Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
B eatrix
I’ve spent the past few days thinking. And thinking. I always planned to have kids, but sometime in the distant future. But when? I had no rule book or planner with the date marked in pen. But turning thirty a few months ago flipped a switch, so suddenly, my biological clock feels very real. I know I have time, but…with the way I work, is it ever going to feel like the right time?
So I do something I haven’t done in years—I take a personal day and leave Julie in charge. I give myself a single day to visit the doctor and figure out what the heck I’m going to do about all of this because something Ren said has been bouncing around in my brain.
“I don’t mean juggling. I mean balance.”
I’d never given it much thought because being a productive achiever felt good. It felt like enough. But now, I don’t have a lot of balance. I do want a life outside of work, and maybe motherhood is fate’s way of urging me down the path to that life.
But with Ren, of all people? The guy who didn’t want to be with me ten years ago isn’t going to want this entanglement now. I’ve accepted that, but I do have to tell him.
Me: Hey! How’s it going?!
I never use exclamation points in my texts, but I’m nervous about what to tell Ren, and it manifests itself in my punctuation. I might as well be shouting at him in all caps, “EVERYTHING’S NOT FINE.” Hopefully, he doesn’t know me well enough to sense that I’m freaking out.
Ren: Hi! Nice to hear from you! Tru’s been asking about you all day
Note to self: Dominick Renaldi has no issue with using exclamation points in texts.
Me: I’m so sorry, but can we reschedule our plans? Work got crazy
Ren treats me to a string of gifs showing sad dogs with droopy ears, dogs crying fake illustrated tears, dogs whining and whimpering.
Ren: Of course. Get your work done and lemme know what’s good
Me: Will do. Thanks for understanding
I’m only three weeks past the time I was supposed to get my period—which means I’m somehow already six weeks pregnant, according to my doctor, who I saw this morning. I have a master’s degree in design and yet I do not understand pregnancy math. Two weeks ago, I didn’t have a clue I was carrying a baby, so I don’t see how that could possibly add up to six weeks of anything, but I didn’t want to argue with my doctor. Not when she had an ultrasound wand inside me.
On the positive side, the doctor says my cells are multiplying appropriately, and my hormone levels suggest that everything looks good. It’s too early to see a heartbeat, which is just as well because not seeing it allows me to live in my state of semi-denial for a little longer.
It only made sense to hold off saying anything to Ren until after my doctor’s appointment, which is why I postponed our plans.
I’ve heard stories about pregnancy tests giving false results, so I wanted to hear it from the doctor herself. “You’re six weeks along,” Doctor Salinger said, moving the ultrasound wand into uncomfortable positions and looking at the screen. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was seeing, so I trusted her wonky math, even though a part of me still thinks it’s impossible that I’m pregnant.
I wander through Sunshine Foods, willing myself to have an appetite for something on one of the shelves. At first, potato salad sounds good, so I pop that into my basket and make my way to the aisle of chips. I grab some Ruffles and a bag of extra spicy Doritos. Spicy sounds appealing, so I wind through the shop until I find the hot sauce aisle. I load up on a couple different types. Then I decide the idea of potato salad feels sickening, so I return it to where I found it.
That happens twice more with lemonade that no longer sounds appealing after carrying it down two aisles and corn flakes which barely make it into my basket before I change my mind. I walk down the last aisle and spot a jar of green olives and a pickle display. I grab three kinds of pickles, feeling every bit the pregnancy cliché. I will not eat them with ice cream , I vow.
I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone, so once I finish my shopping, I stroll down a side street. The fresh air feels good, and for the first time since seeing that pink plus sign, I feel like I can clear my head enough to think about it. I inhale. I exhale.
My brain finally quiets down enough that I can think. The first idea that enters my head seems a little impulsive. It doesn’t make any sense, and I am neither impulsive nor nonsensical in my actions.
Um, I think you’ve proven otherwise…
Point taken. I pull out my phone and dial.
I feel guilty.
“Is this a bad time?” I ask, gesturing around to the small swing set and patchy grass that looks like it hasn’t been watered for the past year. Dash surveys the same half-dead grass and play equipment and shakes his head, but he continues to regard me with the same skeptical look he’s had since he hopped out of his truck and found me staring at the small, random park.
“It’s fine. Weird, but fine.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed. He has a point. In the years we’ve worked together at Buttercup Hill, I’ve never summoned him in the middle of the day to look at a dilapidated park. “Is this some kind of design recon for the inn? You planning to install a swing set from the last century and kill all the plants?”
“Not exactly.”
I offer him a half-hearted smile because I haven’t got much else. No plan, no big reveal that will make sense of why we’re here. His easygoing nature is so polar opposite of mine, but he reminds me of how I was once. Sometimes, I regret that I can’t find my way back there.
