Chapter 10
Tilly
I’m fine.
I mean, I’m not fine. I’ve felt off all day. But I’m thirty-seven weeks pregnant, home stretch. Everything feels a little wrong right now, no matter what I’m doing; this just feels a little more wrong than usual. I figure it’s all just downhill from here.
Besides, it’s a walk in the park compared to chemo. My doctors have had pregnant patients who’ve been through chemo in the past. When they told me about going to the hospital if I wasn’t feeling right, they would have told me if it wasn’t even going to feel as bad as chemo.
That’s just the litmus for everything now. Is it worse or better than chemo? Cool.
So I drag my ass out of bed and make myself a cup of tea.
I eat some ginger candies and do some stretches.
They make me feel a little woozy, so I don’t go too far with it.
I drink my tea and go over the list of stuff I said I was going to do today.
I spent the morning too sick to do anything, but I’m rallying now.
I can definitely check off some boxes. This is absolutely not going to be another day of saying I’m going to get stuff done and then spending the day thinking about doing the stuff instead of actually doing it.
The list is daunting, though, so I break it up into smaller bits.
Instead of setting up the nursery, I aim to unbox the playpen.
Unwrap the changing table. Build the crib.
If I can get just one of those things done, I’ll feel less like I’m lying the next time I tell everyone I’m all set up for the baby.
Everything’s here. That’s basically done. I’m doing okay. I went through the whole list Joss gave me when she was setting up her own nursery — even though she already had one — and I’ve got almost all of it.
I don’t think I should be dealing with the heavy stuff today, not if I was sick this morning.
That makes me think I also shouldn’t be dealing with putting the car seat base in my car, either.
I’ll have to clean the car out for that, and that’s a lot of going up and down the stairs of my apartment building.
Getting dressed, too, which seems like overkill for today.
Besides, I should do it on a day when I know I’ll be driving by a car wash.
The responsible thing would be to vacuum it out after I clean it and wash it as well.
I do need to wash all the baby clothes. Everyone’s been insistent about that, just in case the kiddo’s got skin allergies.
Not something I ever dealt with, so I doubt it, but I’m totally going to do it.
I just don’t have a full load of laundry yet, and the laundromat in my apartment complex is expensive.
Actually, I should go to the laundromat down the street and save a buck. That makes the most sense. I can start a load and then run over to the car wash around the corner. I’m going to be so productive that day.
I scribble these notes down, glad I got a dry-erase board for all this so I don’t have to see all the other plans that failed for some reason or another. I’ve got plenty of time. All month, probably. So I really don’t need to be stressing about this. I can work on some costumes instead.
I take my cup of tea with me into my workspace.
I’m technically in a studio apartment, but one of the sets I worked on had a bunch of screen room dividers, and once they were done filming, the set designer was happy to donate them to me.
I’ve cut a corner out with them, so I don’t feel as much like I’m sleeping in my sewing room anymore.
I’ve got four projects I need to work on.
The two big ones, more suits for Emerson, are needed for a summer shoot; they’re projecting it to start in June.
He’s already told me he’ll take them whenever they’re ready, to just give him a call and he’ll fly into Wilmington.
I’ve promised him a dozen times that they’re coming along well, and every time, he’s told me not to stress myself.
Currently, they are two naked mannequins with signs written on them to let me know what needs to go on them.
There’s also an alien costume that needs to be done for July. But I don’t have great ventilation here, and it’s going to need a lot of chemicals with fumes I shouldn’t inhale while I’m pregnant, so I really can’t start working on that yet.
I should get Emerson’s costumes going, but the fourth project, a giant Victorian-era gown for a cosplay the client needs for September, is almost done. I may as well hyperfixate on pinning miles of ribbons to it. That’s what the client wants. She wants Victorian but ridiculous. Miles of ribbon.
By the time my phone rings, hours have passed. I see Joss on the other end and immediately chew her out. “You’re supposed to be on sexy vacation with Gabe.”
“I am on sexy vacation with Gabe! But we’re in between sexy things and I wanted to check in on you.
I saw a, um, a quilt, a baby quilt, that made me think about you, and you know me, always worrying, so I just want to make sure that everything is all set up.
I can send, uhh, someone over to help if you need anything. ”
“Everything’s all worked out!” I swear. Everything is fine.
It is all worked out. But I have that compulsion to prove myself with an actual lie.
“I went really crazy with the prep. Nursery’s all set up, I did all the washing and everything.
I got a stupid amount of diapers because I figured I could pass the leftovers off to you.
I could not be more ready for this. I just have to—oof. ”
“You okay?”
“Yep!” I pipe out as boldly as I can. “Just some Braxton Hicks.” The pain fades immediately, definitely not a real contraction, but man, it took the wind out of me.
“Are you sure? What hurts?”
With another deep breath, I get myself regulated enough that I can sit down on the donut I had to get for my office chair.
“Being eternity months pregnant,” I lament.
It might not be chemo, but it’s a lot. And the slow build of it?
The fact that every day is a little worse than the day before?
A lot, a lot. “I’m good. Tell me more about that quilt. ”
I don’t care about the quilt. Joss has already made me a quilt, in fact.
Cora made me a couple maternity dresses too, surprisingly casual and comfortable.
She was high fashion for a long time, strictly custom work and artsy runways, but she’s recently gotten a fast fashion line at Neiman Marcus.
Still more expensive than anything I’d wear, but if she ever wanted to do a Target collaboration?
The dresses she made me make me think she’d be an instant hit.
She’s amazing.
