Chapter 13 Harriet
THIRTEEN
HARRIET
ELEVEN WEEKS PREGNANT
What nobody warns you about morning sickness is that it doesn’t disappear when a.m. turns to p.m.
In my case, it’s an all-day sickness, striking whenever and wherever it pleases. Some days, it doesn’t show, giving me a false sense of security, then bam!, a too strong smell or weird taste humbles me.
I’d woken feeling slightly nauseous, adamant it wouldn’t disrupt the wedding I was scheduled to perform at. I’d sucked on five ginger candies on the way here, and thankfully, by the time I’d set up for the ceremony, it had passed.
Until I locked eyes with a startlingly familiar pair.
I was stock still, yet my insides felt like I was riding a roller coaster, every dramatic turn and sharp twist making my head spin and stomach clench.
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up, I repeated until I had it under control.
I’d come to the tough conclusion me and Button were in this alone. After weeks of hunting for Warren, I’d all but given up. He was a shadow. A myth. Completely oblivious to the child I’m carrying.
It’s a good thing I spotted him after the song ended, or I would’ve snapped a guitar string.
Instead, my heart tumbled and stuttered in my chest at his indecipherable expression.
Does he remember me? Is he surprised? Is he aware I’ve been searching for him?
He can’t know—I’m not showing yet, just constipated and bloated.
Maybe that’s why he’s staring at me the way he is.
The chances of us running into each other weren’t impossible, though today of all days is far from ideal.
A wedding he’s a part of is not the prime location to drop the bombshell on him.
Congrats on your nuptials. Now, if you’ll excuse me, your groomsman impregnated me, and I’m about to ruin his life.
At least he’s not the groom—that would’ve been awkward.
I release a shaky breath when he follows the rest of the wedding party out of the room, eyes on me the entire time.
Okay, he definitely remembers me. I have another set to perform during the reception, so escaping isn’t an option.
It does give me time to mentally prepare what I’m going to say and do.
Once the ceremony hall is empty, I pluck my silenced phone from my guitar case and fire off a round of panicked texts. I’m so thrown off kilter, my spelling is a hot mess.
Harriet: He’s hear.
Harriet: Here***
Harriet: At the wedging.
Harriet: Fuck. This is not real.
Harriet: HELpP!!
Talia: Warren?!
Parker: WTF! Have you spoken to him?
Margot: It’s fate!!!
Parker: Omg, is he the groom?
Harriet: He is not. Fate has nothing to do with this. It’s horrible luck. What do I say?
Talia: I’d start with “Hey, I’m carrying your spawn, are you in or out?”
Parker: Obviously he’s been in and out…
Harriet: Not helpful!!!
“Hey, hon,” Nina, the wedding coordinator, says from the doorway. “You don’t look so fresh.”
No shit, Nina. I’m about to spew my guts, and my baby daddy materialized at the worst possible moment.
I press the back of my hand to my flushed cheeks. The room is less stifling now he’s left, but the warm air blowing from the heaters doesn’t help. “Pregnancy problems.” I laugh and then freeze.
Baby brain is real and needs to be studied because this kid is sucking the brain cells out of me.
She beams and scurries over to where I’m still clutching my guitar to my chest, unable to move from my stool. “You’re pregnant? I had a little girl last year. How far along are you?”
Outside of my close friends and family, no one knows.
Plus Jimmy, but only because he wanted to know why his singer had her head shoved in the toilet rather than entertaining guests.
Since then, I’ve cut back on my bar hours and concentrated more on private evening gigs, where there’s less chance of me being sick.
I stand on wobbly legs. “Eleven weeks today. It’s early, so if you could keep it to yourself…”
“Oh, of course. The first trimester is a bitch.” She scans the clipboard in her hands. “You’re not needed until four. Why don’t you take a nap in the breakroom? Can I get you anything?”
I could weep at her kindness. “Really?”
“Girl, get off your feet. I’ll get the tech guy to move your equipment to the main room and come get you with enough time to freshen up.”
Yeah, I’m crying. “Nina, you’re a literal saint. Now, tell me all about your little girl.”
The nap was a glorious mistake.
Nina, bless her heart of gold, forgot to mention the breakroom was also where the staff ate. Today, someone chose a hot tuna sub. The smell of fish and onions and something sour wakes me like the most offensive alarm clock.
My abrupt retching spooks the culprit, sandwich halfway to his mouth.
“Restrooms. Where are the restrooms?” I splutter, stomach rolling.
The stunned server points to the corridor. “Left. Second door.”
I spring from the sofa, no time to slip into my pumps, and sprint out of the room. My feet slap against the tiled floor as I careen into the restroom. I greet the toilet just in time to empty the sorry contents of my stomach—saltines, water, and ginger candy.
