22. It’s a New Development
twenty-two
It’s a New Development
Leah
“ S o, how long have you been tattooing for?” The man sitting in my chair asks me.
“About ten years now,” I reply while shading in the skull that I’ve been working on for the past hour.
I don’t know what it is about the guys, but they always seem to feel the need to fill the silence. A very few of them try to get way too personal way too quickly. One time, I had a guy ask me at what age I lost my virginity. When I ignored the question, he then tried to ask how many men I’d been with. I told him if he didn’t knock it off, I would give him a misspelled tattoo that read NO REGRATS.
Oh, the irony.
Thankfully, clients like that are few and far between. Most of the men I have just want to make small talk the whole time. Women usually either bring a friend with them to chat with, or they listen to earbuds the whole time. Men feel the need to chat—which is fine.
Most of the time, it’s fine.
Today, however, my tolerance for small talk is at an all time-low because today, of all days, my body has decided that it wants to revolt against the thing growing inside my stomach. Morning sickness has reared its ugly head. It’s taking every ounce of my concentration to not empty the contents of said stomach all over this guy.
“How many tattoos would you say that you’ve done?” He asks.
“Uhm, I don’t know. Hundreds, maybe thousands,” I say, unsure of how many I’ve actually done.
“Wow, that’s crazy. Do you have one that’s been your favorite?”
“Uhh,” I stammer as I try to stop my guts from churning.
I pull the tattoo gun away from his skin while I try to compose myself.
“Are you okay?” He asks. “You're just as pale as a ghost.”
I want to respond, but I’m worried that if I open my mouth, the only thing that will come out will be vomit. Knowing I don’t have much time, I jump up off the stool I’m on and take off down the hall toward the bathroom.
I barely make it in time, but I manage not to make a mess. This morning, before I left Dylan’s, I ate some fruit and yogurt. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know I’m pregnant, I’d assume my body was just revolting against anything even remotely healthy.
I take a moment to put myself together before returning to my room.
As I enter and sit back down, my client says, “Shit, Leah. Are you okay? Are you sick or something?”
“No, not sick. Just pregnant.”
No matter how many times I say that out loud, I don’t know that it will ever stop sounding weird.
“You’re pregnant?” He asks, looking confused. “You don’t look pregnant.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a new development.”
“How far along are you?”
“Uhm, I think about five or six weeks. Something like that. I have an ultrasound in a couple of weeks to find out for sure,” I reply.
“Well, congratulations.”
I manage to give him a small smile while getting back to work on his tattoo. “Thanks.”
“I have a kid,” he says. “He just turned ten.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I never thought I would like being a dad. Being in charge of another human being is the scariest thing in the world. But it’s totally worth it. When your kid looks at you like you’re the greatest thing since white bread, it’s amazing.”
I think about his words. Maybe they should provide me some sense of comfort, but right now, I’m still too freaked out for it to work. Instead, what he said made me realize that I will have this responsibility for the rest of my life—long past when the kid is in diapers.
I may feel even sicker now than I did before.
After doing three tattoos today and throwing up an additional two times, I’ve almost made it home.
Home.
How weird is that to say when I’m talking about Dylan’s?
Oh, get over it, Leah. Your life is just a big ol’ bucket of crazy these days.
When I woke up this morning, I was in the bed rather than on the couch. I’m not sure if Dylan carried me in there, or maybe I was just too exhausted to remember making my way in there on my own. Either way, I slept like a baby. I even slept in this morning and had just enough time to make me breakfast and take a shower before heading to work.
The fact that Dylan and I are on slightly different shifts may work out to my advantage. We get to spend some time together while still getting some time to ourselves. I wish all relationships could be like that. I’m not sure exactly what kind of relationship Dylan and I have, but right now, I’m just happy to have him as a friend in my corner.
I walk through the front door and throw my bag onto the chair before walking into the kitchen where I find Dylan.
How is it that every time I see him, he looks more and more attractive?
“Honey, I’m home,” I joke.
That gets a big smile out of him. “Hi, dear. How was your day?”
I take a seat at the island. “Well, the morning sickness stage of pregnancy has started.”
“Already?”
“Apparently. I didn’t even have time to get past the crippling fear stage before moving into extreme nausea.”
“I’m sorry,” he says with a sympathetic look. “This may be a stupid question, but are you hungry?”
