Which honestly, may be never. I don’t foresee Christian being a large part of my life or the life of my child…our child. Blakely and I have seriously discussed it twice, weighing the pros and cons of telling him, and both times I have decided to keep it to myself. And Blakely, despite noticeable reluctance, agrees with me. I’m not sure if this is because she thinks this issue is too personal for her to disagree or if she just doesn’t want to rock the boat so soon after we’ve moved in together.
Between doctor bills and baby supplies, my slight raise at the sofa store wasn’t going to cut it long-term. So, I decided to look for a cheaper one-bedroom. I’d share a room with the baby for the first six months, and then move my bed into the dining room, treating the living space as a kind of studio apartment, while the bedroom became a nursery. I could stay there long enough to save up money for a down payment on a starter home. It would be perfect.
Except, Blakely went with me to tour two different one-bedroom apartments within my price range and was so shocked by the conditions, which she called “unsuitable for human habitation,” that she immediately asked me to move in with her.
It felt like an invasion of her space. Even if it had just been me moving in, I would have hesitated. But I came as a package deal with a baby. Who would scream at all hours of the night, poop and pee and vomit indiscriminately, and have an early bedtime that would prohibit all loud noise. None of which jived with the lifestyle of a single twenty-something.
Yet, Blakely insisted.
“We’ll be like two women in a sitcom. Single, fun, and hot, but also raising a baby. There will be laughs, tears, hijinks. It will be incredible.”
At the time, I didn’t ask what “hijinks” she thought we would get into, and it remains my single reservation about my decision to move in with her. Sleeping with Christian was a hijinks, and that has obviously put me in quite a pickle. I am all hijinksed out.
Doubts and fears aside, my family and friends have rallied around me and my baby, surrounding us with so much love and understanding that it has given me a kind of armor against judgmental old hags who look at me like I’m working a pole rather than selling them a sofa.
I’m slightly out of breath when I reach the couple—another reminder that I need to keep up with the exercise routines Blakely created for me and my growing bump—but my smile never falters, even as I wipe my forehead.
“How can I help?”
She points to the leather loveseat her husband is sitting on. It’s one of the most expensive items in the store, and I’d love to snag the commission on it. I’d put it directly into savings like a boring, responsible adult, but still, it would be nice.
“Does this come in black?”
The woman’s hair is dark and tapered around her neck, but she still shakes her head like she’s trying to flip it over her shoulder.
I wonder if the cut is new and it’s a habit she hasn’t been able to break yet, or if it’s a nervous tick. Nervous because we both know the information about custom fabrics and alterations is in the binder at the counter where I was just standing before walking all the way across the showroom. I’ve had to walk her and her husband across the store several times to look at it, and they could have just come to me with the request to save me the walk.
Still, I smile.
“I’ll have to check,” I tell her. “Come with me, and I’ll show you the available fabric swatches.”
“Great,” she says, waving for her husband to follow.
He shakes his bald head, choosing to remain on the leather loveseat. I understand his desire.
I make small talk with the woman as I waddle back to the desk. I didn’t expect to already be so uncomfortable at the twenty-week mark. The idea of growing larger over the next twenty weeks makes me want to sit down and cry. But I’ll do that later.
For now, I’m putting on a pleasant show fit for the stage. Or politics. I am remaining unruffled even in the face of this woman’s obvious disdain and ridiculous requests. Perhaps, Christian was wrong about me. His family could learn to love me, and even if they didn’t, I could handle their dislike.
I push the thought down. Thinking about him is a waste of time. Not only do I not really know him; I’m not going to know him. There will be no further contact between us, which means spending my time obsessing over whether his parents would hate me or whether I could ever look the part of a royal is useless. Because it won’t ever matter.
Though, Blakely and I may have walked through my royal makeover once or twice. It would involve top-of-the-line skincare, weekly hair masks, and a completely new wardrobe. The people of Sigmaran wouldn’t know what hit them.
I sag against the counter when we get there, leaning on my elbows for a second while I try to catch my breath. I can’t remember the last time I was this out of shape. Maybe never?
“Are you okay, miss?” the woman asks.
Her thin eyebrows are creased with worry, and I’m surprised by the concern on her face. And after the way she has treated me all morning, I don’t want it.
“Fine,” I say, waving away her concern and grabbing the binder. I flip through the book page by page without seeing anything. I go to grab the next page and realize I’ve reached the end of the book.
I look up and the woman is staring at me and biting her lower lip. She glances around for one of my co-workers, wondering who she can ask for help.
I want to tell her that being pregnant with a bastard doesn’t at all hinder my ability to serve her and that she should take her antiquated views and shove them up her rear-end, but I swallow it all down and laugh.
“Feeling a little spacey today. Let’s try this again.”
The laminated pages are slippery beneath my sweaty fingers, and dark is creeping into the edges of my vision. More customers have walked through the door since I walked across the sales floor to help Sister Judgy, and their voices are a whirr of sound like a motor or a blender filled with nuts and bolts. I want to cover my ears and block them out.
“Let me get someone else,” the woman says, stepping away from the counter.
