Chapter 32
thirty-two
nisha
The Bone-deep Ache of Acceptance
“Beaver, buddy, we’ve talked about this. You can’t go around stealing from our clients.” I wince at the glittering Cartier watch lying at my feet. “This is how Netflix documentaries start. You’re going to get us into serious legal trouble.”
Beaver’s sharp blue eyes narrow on me for a beat, his hairless white tail thwacking the air like a whip in challenge, like he knows I’m not happy with his “gift”.
Before I can bend down to pick up the watch, he springs forward to snatch it back and bolts across the room.
By the time I’ve straightened—because when you’re as pregnant as I am, it takes a while to “unbend”—he’s already perched on his cat tree with the watch dangling from his mouth, staring at me like a hairless, lifeless, motionless wax statue.
I sigh, waddling over to him. Yes, waddling, because that’s my mode of transport now.
At thirty-nine weeks, I’m officially a beach ball with legs.
And a pair of enormous boobs that Patton definitely enjoys more than I do.
I’ve had to size up my uniform of black leggings and tunic, but at this point, the fabric is so stretched out, I mostly resemble a balloon animal on the verge of popping.
Okay, so the balloon example isn’t my finest because . . . well, balloons. Cue a full-body shudder.
I haven’t shaved my legs or seen my toes in weeks. Well, unless you count yesterday, when Patton painted them.
I smile at the memory of him hunched over with the focus of a neurosurgeon performing his very first surgery.
I’d insisted I could do it myself, but he’d simply smirked like I’d lost my damn mind, brought my feet to his lap, and brushed each of my nails with my signature black polish.
And the sweetest part? He even blew on them afterward like the world’s sexiest nail tech.
Thinking of him reminds me he’s in San Francisco, meeting with producers about a foster system documentary he’s passionate about.
With how far along I am, he said he didn’t want to chance not being here if I needed something, so he insisted the producers fly here, instead of making him travel to L.A.
He’s decided to scale back in general with work, making only one major film a year, and focus on our new family, using any extra time he has left for matters close to his heart, like the foster system.
When I asked him if that’s really what he wanted to do, his response was, “I’ve already done everything I ever dreamed of, except this—building a family with you. This was always the real dream, baby.”
And honestly, the balance works well. He still gets to do what he loves, and I get more of him being around.
Hands on my hips, I give my mischievous cat a stern look. “Beaver, I’m not kidding. I’m not doing one of those ‘meet the inmate’ interviews from behind bars. Now, give it back.”
It takes some minor wrestling, along with him trying to make another run for it, before I finally manage to scoop him against my belly and gently tug the watch out of his mouth. He exits my suite, meowing sadly and giving me the kind of wounded look Shakespeare wrote about.
Great. I know I’ll be paying for this with extra cuddles and treats for the next week.
“What did he steal this time?” Sarina’s voice carries from down the hall, her footsteps approaching. She must have heard me talking to my pickpocket cat.
“Oh, only a watch that costs more than my car.”
I rub the side of my belly, feeling a tightness there. Last week I experienced what are known as Braxton Hicks contractions, or “practice contractions”. For a while, I thought I was going into labor, but after I drank something and walked around, they eased on their own.
This feeling, like my uterus is twisting, sort of feels the same, maybe slightly sharper, but I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.
I brush my hand over my belly, taking in a long breath.
I have another week left; I can’t jump to the conclusion that I’m going into labor every time I feel a stitch.
Both Sarina and Piper appear at my door, taking in the scene of me holding the expensive timepiece while trying not to topple over.
“Jesus,” Piper says, shaking her head before reaching for the watch. “I think that’s the watch my last client was wearing. At this point, that cat of yours should have a criminal record and a dedicated parole officer.”
Sarina winces. “How the hell did that menace take it off him?”
“God only knows,” I say dryly, handing the watch to Piper. “I should have named him David Blaine or Houdini; his talents defy explanation.”