I think for a second. “A little. Probably because I have nothing in my stomach. What did you make for dinner?”
“Taco casserole.”
My stomach churns, and my face must show it because he asks, “Doesn’t sound good, huh?”
“While I think it sounds okay, the baby does not agree.”
“Okay, then. No taco casserole.” He smiles. “How about some chicken noodle soup?”
“You don’t have to go to any trouble. I can just snack. You should eat. I don’t want anything to go to waste.”
“It’s really no trouble. The soup comes from a can. And I can just eat the casserole for lunch the next few days.” As he talks, he’s already grabbing a can and emptying it into a bowl.
“Why are you so nice?” I ask.
“For the next nine months, you have to deal with all the pregnancy symptoms. I think I can treat you like a queen during that.”
“And after the baby is born?”
“Oh, then, I’ll be an absolute monster,” he jokes.
“That’s what I thought.” I laugh. “I’m going to go change real quick.”
Five minutes later, I’m in a t-shirt and shorts and walking back to join Dylan. There’s a steaming bowl and a pack of crackers sitting in front of the chair I was just in.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome. But Campbells did most of the work.”
“I’ll put a thank you card in the mail.”
He grins. “Besides the morning sickness, how was your day?”
“Not bad. Had a few different appointments.”
“What kind of designs did you do?” He asks.
I start going into detail about the work I did, but I don’t get very far before my stomach begins churning again. I’ve only taken about five bites, but I think that’s all I’m going to get down. I put my hand over my mouth and push away the bowl.
“Leah?” Dylan asks. “You okay?”
“The baby decided it didn’t want soup.” I barely get the words out before I’m sliding off the chair and running to the bathroom.
I fall to my knees and hug the toilet while everything I ate comes right back up. I’m just starting to toss my cookies when I feel Dylan behind me, pulling my hair out of my face and holding it back. He bunches it in one hand while rubbing my back with the other.
I’m no stranger to throwing up in front of men. Usually, it comes after a wild night of too much drinking. Never have I had one who was as caring and attentive as Dylan is being right now.
Maybe having a baby changes a man.
Or maybe Dylan is just a saint.
I’m guessing it’s the latter.
Even when my stomach is empty, I dry heave for a minute before finally settling down.
When I lean back, he quickly grabs a rag from under the sink and soaks it with some cool water. After wringing it out, he hands it to me to wipe off my face.
“Sorry you had to see that,” I say while attempting to compose myself.
“No need to apologize. I’ve seen worse.”
“And I’m sorry I threw up your soup.”
“Once again, it’s okay. Just cancel your thank-you card to Campbells.”
He gives me a moment alone to get myself together. I look in the mirror and see my eyeliner has run and caused me to look like the human embodiment of a raccoon. Before I head out, I wash all my makeup off.
When I get back to the kitchen, I see that Dylan has already gotten rid of the soup and all evidence of it. The only things on the counter now are the remaining crackers and some ginger ale.
“You really are a Godsend, aren’t you?” I ask.
He smiles that famous Dylan Lawson smile. “So, what do you want to do tonight? Do you want to watch another movie, or are you tired?”
“I’m down for a movie. Can we finish the one from last night? I’ll try to stay awake this time.”
His eyes light up. “I think I may have something that can help with that.”
“Red Bull?” I joke.
“Not quite.” He walks over to the table and grabs a bag to hand to me.
When I open it, I see that it’s a large sketch pad and some things to draw with—pencils, markers, and charcoal.
“I didn’t know what you liked to draw with, so I got a few different options,” he tells me.
“You got all this for me?” I ask. “You listened to something I said and got me this?”
Without warning, I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Despite the fact that this may be the nicest thing someone has ever done for me, I typically wouldn’t cry at this gesture.
But typically, I’m not pregnant.
I sniffle once, and the dam breaks. I start sobbing uncontrollably.
Dylan rushes over and wraps me in a hug. “Oh my gosh, Leah! What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing! You are so perfect!” I say each word between a small sob.
“Then, why are you crying?”
“The tiny alien inside me makes my hormones go all crazy.”
He holds me close and kisses my head. “Come here, crazy girl. I’ve got you.”
This is the second time he’s said that to me.
And every time he says it, I start to believe him more and more.