Chapter 20 Nisha #2
“I literally thought this was never going to be in the cards for me again,” I whisper. “And I’d made peace with that. But now that it’s happening, I feel like I’m waiting for my body to betray me. For this hope to be crushed again before I’ve even had a chance to process everything.”
Piper leans on the broomstick clutched in her hands. “I know you’re scared, honey, but it’s not a bad thing to hope again. Hope isn’t the enemy here, fear is.”
“Hope didn’t get me too far the first two times,” I retort, my mind shoving away images of bloodied pajamas and the fluorescent lights of the ER.
“Isn’t hope the reason you went through all those IVF treatments?
” Piper asks, her voice trying to pierce my fears and doubts.
“Isn’t it the reason you even let Patton back into your life recently?
Don’t even try to deny it. Even your stubborn ass has hoped and prayed for a way back to that man since you left him. ”
“And the universe has made that happen,” Sarina says, her eyes softening. “Sis, it’s clear you both still love each other. Is telling him about this pregnancy going to change that? Because I bet he’ll be over the moon.”
I press my temples with my fingers, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Yeah, sure. He’ll be over the moon. Temporarily.
He’ll be over the moon until he has to fucking leave for the moon because there’s a new movie he wants to chase there.
Or a mini-series. Or a documentary about hut building.
Because there’s always something more pressing. ”
Always something more important than me.
And this time, I don’t know if I’ll survive another goodbye.
“And what if this time is different?” I ask, wiping a traitorous tear that has the audacity to slip from the corner of my eye. “What if I actually have this baby? What then?”
What if my body actually cooperates and does what it’s supposed to, and I make it to the third trimester?
“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?” Sarina frowns.
“Of course it would be a good thing! But Patton and I still haven’t defined anything between us.
Not when he already told me he was only here temporarily.
Over the past five weeks, we’ve been circling each other like confused planets, avoiding talking about the past and just focusing on whatever this is for now. ”
I start to get up to find something else to organize, but Piper pushes me back down on the leather seat. “Stay. Sit. Talk, Neesh. Stop trying to hide from this.”
I wrap my arms around myself defensively. “Patton’s career will always call. And guess where that will leave me? Alone, doing two A.M. feedings by myself.”
And this time, I won’t even be able to fall apart.
“Jesus, babe,” Piper says, shaking her head. “You’re already planning your abandonment, and the guy doesn’t even know you’re pregnant yet.”
“Because he’ll leave! It’s what he does. I’ll always be second to his career.”
“That was seven years ago,” Sarina says gently. “Do you honestly think Patton still hasn’t realized his mistakes? That he’d leave you or the baby when you both need him?”
I shrug. “Who knows? But I can’t pin my future on the hope that he’s changed.”
“Yes, but you also can’t move forward holding so much resentment from the past,” Piper argues. “Give the man a real chance.”
“And don’t forget,” Sarina says, tucking a wisp of her curly hair behind her ear. “You left him, too.”
Wow. Leave it to a twin to show you the mirror.
Her words hit their mark, because any other argument dies on my lips, leaving me feeling like shit.
She’s right.
I left him, too—a man who was abandoned by his own mother because of the choices she made. A man who grew up bouncing around from one foster home to another, not knowing when he’d have to pack his bags.
And I just left him. With a letter.
It’s not that I’ve been oblivious to that until now—I knew what I was doing then, too. I just chose my grief over his trauma.
“God, I feel like such an asshole,” I whisper, my throat feeling dry. “I’ve spent the past seven years telling myself I was justified because he wasn’t there. But I wasn’t there for him, either.”
Piper crouches next to me, intertwining our fingers. “Which is why I think you both need to get all these things out on the table—unpack previous hurts, future plans. All of it. And I’ll tell you what else helps in situations like these—”
“Your go-to solution of taking shots isn’t going to work in this case,” I deadpan. “I’m pregnant, remember?”
A smile plays on her lips, and I know it’s her way of diffusing the tension. “I wasn’t going to suggest shots . . . I was going to suggest some good old-fashioned fucking.”
I snort. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Dev and I had an argument last night about whether we should allow the rabbits to sleep in our bed. I was for, and he was against, because he’s a total square sometimes. Well, one thing led to another, and though we never came to a resolution, we did come . . . many, many times.”
Sarina pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head.
Piper shrugs. “Nothing clears the air like a good dicking. Believe me, it’s a tried-and-true method.”
I groan but can’t help laughing. This conversation has clearly devolved, but if there’s anyone who can get a laugh out of me, it’s my crazy pants best friend. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So, you’ll tell him?” she asks.
“Has he been trying to get in touch with you?” Sarina adds.
“Yes,” I say, recalling his multiple texts, asking if everything is okay since I haven’t opened my door to him whenever he’s come by. “He’s even left French toast at my door every morning like some sort of breakfast fairy.”
They both say “aww” like we’re back in high school.
“Fine!” I raise my hands, letting them fall on my lap.
