Chapter Nineteen
Charlotte had been back in New York for a week and the jet lag from her trip to Africa was still clinging to her.
She had no energy and felt as wilted as the neglected plant on her windowsill.
She had thought she was getting back to normal yesterday, but the fatigue she attributed to travel was quickly usurped by rolling waves of nausea.
Maybe she shouldn’t have had that second slice of pepperoni pizza for dinner.
Taking a glass of ginger ale with her, she went to lay on the couch, wrapping herself in the cashmere throw that was draped over its arm. Something was definitely off.
There was a soft knock on the door. She pushed herself to stand and shuffled over to answer it. When she opened the door, Grant was standing there, concern etched on his face. In his hands, he cradled a white paper bag, the familiar logo of her favorite deli emblazoned on the side.
“Hey, how are you holding up?” Grant’s voice offered a bit of comfort in her misery.
“Been better,” Charlotte replied with a weak attempt at a smile. “I think this is more than an upset stomach. Maybe I caught a stomach bug.” She grimaced and returned to the couch. Lying down, she watched Grant moving through her space with an ease born of familiarity.
He emerged from her kitchen with the steaming bowl of chicken soup. He set it on a placemat on the table next to the sofa.
“Try to eat some,” he urged gently. “It’s from Delancey’s; thought it might make you feel better.”
He helped her sit up and carefully handed her the soup. She accepted the bowl, the delicate warmth seeping into her chilled palms. She watched the soft waves of steam rise off the surface, heat and chicken broth soothing her already.
“Thanks, Grant.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but she was oh so grateful.
“Anything for you, Charlotte.” Grant’s eyes held hers in a moment of silent understanding.
She took a tentative sip, and the savory broth soothed her, a combination of the hot liquid and Grant’s simple act of kindness. She felt horrible physically, but having Grant by her side somehow made things better.
When she finished the soup, she moved into her bedroom. She told Grant to go home. She was sure a good night’s sleep would be the best medicine. Plus, she didn’t want him to get sick, too.
But the next day brought no relief. She could hold nothing in her stomach, and she couldn’t shake the exhaustion that weighed down her body.
Grant insisted she visit the doctor, going as far as to have Ming pick her up and take her.
After a thorough examination that yielded no answers, the doctor concluded it was probably either food poisoning or a virus.
If she didn’t show improvement in twenty-four hours, he would refer her to a gastroenterologist.
The light from the screen of her phone pierced the dimness of Charlotte’s bedroom just as her phone started vibrating.
It took a few seconds to realize she was getting a call.
She felt around on the nightstand, her fingers finally wrapping around the phone.
Pulling it close to her face, she opened her eyes just wide enough to see who was calling her.
“It’s just the doctor,” she murmured to herself, voice raspy and strained. “Probably checking to see if I feel any better.”
Before she could swipe the screen to answer the call, it disconnected.
She should probably call back. She still felt crappy; maybe going to a specialist would bring her some relief.
With a determined exhale, she pressed the call button, listening to the first ring, then the second.
But as the third ring echoed in her ear, something shifted within her—a surge of doubt, a whisper of fear—and without fully understanding why, she tapped the screen, silencing the call before a voice could greet her on the other end.
The room fell silent again, save for her labored breathing and the distant sounds of the city.
Her hand trembled slightly as she set the phone down. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders, a makeshift barrier against the unease that now settled in her chest.
It came to her suddenly, a stark clarity.
She reached for the glass of water on her nightstand, her hands trembling.
As the cool liquid slid down her throat, she tried to dislodge the thought from her mind, but it now seemed embedded there, a certainty that scared her.
It wasn’t just the persistent vomiting or the extreme fatigue; it was the dates on the calendar, lined up like dominoes ready to fall.
Her cycle, always punctual, hadn’t made its monthly visit.
The realization struck her like a freight train. But how could it be? With a shaky breath, Charlotte set the glass back on the table and picked up her phone. With dread of the unknown creating a pit in her stomach, she called back the doctor.
She ended the call and stared straight ahead at the blank wall in front of her but really searching for a vision of her future.
She could almost laugh at the irony; she, who scheduled every facet of her life down to the minute, now faced with the consequences of something wholly unscheduled.
This wasn’t just another problem to be penciled into her planner, solved with a quick call or a swipe of her credit card.
Uncertainty gnawed at her insides, a hungry thing that feasted on her composure. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she could physically hold together the pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t even known were scattered.
“Think, Charlotte,” she whispered, the sound more of a plea than a command. But the thoughts that came were erratic. What should she do? Who should she turn to? The questions were a weight crushing her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
She took another deep breath to steady herself, got up, and took a hot shower.
After slipping on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, she plopped down on her sofa and reached for the throw blanket, pulling it tight around her shoulders as a shudder ran through her body.
It wasn’t from a fever; it was the tremor of apprehension at what lay ahead.
“What will Grant think?” she murmured into the space.
The name itself felt like a talisman, something to hold onto amidst the chaos of her thoughts.
He had been so kind these past few days, so concerned about her.
He had shown up for her without question.
But this—this was a different situation altogether.
She could almost picture him, his brow furrowed in concern, eyes searching hers for an answer she wasn’t sure she had. Would disappointment shadow the familiar lines on his face? Or would he step forward, ready to face this challenge by her side?
“Will you think less of me?” she asked the silence, voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air.