Dash walks over to the abandoned tire swings, which do look like they’re left over from another era. They hang from rusty chain links on a fat wooden beam. I kind of like the old-school feel. Dash gives the swing a tug to make sure the bolts overhead will hold and drops onto the round tire. I do the same on the tire next to him.
We glide back and forth like a couple of kids. Dash indulges the activity for a minute before dragging his feet to stop his motion and twisting the swing so he can look at me. “What’s up, Trix?”
“Can I ask you something?” I kick at the sand beneath my feet and marvel at this place, completely empty in the middle of the day. Completely unknown to me, who never takes breaks to find the unexpected. In his dark jeans, work boots, and a plaid shirt, Dash looks more at home here than I probably do, still wearing the cashmere sweater I had on for a meeting with the contractor earlier.
Dash nods. “‘Course. Anything.”
“When was the last time you were on a tire swing?”
He laughs. “You brought me here to ask that?”
“No, but I’m warming up to the real stuff. Let’s talk about this first.” I feel at ease with Dash, even though he doesn’t have kids, and we’ve never talked about our plans for being parents. But I know he’ll follow me through the conversational tunnel and won’t judge when I get to my destination.
“Is this about Dad?” The vein in his temple starts thumping, and I realize I’m freaking him out.
“No. It’s about me.”
His brow creases. “Talk more about that. What’s wrong?”
“I’ll get to it, I promise. Small talk first, please.”
“Okay, fine. The last time I was on a tire swing had to be when I was a kid. I think the preschool had one. Why?”
I shrug, feeling contemplative. My hair, pulled into its usual tidy bun feels too tight, so I loosen the rubber band. It takes me back to the day Ren did the same. All roads seem to lead to that day. And now, maybe, all roads forward will spring from that day. I’d find some calm in the symmetry of that if I wasn’t still freaked out. “I was just thinking it’s been ages for me too, and it’s too bad because this feels nice, sitting here, doing nothing.”
“It does. I don’t do a lot of nothing these days. Always so many recipes I want to try, stacks of paperwork, places to go. Not a lot of time for sitting idly on a swing.”
Putting my head in my hands, I picture my life changing. Many more days like this, only it will be me pushing a baby on the swing. “Dash, I’m pregnant.” My heart lurches into my throat as I await his reaction.
He starts to laugh, pushing his tire swing into motion again. “Yeah. Good one.”
Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.
“No, Dash. I’m serious.”
“Sure. Okay, yeah.” He keeps swinging, still chuckling to himself.
“Dash.” I get up from my swing and stand in front of him, forcing him to stop swinging so he won’t hit me. The smile drops from his face, but only for a second. When it returns, it’s accompanied by his open arms. I fall into them, and we give each other that awkward brother-sister hug where we don’t touch much of our bodies together. Just ringing each other’s shoulders.
“You’re serious,” he says, disbelief flooding his face. His eyes look like round blue pools. I nod. “Hot damn. That’s awesome! Who’s the dad?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you before I tell him.”
“You should definitely tell me.” He flashes me a cheeky smile.
“Dash…”
“It’s why you called me. Tell me.”
“The truth is he’s an old boyfriend from years ago, and we hooked up, so here I am.”
If I thought his smile was impish a second ago, he’s the Cheshire Cat now. “Wait, Dominick Renaldi? Mal and I ran into him on a hiking trail a couple months back. I told her you two used to date.” It figures he and his fiancée Mallory knew Ren was here before I did.
“Ugh. This is what’s wrong with living in a small town. Everyone knows everything. Yes, it’s him.”
“O-kay…well, I need to ask the obvious question. Are you going to keep it?”
The question lands like a stone at my feet. Not because I don’t realize there are options but because I’ve spent so much time thinking them through. And even though I haven’t admitted it even in my mind, I know the answer to his question. “Yeah. I am. I want to do this, be a mom. This feels like an…opportunity, and I’m not sure when it might present itself again. So, yeah. It feels right.”
Dash looks like he’s trying to suppress a grin, but he fails miserably. “Well, then I’m psyched. And damn excited to be your baby’s uncle.”
I hold up a hand. “Please don’t say anything to the family. I’ll tell them soon, but I need to find the right time.”
He makes a motion of zipping his lips and locking them, throwing the key over his shoulder. It reminds me of the games we played when we were kids. “It’s in the vault. Now, how can I help?”
I blink back inconvenient tears and steady my voice. “I need a guy perspective. If it were you and an ex-girlfriend dropped this baby dad news on you, how would you feel? Would you think she was trying to trap you to get you back.”
His eyes go wide and his brow crinkles. “Is that what goes on in that smart brain of yours? No, I wouldn’t think she was trying to trap me. And I’d be really happy if she was the right person.”