“I’ll tell him soon. Let me just talk to my doctor and confirm everything.
It’s not like I was planning to have a secret baby situation where he’d run into his kid twelve years later and recognize her as his because they have the same mole on their face.
I was always going to tell him. I just .
. . needed a little nudge to do it sooner. And I will."
“That’s our girl,” Sarina says, walking over to me.
The girls embrace me once more, and I’m just about to tell them that I have another client coming in soon—some Silicon Valley hotshot by the name of Alex Fleming, whom I haven’t met before—when there’s a knock at the door. That must be him.
I walk over to answer, the girls in tow behind me. Usually, our receptionist, Joshua, guides clients to the suites, but he must be helping someone else.
Except when I swing the door open, I’m greeted by a very different guest.
My brows knit as I step out of my suite. “Micah? What brings you here?”
Sarina and Piper excuse themselves—Snatch following Sarina out—slipping past Micah with a polite wave before heading to their respective suites. Though I don’t miss the way Sarina lifts a brow at me over her shoulder before disappearing into her room. She’s clearly curious about why Micah is here.
Me, too.
Micah’s hands slide into his pockets as he examines me like one would an abandoned suitcase at the airport, looking for signs of threat.
“You texted the dojang group chat and said you wouldn’t be coming in anymore,” he says, articulating the vowels with the kind of precision only the British seem genetically programmed for. “No reason, no date for when you’d return. Nothing.”
I tilt my chin up, rubbing my lips together. “That’s right.”
His face tilts like he thinks I’ve lost my marbles, and honestly, he’s not far off. I did lose my lunch earlier, a perfect egg salad sandwich with mustard. Turns out this baby has quite a list of opinions, and mustard is an act of violence.
It’s going to be a real doozy when I tell my sister, because the woman treats spicy Dijon like it’s a food group. No joke, I recently saw her drizzle it over pita and hummus like it was chocolate syrup on a sundae.
Yup, gross. I’m still baffled that we shared a womb.
“Nisha, what do you mean, ‘that’s right’? Why won’t you be coming to the dojang anymore? You’re an essential part of the instructing team.”
I shift my weight from one foot to another, aware that I’m blocking the doorway. “I’ve just . . . had something come up.” Not untrue. “I can tell you more about it later, once things are a bit more . . . settled. But for now, I need to take a leave from teaching.”
I know my text caught him off guard. I’ve been a part of the dojang for years and have rarely taken days off. I’m close to our students, too, especially Sydney. I’d texted her separately to say I’d explain more soon, and she’d taken it well. Micah, however, not so much.
“A leave?” he repeats, baffled. “But you love teaching. Oh, my God. Are you—” His hand cups my shoulder gently as he bends to meet my eyes with his concerned ones. “Are you sick?”
“What—”
But before I can say more, his hands cradle my face, gently, reverently. Like we’re lovers about to say a lengthy goodbye at the train station in a black-and-white film set in 1942. I can practically hear the violin swell and see the flock of doves being released into the sky in slow motion.
But I’m too startled to move. It’s not like he’s being handsy—just tragically wrong.
Perfect timing for my best friends to have disappeared.
“God, Nisha. I’m so sorry. I had no clue.”
No clue about what? I think with my face smooshed into his very firm, very confused chest.
Oh, God, does he think I have cancer? I mean, morning sickness has been no joke lately, and this baby clearly wants me to survive on toast and boiled peas, but do I really look that bad?
Micah’s enormous hand covers the side of my head, squishing my mouth so that even if I tried to speak, I’d sound like I just had a tooth pulled. Meanwhile, he continues to whisper heartfelt condolences, stroking my back like I’m about to ascend.
It’s finally then that I decide enough is enough. Pregnant or not, I’m plenty capable of getting the man’s hands off me.
I’m just about to knee him in the balls and threaten him with additional bodily harm when a throat clears behind us.
Loud and annoyed.
The kind of throat-clear that sounds like it could have been made by an angry bear.
We both freeze. More accurately, my eyes get stuck looking like large saucers, my mouth probably still looks like a fish trying to speak, and my brain goes through a mental Rolodex, trying to place that deep tenor.
And when Micah and I finally turn, that Rolodex clicks into place: Patton.
Except this time, he’s not sporting his usual Hollywood billboard smile.
No, this Patton’s jaw is clenched tighter than a pickle jar, his eyes like murderous storm clouds locked on Micah’s hands, and his biceps are bulging around his crossed arms like he’s restraining his inner gladiator.
And then, as if things could get any worse, they do.
Beaver, my cat who’s hellbent on converting Patton from a dog person to a cat person, launches out of the drawer where I keep my purse.
I’m just wondering how he got in there when he stalks forward, shooting Micah a judgmental glare before slinking past us to drop something at Patton’s feet.
My positive pregnancy test.
Oh.
Shit.
Cue the doves scattering. Cue the dramatic violins. Cue me awkward-laughing while hoping the floorboards open up and swallow me whole.