To tell Grant might mean to lean on him, to trust in the strength of their bond.
Yet, Charlotte’s independence clawed fiercely at her chest, a reminder of all the times she’d navigated life’s unpredictability on her own, without a hand to hold.
The thought of revealing her vulnerability, of admitting that she needed someone, scraped against her pride like sandpaper.
“But can I do this alone?” The question slipped out into the room.
The choice loomed over her, a crossroads with both paths leading into the unknown.
She looked at her phone lying on the coffee table, then reached for it.
Her finger hovered over his number momentarily, before she decided to press down and call him.
“Hi, it’s me,” she said when he picked up. “Yes, a little better, but could you pick up some more ginger ale and crackers?” Of course, he said he’d be right over. Now she waited, knowing that her life was about to change.
An hour later, he was seated on the sofa with her.
“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out to touch her arm. “I’m worried about you. Is something seriously wrong? You can tell me anything—you know that, right?” His voice was steady, a rock in the choppy sea of her anxieties.
She looked up at him, the steadfastness in his gaze piercing through her fear. The weight of the secret she’d been nursing felt like a stone in her chest, growing heavier. His thumb gently stroked her forearm, a silent reassurance that he was there, unwavering.
Taking a deep breath that did little to steady her racing heart, she realized the moment of truth had arrived. There was no turning back now; the words that had been dancing on the tip of her tongue demanded release. She nodded slowly, her resolve solidifying.
“Grant,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “there’s something I need to tell you.” Her hands trembled in her lap, but as she met his eyes, she found a courage she didn’t know she possessed. It was time to entrust him with the truth that would change everything.
She inhaled sharply, the air feeling cool and heavy in her lungs. “I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, the words falling into the silence like stones into still water.
Grant froze, his hand still midair from when he was about to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His eyes, usually so full of laughter and life, widened with shock.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the world holding its breath along with them. She watched the myriad of emotions flicker across Grant’s face—surprise, confusion, and something else she couldn’t quite name—as her declaration sunk in.
“Are you sure?” he finally managed, his voice a mix of wonder and disbelief. It wasn’t an accusation, nor a dismissal, but a genuine need to understand, to grasp the gravity of her revelation.
“Yes,” she confirmed, her voice steadier than she felt.
“I spoke to the doctor’s office an hour ago.
You know I didn’t plan for this to happen, Grant.
I understand if this changes things for you—if you don’t want …
us anymore.” The words stung as they left her mouth, a bitter admittance of the potential cost of her unexpected news.
She braced herself, ready for the hurt that might come, for the look of retreat she feared might cross his face. But as she searched his gaze, she found only the silent promise that he would be there for her.
Grant’s lips twitched and blossomed into a full-blown laugh, resonant and pure.
It was the sound of disbelief giving way to joy, a clear bell in the quiet room.
He leaned forward, his arms sweeping her up into a sudden embrace that lifted her off the couch.
“Is this real?” he gasped between chuckles, pulling her to her feet and twirling her around as if they were the only two people on earth. Her heart soared.
But as quickly as the elation had surged within her, a queasy lurch seized her insides, a violent reminder of the new life stirring inside her.
“Grant—wait,” she tried to warn, but it was too late.
The nausea overpowered her, and suddenly she was expelling the contents of her stomach onto Grant’s shirt, breaking the magic of their dance.
She braced herself for disgust, for frustration, expecting him to reel back from the mess she’d made.
Instead, there he was, still smiling, a wild, undeterred grin on his face as the laughter died down into tender warmth.
His hold never wavered as he set her gently back on her feet and led her to the couch.
“Sorry,” she muttered, mortified, her cheeks burning hotter than the acid taste in her mouth.
“Hey, hey,” he soothed, his thumb brushing away a stray lock from her damp forehead. “We’re in this together, remember? A little vomit’s not going to scare me off.”
His smile was unwavering, a beacon in the disarray, and she wondered how she’d ever doubted the strength of what they shared. In the messy, imperfect reality, Grant stood firm, more certain than the very ground beneath their feet.
“Will you marry me?” His voice was steady, and earnest, cutting through the shock that rendered her momentarily speechless.
“What? Now?” She blinked up at him, the absurdity of the moment mingling with the sudden leap of her heart.
“Right here,” he affirmed, a lopsided grin spreading across his face, entirely unconcerned by the mess between them. “In this perfectly imperfect moment. Marry me?”
Tears blurred her vision, not from nausea this time, but from the swell of love that threatened to overflow. It was madness, it was chaos, it was them. She laughed—a single, crystalline sound—and nodded fervently. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you.”
A week flew by in a whirlwind of arrangements and anticipation.
The neon lights of Las Vegas welcomed them back like old friends, casting colorful reflections on their faces as they stood before an Elvis impersonator in a small, kitschy chapel.
This was where their story began, amid the sparkle and spontaneity of Sin City.
It felt fitting that they would start their next chapter here, too.
Elvis sang “Viva Las Vegas,” his voice rich with humor and a hint of solemnity as he officiated their union.
Charlotte gazed into Grant’s eyes, seeing the same man she felt confident would hold her through the worst and embrace all their tomorrows.
They exchanged rings—simple bands—and Elvis declared, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Grant pulled her close, his kiss sealing their vows. It was far from traditional, miles from perfect, yet undeniably right. They were married, with the bright Vegas skyline bearing witness to their crazy, beautiful leap of faith.