The tightness in my belly catches me off-guard again. It’s more insistent this time, and I inhale another sharp breath, fisting the back of the salon chair. Okay, that felt a lot stronger than the Braxton Hicks from last week. Or maybe it’s the same, and I’m not remembering correctly?
“Neesh,” Sarina gasps, placing a hand on my back. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving her off. “Probably another Braxton Hicks. That, or all the stress from running this criminal feline empire.”
“Maybe sit down,” Piper says, eyeing my belly with concern. “You’re close enough to the due date that it could be a real contraction.”
“I doubt it,” I argue. “The doctor said I wasn’t dilated at all when Patton and I went for my checkup two days ago. It’s my last day before maternity leave; I’ll be out of here in a few hours, anyway.”
“Still—”
But Piper is cut off when Joshua knocks on my door. “Hey, Nisha. Your next appointment is here. Want me to bring him back?”
“Yup, I’m all ready for him,” I answer, getting the last of my tools arranged in size order.
Okay, so maybe I’ve also fluffed my throw pillows a few times over the past week and rearranged the magazines on the coffee table every time I’ve passed them. But at least I haven’t cleaned every cupboard or rewashed baby clothes for the third time like I’ve wanted to.
Though, I did arrange them by color, size, and cuteness factor . . .
I can see the old obsessive, control-driven version of myself that I’d tamed over the past few months trying to poke her head through. And I’m proud to say, aside from letting her slip in here and there, akin to letting a little air out of an over-inflated tire, I have kept her mostly at bay.
So what’s the reason she’s even trying to claw back in?
Because I’m terrified.
Terrified of giving birth, terrified of becoming a mother, and terrified that I’ll screw it all up.
Fear has always had a way of amplifying my normally manageable quirks into full-blown, color-coded and alphabetized antics.
And right now, that fear of the unknown is as loud as a bullhorn inside a quiet church.
But I keep telling myself the same thing—once our little starlight is here, once we get to know each other and have a routine, those fears will subside. At least that’s what I’ve been told through all the books and online forums I’ve read.
“Nisha?” The worry in Sarina’s voice has me glancing over while Joshua goes to fetch my next client. “Want me to call Patton?”
“And tell him what? That I’m having cramps? If they turn into full contractions, which they likely won’t, I’ll call him. I’ll be fine enough to get through one appointment, I promise.”
My sister and best friend look at each other, wondering if they should argue, before they reluctantly leave my suite.
It’ll be okay. These cramps are just a way of preparing my body for the real thing. I just need to breathe.
Except, ten minutes later, I’m standing behind Andy Honeyman, a thirty-something CEO with perfectly styled hair and an ego to match, who’s been droning on about his startup’s latest funding round, when I feel my slacks dampen on the inside of my thigh.
I freeze mid-cut, my eyes going wide as I attempt to look down, seeing nothing past my big belly.
That’s when my stomach lurches again, and I grip Andy’s chair to hold myself up.
A sheen of perspiration starts to coat my neck and chest as I remind myself to breathe.
Just breathe. But the warm sensation increases until my entire left leg feels wet.
My mind screams.
No. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen today. She’s full-term, yes, but I’m not mentally prepared to have her yet. Plus, Patton’s not here. And I don’t have my hospital bag.
But it’s okay. Just breathe, Nisha. It’s going to be okay. You just need to call Patton and let him know that he needs to meet you at the hospital.
Everything is going to be okay.
“—I mean, Andreessen Horowitz is calling us the next Tesla,” Andy continues to babble, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m practically bowled over. “I told my assistant to book me a bigger jet. Can’t have the CEO of a potentially multi-billion-dollar unicorn company flying economy.”
I take a gulp of air. “Andy, I—uh . . . I think we’ll have to reschedule.”
Turning, Andy finally blinks, peering down at my drenched slacks, his face contorting with disgust. “Uh . . . is that normal?”
“That depends,” I say through gritted teeth, stumbling to my door, “on if you consider going into labor normal.”