I must drift off, not so difficult when Joss is on a tangent about quilts. I have no idea what she’s saying until she asks, “Hey, whatever happened with that extra costume they wanted you to do?”
I think I hear Gabe in the background. He’s a big guy, makes a lot of sound, so I’m sure he’s trying to be quiet, but it’s obvious that he’s right next to her.
“Oh, it’s in the works,” I tell her, wondering if I should let her go back to Gabe since I’m sure he wants a bit of fun before they go out to dinner. It’s been a crazy few months, and it’s not going to slow down for a long time. They need to take advantage of it.
But I’m worried if I try to go right now, it’ll sound like I’m dodging the question, so I push forward, describing all the progress I plan to make on the costume in the next week as though I’ve already done it. And Joss’s side goes quiet, so I figure Gabe must have left the room.
But then it dawns on me that she may have muted the phone because Gabe was doing more than just standing near her, and whether she wants to talk to me or not, Gabe definitely wants to monopolize her attention. “Well, I should let you get back to your babymoon.”
The pause before Joss speaks is as good a confirmation as I could ask for. “No, we’re good. We’ve got another hour before dinner.”
I chuckle. “It sounds like you have something to do before dinner.”
We say our goodbyes, and I return to the dress, although my eyes start to get blurry. It’s not surprising, really. I’ve been going at this for long enough, and I’m close enough to the fabric that the world starts to become intangible. But my brain starts to go swimmy, too, and that’s irritating.
I should eat. That’s probably my issue.
I drag myself up onto my feet, and the world spins slightly.
No wonder, after how long I was sitting for and knowing I haven’t eaten in a while.
I shuffle my feet slowly across the floor, not wanting to lose my balance but mindful not to trip, and take it as a small victory when I reach the small kitchen counter. This was good.
I’ve got a bunch of stuff to make something good.
The doctors have all been recommending I go with high protein, low sodium, lots of fresh food.
But that all takes time to prepare, and I really just need to eat something, so I pull a loaf of white bread and a pack of American cheese out of the fridge.
A knock on my door has me freezing. I don’t want to deal with whoever’s there.
I go still, hoping that they’ll go away.
I fold up a piece of bread and cram it in my mouth.
There’s another knock as I’m swallowing the lump of flavorless carbs.
I move even more slowly with a piece of cheese. I could just eat my entire sandwich like this, and they’ll never know.
“Tilly, are you in there?” I don’t recognize the voice immediately, not muffled through the door. My ears feel a bit sloshy, too. But then they add, “Gabe’s worried about you. Or Joss or . . . fuck, I don’t know. But I’m going to break down the door if you don’t open.”
Blaise. Joss was complaining the other day that she was worried Blaise would get lonely while everyone else was on vacation, and I smiled and nodded like I didn’t think he was a psychopath.
She even commented on how wonderful he is and how she’s glad Gabe has such a good friend. I’ve half convinced myself he doesn’t hate me and the party was just a bad night for him.
But the way he threatens me through the door, the tone he uses, the anger in it, confirms that he really does hate me and he’s never been so put out in his life.
“Give me a minute!” I yell back, hustling into my bathroom and grabbing a wig from one of the mannequins, going for the shoulder-length purple one that’s sleek and low-fuss. I toss it on — giving myself more of the spins — and hoof back to the door.
“What the hell are you doing in there?” Blaise yells as I throw the top lock and then the middle, working my way down, his voice pissing me off with every stage until I’m finally twisting the knob and opening the door just enough that I can look out at him.
“Fuck, Tilly, if you didn’t live in such a shit hole, you wouldn’t need so—”
His words fall short, making me think that he had no trouble looking over my head and into my apartment. I attempt to close the door, but he uses a giant, pristine Air Jordan to keep it open.
His eyes are right on me when I crane my neck to look up at him.
It’s frustrating how hot he is, especially because he’s in a hoodie and sweatpants, clearly having put zero effort into his fit today.
He just has the sort of eyes that smolder and a body you want to touch to see if it’s real.
Even buried under clothes, he looks superhuman.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, but the irritation in my brain sounds more like wonderment when it passes through my lips, like I’m in awe of him standing here on my doorstep.
My shitty doorstep.
He’s silent for an awkward second, and I debate attempting to kick his foot out of the way. He towers above me, and I’m in slippers, so I have a feeling I’ll lose. Scuff up his fancy sneakers, too. Piss him off even more.
“Taking you to the hospital,” he finally replies, his voice dry and raspy.
Sexy.
I shake my head as much to tell him no as to clear my thoughts. “Oh, no. I told Joss I’m fine. Sorry, she gets panicky.”
Blaise tilts his head to the side. I see his irritation plain as day in his scowl, so I’m expecting him to yell at me about wasting his time — even though it wasn’t even a little my fault — and storming off in a fashionable pout.
I’m bristling before he says anything, and I’m so prepared for him to be angry that I flinch when he reaches for me.
He drops his hand, only to straighten up to his full, impressive height, easily a foot above me. I was surrounded by giants at the party last weekend, but most of them were big in all directions. The last time I was so close to someone so tall and sinewy was John, the mystery man.
But John was nice. He was fun and playful. There was nothing intimidating about him at all.
Blaise snatches my arm and says, “No, you need to go to the hospital. Now.”
“I’m an adult!” I huff, wanting to fight back, but honestly, I’m exhausted. And hot. And dizzy. “I can make decisions for myself.”
“But you’re not making them for that baby,” he snarls, not making any sense. He scoops me right off my feet and starts stomping down the stairs.
And I find I have no fight in me at all.