what it is. Sometimes I think it’s a boy, other times I think it’s a girl. I just hope it’s healthy and happy. You deserve a healthy child and a happy life.”
Unexpected tears tickled the backs of my eyes, and I blinked a few times to keep from choking up in the middle of the mall. The last thing I needed to do was cry again. My hormones were so unpredictable, I’d actually cried while picking out a new lip balm at the pharmacy the other day.
“Aw, Ma. Thanks.” I mumbled, my throat tight.
She looped her arm through mine. “You know that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, Lexie. A good job, a cute family, a lovely home.” She paused for a beat. Then added, “A nice man to take care of you.”
We passed a store whose window filled with lingerie in sizes I’d long since outgrown. “I don’t need a man to take care of me.”
She patted my hand. “Every woman wants a man to take care of her, sweetie.”
“Well, sure,” I agreed reluctantly. “Single, straight women do usually want a man to love them and care about them. But most smart women don’t necessarily sit around praying for Prince Charming to show up and pay the bills. I’ve got a good job. My own business. I don’t need a sugar daddy.”
She stared at me through her thick pink-tinted glasses. “But you want someone to love you. And love the baby, right?”
I hesitated, and we passed through a gaggle of giggling teenage girls gathered around a cell phone. As soon as they were out of earshot, I replied, “Yes. Of course I do, but—”
“And the baby’s father is out of the picture completely?” she pressed.
The ever-present nausea in my stomach quickly dissipated into irritation. I was so sick of this question. Really and truly. I’d only told one person who the father was, and that was the father himself, and it hadn’t ended well at all. “Yes. I’ve told you that. He’s gone. Over. The end. Not in my life whatsoever.”
She paused right outside a shoe store. “Oh good Lord in heaven, you didn’t use a sperm donor and a turkey baster, did you?”
“Ma!” I looked around to make sure nobody heard her. “Geez. No. What if I had?”
She pressed a hand to her ample bosom, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I don’t know. Let’s just deal with the issue at hand, shall we?”
“What issue?” I stumbled behind her as she started walking again. “There’s no issue.”
“Well, honey, of course there’s an issue.” The needlepoint bunny rabbits along the bottom hem of the shirt danced atop her round bottom as she guided me towards a custom knife store. “You’re pregnant and unmarried. I mean, I know, I know. You’ve got your little catering thing going on, and you’ve got the whole, you know, girl power thing happening. But you admitted it yourself. You want a man in your life.”
I rubbed my eyes. I was suddenly tired. “Mom—”
“That’s why I brought you here!” She gestured to a store where the door was decorated with faux grey
blocks and silver suits of armor. The ornate black lettering above the door read Round Table Cutlery, and the clerks inside were dressed in Renaissance garb. It was the type of store I never would have gone into on my own.
Come to think of it, it wasn’t exactly my mother’s type of store, either.
“You brought me to a knife store?” I said flatly. “Why are you shopping for knives? And what does that have to do with me?”
Mom bounced in place. “Norman goes to church with me, which you’d know if you ever came to services anymore.”
My blood chilled. “Mom, you didn’t.”
“Shush,” she scolded. “He’s a wonderful man. He owns his own business. He’s forty three, never been married, and absolutely loves kids.”
“No, Ma. No. I’m not doing this.” I tried to take a step backwards, but her grip was strong. We shuffled through the doorway, where a stout man in a court jester costume was rocking back and forth on his heels with an excited grin.
My mom’s voice dropped to an unnecessarily loud whisper. “Listen to me, Lexie. This is your chance. Norman is a good man. He’s agreed to take you out, and he doesn’t even care that you’re…” Her eyes flicked down to my stomach. “You know. Pregnant with another man’s baby.”
If the court jester, and all of his employees, couldn’t hear what she was saying, they were deaf as doorknobs. I noticed large pit marks stained the shiny fabric underneath Norman’s arms.
“He agreed to take me out?”
The moment I spoke, my mother’s smile dropped. Norman’s face turned red, and his eyes darted to the floor. Great. Now I’d upset the guy wearing a three-pointed satin hat with bells.
“What the hell are you thinking?” I hissed at my mother, squirming out of her grip.
“I’m just trying to help.” She laughed nervously, and glanced at Norman. “She’s hormonal. What are you gonna do?”
Thrusting the bags into her hands, I backed away. “This is humiliating.”
“Lexie, dear, I didn’t mean—”
I turned and walked out of the knife store, leaving my bewildered mother and her court jester behind. The soles of my shoes squeaked on the tiled floor as I hauled butt to the nearest exit. The hot prick of tears stung the back of my eyes. My mother just tried to pimp me out to a creepy man who wore a jester costume while managing his knife store.
Humiliation soaked my skin like sweat, and the cold fall air outside chilled me as I fumbled to unlock the door on my car. In the months since waking up with Nate in my bed, and an empty red wine bottle on the floor nearby, I’d suffered through more humiliation than one woman should have to endure within a year’s time. I’d officially hit my humiliation cap for the year.
We shouldn’t have done it. It had been a colossal mistake, and Nate and I both knew it. When I’d woken up and gasped that next morning, Nate sat bolt upright in my bed and jumped three feet away from me, toppling off the side of my bed. We’d gotten dressed with our backs to each other, mumbling promises to each other like I’ll never tell anyone this happened; this meant nothing; and I can’t believe I did this.
I’d announced—repeatedly—that I never wanted Nate to darken my doorstep ever again. An order he’d enthusiastically agreed to. And we’d vehemently avoided each other’s eyes as we searched my apartment for Nate’s missing left shoe.
It was a one time mistake, I’d reminded myself for the rest of that day, and for several more afterward. A terrible lapse in judgment that resulted directly from too much alcohol and too many Lifetime made-for-TV movies.
