Chapter 1 #2
When we step into the hallway, the building's ancient radiator clears its throat. Navigating the stairs in boots, my heels in my bag, I wonder how it will feel to take those stairs in eight months.
On the sidewalk, he takes my hand and squeezes once. We manage thirty feet of companionable silence before his giddiness leaks out again. He bends close, conspiratorial, a breeze blowing back his copper waves.
"D'ye think the wee one likes football or coffee yet?"
"The zygote likes blood flow and warmth."
"Coffee, then," he says, satisfied.
At the corner, the bakery is already throwing scent grenades, every smell sharper, staccato pastry hits leaving wafts of olfactory shrapnel. He gives me the face that has sold out stadiums and gotten us so many first-class upgrades.
"Vince says carbs are fuel," he begins, which I know is bullshit, because Vince would co-teach a yoni yoga class with my mom before he would tell Hamish to set foot in a bakery.
"Vince says emotional eating can be denied with push-ups," I reply.
"Aye. So push up a croissant ta yer mouth."
We go in. He orders for a rugby team. The bag is warm and ridiculous in my hand and he grabs a croissant from it, eyes rolling in ecstasy as he chews. Outside again, he drops his voice to a low register, mouth near my ear. His breath smells like sweet pistachio.
"Ta us," he says again. "An' ta the wee one."
"To the female forager in pre-Neolithic times who decided to try eating a pistachio for the first time and realized it was delicious," I reply as he offers me a bite.
It tastes like the future. Sweet and a bit nutty.
The T station yawns open, a mouth that will swallow me and release me into meetings that could have been an email.
He kisses me. Not a theatrical dip, not a billboard, just a sweet press that says good morning and I see you and yes.
When he pulls back, his grin is mischievous.
"Can I please call ma mum and da at ten past?"
"Ten past what?"
"Ten past now."
"We agreed to later."
"Aye, but later starts at ten past."
"Later starts when I say."
"Ye're the keeper o' ma spunk, great queen whose body nurtures it, so ye get ta decide." He nods solemnly.
"If you call me your spunk keeper one more time..."
"Ye'll what?" He's daring me. "Extract more?"
I pretend to punch him, then walk away as he laughs, too overwhelmed to play this game. I need to be alone.
Except I'm not alone. I have a baby inside me. I'll never be alone again.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turn and look up at him. He is backlit by gray morning and that damn glow he always has.
I wave. He salutes with two fingers. The train arrives, doors parting.
Soon I am wedged between a man wearing an entire cologne aisle and a woman reading a romance novel with a cover featuring a green alien with icicles that resemble dildoes at its crotch. My phone vibrates and I brace myself before looking.
Mom: New couples yoga flow next week! No pressure! But pressure in the right places. HA! Also lunch tomorrow? Also kale chips. Also can you call me. Also I love you. Also I had a dream you were holding a baby who had eyebrows. Good eyebrows in the shape of musical clefs.
My heart jumps at the baby comment, but then I remember it's just Mom. She's constitutionally incapable of resisting a grandchild joke, hint, nudge, overt demand, or highway billboard.
I type: Love you. Lunch yes.
Three seconds later, hearts rain across the screen, then a link appears to a class sign-up page. It features Mom in a warrior pose, wearing a shirt that says Ass to Ass Is Where It's At.
The shirt refers to a couples yoga pose, but people who have seen the movie "Requiem for a Dream" stare at her in horror.
And never come back for a second class.
Mom responds: Hamish would be such a draw!
Two seconds later: I mean, I think he'd really enjoy yoga as a way to stretch out that knee of his! Like physical therapy with a crowd of well wishers!
Mom now has two McCormicks as sons-in-law, one a billionaire, one a football star and model, and she uses them as her own personal fundraising team. When Declan or Hamish come to a yoga class, the fire marshal has to enforce occupancy limits.
And Mom magically has enough money the next week to buy another Himalayan singing bowl or get mink eyelash extensions.
I tuck the phone away, laughing but calculating how to say no without starting a war. My brain draws a flowchart: If Mom asks sweetly, redirect. If Mom produces props, text Shannon. If Mom plays the pity card, send Carol.
The train shimmies. Across the aisle, a toddler drops a goldfish cracker and reverently waves goodbye to it. I eat the rest of my croissant.
At Park Street station, I ride the flood of commuters.
A man with a violin is playing something in a minor key that makes my eyes sting.
When I surface, the cold December wind bites my cheeks.
I walk with purpose for a block, then stop on the sidewalk and put my hand to my forehead.
A laugh rises that I don't try to swallow.
The bus driver who witnesses this smiles as if he's in on my secret.
Pregnant.
I'm pregnant.
I walk into a building where people pretend everything is on fire and my job is to locate the smoke machine. I'll do that. I will do it fast, and I will do it well.
And when someone calls me Hamish McCormick's wife, I'll smile in a way that makes people frown a bit, and I'll say, "'Amy' is fine."
In the lobby, I look down at my phone one more time. Hamish has sent a text.
It says: I didna ken love could make me taller. What you do to me, lass.
I type back a heart emoji, because I don't know what to say to that.
Then I go in, croissant crumbs in my pocket, coffee in my blood, and a new name for me sharing space with the others. Not Amy, not Mrs. McCormick, not daughter or sister.
Mother.
I'm going to be a mother.