“I’m fine,” I bark out, though my voice sounds weak and breathy even to my own ears. Ears which suddenly feel like they are stuffed with cotton.
The woman blanches but takes another step anyway.
“You don’t need to get anyone,” I repeat, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”
I dig my fingers into the edge of the counter and blink to clear my vision, but my brain feels foggy. My knees wobble, and I don’t think I can stand up. Maybe I should let her get someone. Maybe I should get someone.
I open my mouth to say something, but my lips only tremble, unable to make a sound.
Someone cries out just before the room goes black.
Chapter 14
Jane-Ann
When I open my eyes, the lights are blinding. It feels like I’m sitting directly under the sun, and I lift a heavy arm to shield my face. My limbs feel disconnected from my body, and I stretch my fingers to try and regain normal sensation.
“Just take a few deep breaths for me.”
The deep voice startles me, and I flinch away, blinking rapidly to help my pupils adjust to the light.
“Sorry, Jane-Ann. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Dr. Garcia.”
Dr. Garcia. The name is unfamiliar. Not my usual doctor. Not my gynecologist.
“Where’s Dr. Johnson?” I ask, my throat dry and scratchy.
Something damp presses into my palm, and I close my fingers around a Styrofoam cup.
“Take a drink.”
As I sip from the straw, the room comes into focus.
I’m in a small, standard hospital room. One bed, one sink, a counter, and a diagram of the inner-ear the only décor. The man next to my bed is wearing a white coat with his name—Dr. Garcia—embroidered above the left breast pocket. He has salt-and-pepper hair with a matching beard and kind, crinkly brown eyes.
“Do you remember anything that happened?” he asks.
I take another long drink and think. I was at work. The woman and her husband were bothering me. A leather sofa. Slowly, the details come back to me, and I remember how unsteady I felt. Light-headed and dizzy.
The more I remember, the more labored my breathing becomes. The heart-rate monitor next to me begins to beep a little faster, and the doctor glances up at it before placing a hand on mine.
“You’re okay. Everything is fine.”
“I’m okay?” I ask, looking up at him beneath my brows. “What about…”
The baby. I can’t bring myself to say it. To consider the possibility.
“The baby is fine, too,” he says.
The relief that washes through me is immense and…surprising. It was my decision to keep the baby and not put it up for adoption, but still, I hadn’t realized how much I had come to care about it—well, him or her. For the first time since seeing the plus sign on the test, I realize I want this baby.
“You passed out in the middle of the store. Gave your co-workers quite a fright. An ambulance brought you here, and we just ran a few tests to make sure nothing was seriously amiss.”
“I passed out,” I say, part observation, part question. “Isn’t that pretty amiss?”
He shrugged and smiled. “You’re also pregnant. Not completely uncommon. Though, still concerning.”
“Is something wrong with the pregnancy?” Again, fear blooms in my chest and the heart-rate monitor proves it. I want to unplug it and give myself some peace and quiet.
He rests a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Not yet.”
I frown. That is not comforting.
He glances down at the chart in his other hand and continues. “Your blood pressure is high, your iron is low, and the swelling in your legs this early is all concerning to your gynecologist and me.”
“You talked to Dr. Johnson?” I ask.
“Yes. She is out of town and can’t be here, but she sent her recommendation.”
I raise my brows expectantly.
“Bed rest.” He lowers his chin, his eyes narrowed and stern. “Lots of it until we are more comfortable with your levels or the baby arrives.”
The next twenty weeks seem to yawn before me into an infinite chasm. It already felt like a long time, but with the possibility that I’ll be spending most of it stuck in a bed, it feels like decades, centuries.
“Isn’t there a medication I can take to help? I mean…how will I work?”
He briefly runs through a list of medications I’ll be taking to help correct some of my levels, but when it comes to my job, there is nothing he can do aside from remind me of what I stand to lose.
“I know it is an unforeseen complication, but you can’t be on your feet all day anymore. If you push your limits, it could harm the baby.”
I was still reeling from the news when Blakely arrived to take me home. Her face was white with worry, and she wrapped an arm around my waist to help me to her car.
“Apparently, I’m your emergency contact. Did you know that?” she asks, holding out half of a cheeseburger to me. She stopped at a drive-through for dinner on our way home. “You should eat something.”
Reluctantly, I take the burger from her and take a big bite. “I made you my emergency contact that time I had to go to the ER for what I thought was a broken ankle.”
“Well, thank God for that,” she says around a mouthful of meat. “When I got the call, I dropped everything and sped like a mad woman. Are you okay? You seem okay. Is the baby okay?”
I run through everything the doctor told me and bite my lip as I wait for her to understand the full implications. When she doesn’t, instead offering me assurances that the baby will be fine, I bring it up.
“I won’t be able to work,” I finally say. “I’ll just do what I should have done from the start and move in with my parents. They have been really supportive and will understand completely.”