“He’s not gonna feel like that. He’s the same guy, a flirt who’s very into being a pro hockey star, trust me.”
Dash shrugs. “You should give yourself more credit. The guy was nuts about you.”
“Right up until he dumped me. ”
“Stop it.” He shoves my tire swing, sending me into the air. When I return, I drag my feet to stop.
“You won’t know until you talk to him, but from a guy perspective, I gotta say you’re a catch, and I’d feel like I was the lucky one.”
“You’re biased because you like me.”
“I do. Now, how else can I help?” Dash launches his swing.
“I want to go shopping.”
“You…what?”
“You heard me.”
“I did, and I’m pretty sure you know that you picked the wrong sibling if you want fashion advice.”
“I picked the right sibling. You don’t have to give me advice. Just stand there and distract me while I distract myself with a little retail therapy. Please. Dash, I called you because I knew you’d be supportive without telling me what to do. This is all kind of overwhelming. I didn’t have a plan for this.”
He pats me on the cheek. “You’re in heavy denial, Ms. Type A Planner. This all must scare the living shit out of you. Okay, you can count on me for whatever, and I know you’ll be a great mom.”
“Thanks.” I feel the pinpricks of tears at the corners of my eyes and push them down.
“So, I’m off the hook for the shopping, then?”
I shake my head. “Come on, Dash. Help me calm my nerves with some nice, impractical designer jeans that will no longer fit me in six months. It’s the only thing I can think of that’s more out of character for me than getting knocked up, so I want to do it.”
He nods, smile never dimming. “I have a better idea.”
“I don’t know about those.” Mallory tries to keep a straight face and then fails. What begins as a giggle turns into a full-fledged laugh.
“You’re laughing at a pregnant lady?” I ask, my eyes going wide as I describe myself that way.
At first, I didn’t love the idea of sharing my news with his fiancée and letting yet another person in on it, but then Dash made the excellent point that Mallory has the best fashion sense of anyone we know, and she just might have some good “lady advice” too about how to tell Ren I’m pregnant. So here we are.
Standing in front of a full-length mirror in a bespoke denim shop, I model a pair of beige leather pants. Yes, this is what my pregnant brain decided makes the most sense for me, even though I normally wear either pantsuits or jeans. The leather is tight, and I’ve accented the pants with a wide belt complete with a heavy buckle shaped like a star.
“Oh, you’d better believe I’m laughing at you.” She holds up a black maxi dress in front of me and tilts her head, considering it.
“You don’t like the pants?”
She pushes the dress into my hands. “I love the pants, but they’re only going to fit you for about another month. Then what?”
She’s right, but I’m in denial. I don’t want to believe the cute pants will no longer fit me in a few short weeks or months. I feel like doubling down on the most outrageous, tight outfit I can find that looks like a million bucks on me. Then I’ll dare my disobedient body to grow so big that I can’t wear it.
“I know I’m being ridiculous,” I say, accepting the boring black dress. “I don’t even need to try this to know how it will look. I have three like it at home.”
“So why are we here?”
She looks at Dash, who has been quietly hovering in a corner of the store and saying nothing. He motions to another rack, encouraging us on.
“Because I’m a bundle of nerves. And if I can find something cute to wear today, maybe I can convince myself I’ll be able to juggle my current workload and the job of being a parent. I know it makes no sense, but that’s who you’re dealing with.”
“I kinda like her,” Mallory says, swiping a pair of dark jeans from a rack and checking the size.
“Seriously, how am I going to do it all?” I hate the way I’m emotional and whiny at the same time.
Dash’s voice booms from the corner. “…Asked every working mom since the beginning of time. You’re an excellent multitasker. You’ll kill it.”
“What he said,” Mallory seconds.
I wander to a display of cowboy boots and choose the tallest pair, running my fingers over the three-inch stacked heel. When I look at Mallory for approval, she shakes her head.
“Your feet are going to swell, and your center of gravity is going to knock you right off those heels and onto your face.”
“You’re making this all sound so very appealing.”
She joins me at the boot display and takes the high-heeled pair out of my hands, replacing it with a pair with a lower heel. “These are cute. And it’s going to be fine. You’re just resisting because it’s scary.”
“But I want to be able to wear these pants,” I whine, looking at them in the mirror. Then again, I don’t love the color. And they’re tighter than any of the pants I normally wear. “I know they’re impractical, but they fit me right now, and I kind of want to stay in the now.”
“You can. You should. And if you want the pants, get the pants. Just realize you’ll need to put them away for a while when they don’t fit.”
From out of nowhere, a sales clerk swoops in, holding two pairs of jeans on hangers. “Do you ladies need anything? A different size?” She hangs up the jeans and surveys me in the leather.