The evenings are the only time I’m able to stomach food, and recently, I’ve begun craving cereal of any kind, sans milk. Odd, but I’m not arguing with my hormones or the cravings of the baby. Food is food, though tuna is definitely off the menu now.
Damn my stupid hair. I try to push it back from my face and out of the firing range but it keeps falling over my shoulder.
“Here,” a low voice says from behind me.
No. For the love of all that is holy, no.
The deep, husky timber is in my head. Before I can protest, two things happen: warm, gentle hands collect my hair, and my stomach goes for round two.
Goodbye, dignity. It was nice knowing you.
In between dry heaving and wanting to flush myself down the toilet, Warren rubs light circles at the top of my spine. Once I’m done, I snatch up a handful of toilet paper and wipe my mouth.
“Can I call someone?”
I squint at the wall, praying when I turn around, the man clutching my hair is Warren’s voice doppelg?nger. “This is the ladies.”
A throat clears. “I assure you, it isn’t.”
Twisting in my spot on the floor, a row of urinals blur in my vision, partially obscured by the tall, suit-clad man crouched behind me. Oh, he’s real, and exactly as I remember him: unfairly handsome, dark hair styled back, beard trimmed, and tuxedo fitting him like a glove.
And here I am, a sweaty, puking mess, sprawled across the toilet seat, attempting to catch her breath and hang on to any remaining shred of decency. “Thank you for helping. Now, please pretend I’m not here and go enjoy your wedding.”
He presses his lips together. “I’m not sure my conscience will allow me to leave you like this. You clearly need help.”
I’m aware my reaction is uncalled for, but in the moment, it’s rational.
Help? Yes, I could’ve done with his help weeks ago.
My friends and sister rallied around me since day one.
And yes, he’s unaware of the child we conceived, but after weeks of fatigue, sickness, and doctor appointments, the stress that’s slowly built has to find an outlet.
He’s the sorry victim of my unbridled frustration.
I flush, clutch the toilet paper dispenser, and haul myself to stand. He stumbles back when I stomp out of the cubicle, taken aback by my sudden burst of energy.
“Oh, I need help, all right, Warren.” I storm toward the sinks to rinse my mouth. “If that’s even your name.”
Our gazes clash in the mirror.
“Of course it’s my name,” he replies skeptically.
I spin, scoffing. “Sure. And you definitely live in Nashville. Ooh, I’m a unicorn.”
He prickles uncomfortably at my mocking tone. “I’m sorry. Have I done something wrong?”
Déjà vu hits me like a tidal wave when I close the distance between us and jab him in the chest. This time, we’re not in a dark supply closet. “No. Yes! I don’t know. All I know is, I’m tired of being sick and searching for you, and now, you’re here, I don’t know how to tell you.”
His stony expression is solid as concrete. “Tell me what?”
Those midnight irises study me closely, waiting. For every second that passes, his jaw ticks impatiently. Whatever his response, I’ve got this—we’ve got this. I resist the protective urge to lay a hand over my stomach and rip off the metaphorical Band-Aid.
Two lines flipped my world upside down, and I’m about to do the same to his with two words.
“I’m pregnant.” My voice is oddly calm, though the all-body tremble is hard to hide.
Weeks to prepare, and I’m still a bundle of horrible nerves, creeping and bubbling under the surface of my skin until I want to scratch myself raw.
The silence is loud and screaming to be broken.
“It’s yours. I’m keeping the baby, and there are zero expectations for you to be involved, but you deserve to know.”
The confession hangs in the air, heavy with emotion and…hope? Hope he wants to be involved, if only for our child’s sake.
At first I think Warren didn’t hear me until he suddenly rears back as if I’ve slapped him, eyes wide in horror, complexion sickly. I’d expected shock, but this is something completely different. He looks haunted.
I take a cautious step forward, hands twisting in front of me. “Warren?”
He blinks slowly. The deathly silence stretches between us.
“Please say something,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, it’s just…I’ve been trying to find you for weeks and—”
“That’s impossible.” His voice is hollow and flat. “You can’t be pregnant.”
“I assure you, I am, and before you ask if I’m sure the baby is yours, it is, considering you’re the only man I’ve been with for months.
” I offer him a wobbly smile, hoping to cut the fog of tension.
“I would’ve told you as soon as I found out, but we never traded numbers or last names.
You’re like a ghost.” And you look like one.
Warren continues retreating toward the door, shaking hands raised, silently begging me to keep my distance. I’ve run through every reaction possible, but nothing could’ve primed me for this scenario.
“I can’t.” He shakes his head vigorously, his hair tumbling free from its sleek style. “This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake.”
My heart fractures when he turns and strides out of the room, not uttering a word.
My hand drifts to my stomach as tears spring to my eyes.
Guess it’s you and me, Button.