“Oh, God.” Andy jumps out of the chair. “Are you—are you having a baby? Like, right now?”
“Yes, I’d say the process has officially begun.”
“Oh . . . it’s just that I have this meeting I can’t be late to, and—”
This piece of human shit.
“Yeah, I’m so sorry, Andy,” I bite out. “Clearly, I should have checked your calendar before letting my water break.”
I clutch the door handle for dear life as another wave of pain passes through me before finally flinging the door open. “Sarina! Piper!”
My sister and best friend appear almost instantly, taking in the scene—me still holding the door handle, doubled over, while Andy gapes like a fish out of water.
“Yup, her water just broke,” Sarina informs anyone who might still be clueless, springing into action. Grabbing towels from a cabinet behind her, she points to our best friend. “Piper, you get the car, and I’ll help her get in.”
I fumble for my phone in my pocket. “I need to call—” I pant, then groan in pain. “I need to call Patton.”
“I’ll call him from the car, Neesh,” Piper says, running to her suite to grab her purse and keys. “Let’s just get to the hospital.”
Still, I press Patton’s contact number, walking at a snail’s pace toward the exit. It rings the standard four times before going to voicemail. Dammit.
“Patton,” I say with as much calm as I can muster. “I’m . . . I’m on my way to the hospital. Our baby is coming.”
Sarina places towels on the backseat of Piper’s car, helping me inside as gently as possible before yanking the seat belt across my lap.
She comes to the other side, sitting next to me.
“Okay, Piper, hit the gas. We’re ready to go.
” She squeezes my hand, a grin breaking over her face despite the chaos.
“You’re having this baby, sis! I’m going to be an aunty! ”
“Me, too!” Piper squeals, gunning it like she’s trying to qualify for Formula 1.
I sink into the backseat, my head against the headrest, groaning as I clutch Sarina’s hand beside me.
This isn’t what I pictured for today, but I need to be thankful.
Yes, Patton isn’t here, but my two best friends are, and they jumped into action.
I’ve made it this far without too many complications, and that’s something to hold on to.
Now, if only my boyfriend, ex-husband, husband—whatever the hell he is—would just call me back!
A cry rips through my throat as another contraction makes me double over again.
“If I’m not mistaken, your last contraction was seven minutes ago.” Piper glances at me through the rearview mirror. “Which means we’re in the early-but-serious zone.”
And yet, still no sign of my ex-husband.
Maybe it’s the twin-telepathy she claims we have, but Sarina seems to read my mind, dialing Patton’s number and sighing when she gets his voicemail. “He’s not picking up.”
“Try texting him,” Piper says, swerving onto the highway.
I do just that, typing out a similar message to the voicemail with shaking thumbs. But when my message just sits there on Delivered instead of Read, my ribs threaten to constrict everything they’re caging—my lungs, my heart, my quickly diminishing calm.
He hasn’t read it, nor has he heard the voicemail.
Maybe he’s still in the middle of that meeting. Maybe he’ll see it in the next minute or two. Oh, God, what if something is wrong? What if something happened to him?
No, no. We’re not going down that road, Nisha. Nothing is wrong. He’s alive and fine.
I mean, he won’t be either of those things after he calls me and realizes how much of a panic he’s put me in, but we’ll deal with me murdering him later.
This isn’t like last time.
He’s been around, present and doting, these past nine months.
He’s just . . . caught up. His phone is probably set to Do Not Disturb.
But it wouldn’t be, would it? Not when he knows how crucial these last couple of weeks are, when any moment could be the moment.
Still, I press his contact name again, the tentacles of that old feeling wrapping around me like steel cables. Loneliness, fear, the desperate need to hear his voice and feel his arms.
And the bone-deep ache of acceptance when he never called.
He said he’s changed; I’ve seen it. And I want to believe it. But as the minutes go by—twenty, thirty, forty-five—and multiple contractions tear through me while my phone remains silent, all I can think is, Why am I never important enough?