“Ladies?” Dash growls from the corner. “I’m here too. ”
“He’s here too.” I point and smile at him gratefully.
“I love the pants,” the sales clerk says, surveying me. “Do you want to try them with a lightweight sweater?” She gestures to a rack of pale-colored sweaters that all look a little short.
“Are these crop tops?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s the style now. It’ll look so cute on you to show a little skin.” She points to my midriff, and my eyes flit to Mallory, who is stifling another laugh.
“We’ll think about it. Thanks,” she says, shooing away the unhelpful helper.
“Okay, just holler if you need anything.” She straightens some jeans on a rack and goes behind the register.
Mallory takes the midriff-bearing sweater and shoves it back on the rack. She signals to Dash, who approaches from his corner. “If you want to get these pants, get the pants, but let’s talk about what’s really going on here. You’re nervous about telling the father, and you’re about to commit a fashion crime to deal with it.”
I slump against a rack, suddenly light-headed. She’s right—I’m overwhelmed, scared, emotional, and I hate feeling out of control. This isn’t how I planned on becoming a mother. I know we don’t always get to choose how things happen, but I like a plan. I like being prepared, and I feel betrayed by my own body for making this decision without me. A part of me wants to tell Ren right this instant, and an equal part wants to run away and enter the witness protection program.
“I’m a planner,” I whisper. “This wasn’t my plan.” Tears spring forth of their own accord.
“I know, sweetie. I know.”
She and Dash escort me out of the store, and Dash goes down the block for ice cream while Mallory sits with me on a bench. I feel torn, unsure I really want to talk to her about Ren. The shopping was one thing, but this is personal. She’s not the likeliest friend in this scenario, but we did grow up together. Plus, Dash really loves her, and soon she’ll be family.
Mallory must sense my hesitation. “Listen. Do you remember on my fake wedding day when I was freaking out because I was in love with Dash, and I didn’t know what to do about it?”
I nod, grateful to her for putting another image in my brain besides the thought of myself waddling through an unfinished inn with a five-months-pregnant belly.
“You really came through for me by talking me through what I was feeling. I’ll always be grateful for that. So if I can help, please let me…”
It’s like a floodgate opens, right there on First Street, with its Mexican food place and a trendy hotel tourists love.
“What do I tell him? How do I tell him?” I ask, hating the uncertainty in my voice. This isn’t me. I’m self-sufficient and capable, but I don’t seem to be able to deal with this. “I should tell him, right?”
She nods. “Yes. You have to tell him. But first, you need a plan for how you’ll handle it if he doesn’t want to be involved and what you’ll do if he does. It will make it easier if you’re prepared.”
There are those people in our lives who we form opinions of and never dig beneath the surface, and Mallory has been that type of person for years. I only saw the snooty fa?ade she wanted people to see and never bothered to dig deeper. I credit my brother for giving her a chance because right now, I can’t imagine anyone giving me more perfect advice.
“I want to do this, and I’m prepared to do it alone. He can be involved, but there’s no obligation. The last thing I want to do is trap him into something he doesn’t want. I know I’ll do everything in my power to give this little human a good life. Whether he’s a part of it or not, that won’t change.”
“So maybe,” she prods tentatively, “it will be great either way? And whatever he has to say will only make it better and clearer for you going forward. That’s a good thing for a planner. ”
I huff a laugh at that. “Yeah, some planner. I had some vague idea of having kids sometime in the distant future, but maybe this is the universe telling me to wake up and smell the coffee. And then puke.”
She laughs. “Morning sickness?”
“It’s no joke. Plus, it’s crazy, but my body is way past my brain in terms of accepting all of this. My boobs hurt, and they feel bigger. It’s like they’re already getting ready to be little milk trucks, and I didn’t tell them to do anything.”
“Maybe it’s nature’s way of saying you don’t need to control everything. Some stuff just takes care of itself.”
“Okay, Zen master Mallory.”
She holds up her hands in protest. “Hey, I don’t pretend I know everything. I just go forth with confidence.”
“That makes one of us,” I say because I’m so used to pushing the idea away. Then I reconsider. “Actually, no. I have confidence in myself. I just don’t have a lot of faith in Ren.”
“Tell him what you just told me. Tell him the truth and give him time to process everything. Go from there.”
The thought of that makes me queasy, just as Dash returns with three ice cream cones. He hands me the middle one, a chocolate soft serve with sprinkles, my favorite. I get all ready for my stomach to lurch and reject one more of my favorite things, but it doesn’t.
Reaching for the cone, I nod my thanks to Dash and take a tentative lick. The cool chocolate lights up my taste buds, and for the first time in days, I feel like everything’s going to be all right.
“You two,” I say, watching my brother and his fiancée trade licks of their cones. “Thank you.”