And I’d meant it. I didn’t want Nate. I hadn’t wanted him for a long time. I just wanted somebody, and at that particular blip in time, Nate fit the bill. But I wasn’t clinging to any sort of lost love reunited fantasy. In fact, the thought of being with Nate again made me feel like I was getting a migraine. I never intended to so much as speak to him again.
Until two months later.
Choking back a sob, I rested my head on the steering wheel of my car. How in the world did I think I was going to get through an entire pregnancy without telling everyone who the father was? My friends were ready to break up with me, and my mother was bribing men to “consider” marrying me. All I really wanted was for everyone to accept my immaculate conception story, and for my obstetrician to propose marriage to me.
I watched as a tear rolled off of the end of my nose, drop on my knee, and soak into my jeans. I’d reached a new low. Someone needed to write a country song about my life.
Tap, tap, tap.
Gasping, I jerked my head up so hard, it thumped into the headrest. There, standing outside my window in a battered leather biker jacket and jeans with holes in the knees, was Fletcher.
I bit the insides of my cheeks. Couldn’t he, for once, look terrible?
I wiped my eyes on the end of my sleeve. Then forced a smile as I rolled my window down. “Fancy meeting you here, Dr. Baby.”
“Likewise, Bump.” His smile was wide and genuine, and shot a bolt of heat right to my core. “Are you stalking me now?”
Snorting, I glanced into the mirror to make sure my tears hadn’t dragged any mascara down my face. “You got me.”
“Hey.” He knelt down so we were eye level. “You’re upset. What’s wrong?”
I forced a laugh. “Me? No. I’m fine.”
He reached through the open window and put a hand on my shoulder. His cerulean eyes softened. “Nice try. Come on. I took a psychology class in college. Try me.”
I sighed, and let a few more tears fall. What did I care about looking pretty and pulled together in front of him for? He was dating Marisol, the woman who could shave her head and wear a burlap sack and still look like a lingerie model. Who cares if Fletcher made my pulse race? He was taken. TAKEN.
“It’s my mom. She…” I pressed my lips together and collected myself before finishing. “She ambushed me. She just tried to set me up with the owner of Roundtable Cutlery.”
Recognition registered on Fletcher’s whiskered face. “That medieval looking place? I went in there a few weeks ago.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Got a big knife collection, Fletch?”
When he chuckled, the sound had a very ‘dice in a cup’ quality. It was lovely.
“Nah,” he said. “I inherited my grandmother’s silver collection. I was having it polished and sharpened. They did a good job.” Pausing, his nostrils flared. “Wait. She set you up with the guy in the jester costume? The short one?”
“That’s him.” I rolled my eyes and suppressed a laugh of my own. “Seriously. He was sweating through his costume. It was horrible.”
Fletcher’s shoulders shook. “Satin’s not a real breathable fabric, is it?”
“Nope.” I picked at a loose piece of leather on my steering wheel. “Anyway, his name is Norman, and he’s a small business owner who will apparently forgive me for having another man’s baby. This is who my mother would like to see me marry. Preferably before my due date.”
Fletcher’s eyes flashed. “She doesn’t want you to be a single mother.”
“Not exactly,” I said, my eyes filling again. “She’d marry me off to the postman if he were willing to tolerate another man’s child.”
“Tolerate?” He winced.
“It’s okay.” I felt a reassuring flutter deep within my abdomen, and my hands went to my belly. “I know I’m capable of caring for my child alone. I’ve never doubted that. Not for a second. I just wish everyone else believed in me, too.”
The sound of a rumbling engine passed by while Fletcher scratched his chin thoughtfully. The quickening in my stomach subsided, and I suddenly felt very heavy and tired. Maybe, like my mother, Fletcher thought a baby needed to have a father, too.
Maybe he thought the way as Candace and Marisol did, like I owed it to everyone to tell them who the father was. To hold Nate responsible.
It seemed I would never make everyone happy.
Until Fletcher cleared his throat. “Well,” he said
, squeezing my shoulder. His touch lingered for just a beat or two longer than what was appropriate. “For what it’s worth, I believe in you.”
I turned my head and smiled at Fletcher. My first genuine smile of the afternoon. That was good enough for now.
Chapter Twelve
A few weeks after the mall debacle with my mother, the aroma of sautéed diver scallops filled my nose, and I braced myself for the rush of nausea that was sure to follow. I was getting so sick of wanting to ralph every time I smelled food. Or soap. Or an animal of some sort. Or, well, anything. Most women grew out of this phase of pregnancy at the end of their first trimester. Here I was, almost halfway through, and I still couldn’t get through a day without barfing.
“Are you sick to your stomach?” Candace asked, coming around the kitchen island. Her blonde hair was pulled into a French twist, and she looked as fresh and pretty as ever, even though Marisol and I had her schlepping appetizers at a charity event.
“Actually, no.” I shifted the scallops in the bubbling butter and smiled. My stomach remained calm. “I think I might be getting past the nausea now. The other night I ate a whole plate of food and didn’t have to run to the garbage can once.”
“That’s great.” She popped a grape tomato into her mouth. “So since you’re consuming food again, that means Brian and I can invite you over for homemade eggrolls. We’ve been missing you.”
I closed my eyes as my stomach wavered. Just the tiniest bit. “Okay. Soon. I promise. But don’t mention eggrolls again.”
“Right. Got it.” She patted my arm, and I went back to basting the scallops. “Oh, the joys of pregnancy. Just wait until your libido goes nuts.”
I gave her a sideways glance. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, man.” She plucked a stuffed mushroom off one of the crystal platters and popped it in her mouth. I watched her chew and swallow, then she licked her fingers before explaining. “When I was about five, maybe six months along, I became insatiable,” she said.