Blakely turns to me, glancing between me and the road, her face screwed up in a mixture of confusion and disgust. “Excuse me? Why do you not want to live with me anymore?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to live with you,” I say quickly. “It’s that I can’t pay rent. I’m interrupting your life and being a freeloader. I don’t want to be a burden to—”
“Stop right there!” Blakely pulls into her parking space in front of her apartment and slams the car into park before pivoting to me and placing a hand on my knee. “You are not a burden to me, Jane-Ann. You are my best friend, and I told you I would be there for you during all of this. And I will be.”
I sigh, tears welling in my eyes. “You have been amazing, Blake. You have done more than enough, and—”
She interrupts me again with a wave of her hand. “And nothing. I love you, and I want you to stay with me. I’ve been paying rent on this place by myself for two years already. I can handle it for how many ever months it takes for you to get this baby safely into the world and find yourself a job. So, relax. You aren’t going anywhere. I forbid it.”
Tears are spilling over my cheeks, and I wipe them away, embarrassed by the show of emotion. Pregnancy hormones have made me into a softy.
Blakely laughs and rubs a tear track from my cheek. “Stop your blubbering and get inside, pregnant lady. You have a bed you need to rest in.”
I laugh and let her help me upstairs. As soon as we get inside, I let her lead me to my bed and decide to make myself cozy. I’m going to be spending a lot of time there.
Chapter 15
Jane-Ann
Three Months Later
The third trimester hit me like a semitruck. Head-on. Even being mostly sedentary, my hips and knees ache, my bladder has become a fetus’ jungle gym, and I am either ravenously hungry or so full and bloated I can’t move.
I couldn’t just hang out in bed and not do anything but be a burden to Blakely. So I found some online job sites, set up profiles, and now spend my day helping people who are sometimes halfway across the world. I get paid to be a beta reader, which means I give my opinion after reading a book. The pay isn’t much—but at least I’m able to buy some things to prepare for the baby. I offered to give the money to Blakely, but she insisted I use it for baby stuff.
The hardest part for me about being pregnant and on bed rest—aside from the physical pain—is knowing that I’m eating Blakely’s food. My mom and dad have pitched in some money here and there to pay for things, but it isn’t enough. Not when I’m eating for me and a baby. Not having a regular paycheck is unbearable. Every time Blakely makes me dinner or offers me a snack, I think about the fact that I didn’t pay for a bit of it.
If I wasn’t more concerned about the baby growing at a healthy rate, I’d probably try to cut back a bit, but instead, I swear to myself that I’ll pay Blakely back for everything.
And right now, even though I spend all of my day resting, I’m not completely useless. I have legs. So, I decide to get off the couch and make dinner. When Blakely is home, she hardly lets me stand up, but she is still at work, so I have two hours to make a gourmet dinner for two.
I find thawed chicken breasts in the fridge, breadcrumbs in the pantry, and a refrigerator drawer full of fresh produce. Bending down to grab all of these things is the first hurdle I have to overcome, and by the time the ingredients are on the table, I’m panting. I sit down for a quick break.
Then, I lug myself to my feet again to grab a knife and the cutting board. I dice all of the veggies and set them aside. Then, I slice the chicken breasts in half. After another five-minute break, I make an egg wash and drench the chicken in it before coating them with the bed crumbs. Finally, I place the chicken on a pan with the veggies, which I’ve drizzled in olive oil, and put it all in the oven.
I’m in the middle of cracking eggs into the banana muffin batter when I hear Blakely’s key in the front door. Quickly—or as quickly as I can move with a twenty-pound beach ball hanging off my stomach—I lower myself into the kitchen chair and begin whisking the mixtu
re together. When Blakely comes in, I don’t look up, trying to act like this is completely normal.
“What are you doing?”
“Hello. How was your day?” I ask, smiling.
Blakely pops her hip out, one eyebrow raised. “Did I miss something or have the rules of ‘bed rest’ changed?”
“I’m sitting down,” I argue, holding out an arm to gesture to the chair like a model on a game show would gesture to a new car.
Blakely pulls open the oven and peeks at the dinner. “This looks like a lot of work, J-A. And dessert, too?”
“Cinnamon banana muffins.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively.
She pulls the bowl out of my hands and begins dumping it in the pre-greased muffin pan. “You did not need to do all of this, Jane-Ann. You are a few weeks away from giving birth. You don’t want to push your luck now. Not when you are in the home stretch.”
I wave a hand away. “I took lots of breaks and sat down for ninety percent of the prep. Seriously, I’m fine.”
When she is finished filling the muffin tin, she pops it in the oven and then grabs the oven mitt from the counter and pulls the chicken and veggies out. After checking the chicken with the meat thermometer, she grabs two plates from the counter and begins dishing out the food.
“This was supposed to be my treat to you,” I say from my chair, knowing my small window of freedom is over. Blakely isn’t going to let me lift a finger for the rest of the night. What did I do to deserve such an over-protective, wonderful best friend?
“You cooked everything. The least I can do is serve it up,” she says, sliding the plates onto the table and sitting across from me. “How are you feeling?”
I take a bite of chicken and groan, both in annoyance and because the chicken is cooked perfectly. “I’m fine, worrywart.”
“I’m not talking about physically.” Blakely’s lips are stained a deep maroon that contrasts sharply with her pale skin.
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