14. Kendall
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kendall
THEN
It’s eight a.m. Monday morning, and I’m still in bed without a snooze button in sight.
It isn’t dark and hazy like most weekday mornings when I wake up for work.
Instead, it’s bright and sunny without a single cloud in the sky as I gently stir from a well-rested slumber.
I didn’t draw my shades last night for this exact reason.
So I can be woken up by the morning sun instead of harsh blaring alarms.
One of the perks of my job is long holiday breaks most don’t get to indulge in, especially those working a typical nine-to-five corporate job.
It gives me a chance to be away from my usually hectic workdays, including my students.
As much as I love them, there have been some trying days since the school year started.
And with the addition of sporadic bouts of morning sickness during my first trimester and pregnancy hormones making me more tired than normal, I’m looking forward to this much-needed winter break.
I feel a warm, gentle hand brush over my bare stomach. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I croak. More soft strokes dip low toward my pubic bone, but they stop halfway. James’s way of a greeting while checking over the round parts of my stomach to see if today’s the day we’ll finally feel our baby kick. After a pause, he gives up. Another time, I suppose.
I turn over and see James. His eyes are still closed, and his hair is a mussed-up mess of bed head. His wandering hands seem to have woken before he did.
“You have to get up.”
“I have time,” he mumbles through closed eyes.
“You’re going to miss your flight.”
“So what if I do?” he proffers. “Would it be the worst thing in the world?”
“You’ll get fired.”
He shakes his head against his pillow, his rough jaw lined with a spiky five o’clock shadow grating against my shoulder. “They’d never fire me.”
“Okay, but then you’d have to come up with some really believable, elaborate lie, and I know you don’t want to do that.” I hook my arm around his neck and kiss his forehead.
“But playing hooky sounds so much fun.” His hand rides higher, lifting my shirt and tickling my ribcage.
“It does,” I agree, unable to resist the idea of a lazy Monday in bed with him.
“Tell me, Miss Moreale. What do the kids these days usually do when they play hooky?”
“Probably causing trouble at the local shopping mall. Or using their fake ID to buy alcohol,” I say. After a small, playful pause, I add, “Or having sex in their bedrooms while their parents are at work and getting knocked up.”
“We’ve already taken care of that.” He kisses me, letting it drag on and on until I’m a pliable, wanton mess. He rocks his hips forward, pushing me into the mattress with enough force to make me want to do this for the rest of the day.
He loops his arm around my waist, drawing me closer. I give in to his strength and rake my fingers through his hair. He groans in response.
“Hi,” he whispers, finally opening his eyes.
“Hi,” I say back. His nose nuzzles into my neck, forcing my head back.
His fingers continue to roam over my body.
Gentle brushes up my back, a possessive squeeze of my right butt cheek, a testing pat to my thigh.
He closes the last few inches of space between us by hooking his hand under my knee and draping it over his hip.
His thumb tucks over the elastic waistband of my underwear at the same time my stomach growls a high-pitched protest. It stops him mid-kiss. “You need to eat.”
“I’ll eat after,” I try to reason, pulling at his neck, but he doesn’t budge.
“Are you serious right now?” Disapproval deepens his frown lines. Those stern parenting skills have already set roots in his temper, and I don’t dare rattle it.
“Okay, fine,” I submit.
He hops out of bed, strutting off with his pajama pants hung low in his waist, sans shirt.
He passes by his carry-on suitcase by the door, right next to the freshly built crib.
He put it together last night. The cardboard box is still sitting by the door, waiting to be taken down to the dumpster.
I told him the crib could wait until he got back from his work trip, but he insisted.
There are so many other things on our to-do list, I think it felt good for him to tick at least one item off.
Sounds of clanking pans and the fridge opening and closing multiple times start to filter into the bedroom. “Do you want scrambled eggs today? Or should I hard boil it?”
I smile into my sheets. “Scrambled,” I call out. “Do you need help?”
“Nope.”
I slowly pad out of bed, changing into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt before surveying James’s handiwork.
It was pretty late when James twisted the final screw on the crib, and I didn’t get to admire it properly.
It’s white with the small crib mattress inside still in its plastic casing.
There’s no bedding or dust ruffles or any other frills or trimmings, but it’s perfect.
“I guess this is really happening,” I whisper with my hand over my stomach, stopping over the rounded underside. “You’re really going to be here in a few months, aren’t you?”
We’ve done the big task of buying a crib, and James is getting ready to move into my apartment just after the new year.
I’ve already cleared some space for him.
A few drawers sit empty and I’ve taken out about two trash bags worth of donations from my closet.
And we’re going to tell our families about our expected arrival.
My emotions have been a little all over the place.
The anxiety of telling people, especially while we’re gathered around a six-foot tree decorated in twinkling lights, has made me a little queasy.
It could still be the lingering morning sickness, as stubborn as they are, or it could be my nerves, I don’t know.
James has been an amazing mediator. He’s been the one to work through my push and pull of excitement and worry, all with the patience of a saint.
We had a small practice run when we sat Tommy and Sylvia down and told them.
More for logistical purposes than anything else, such as lease agreements and filling the spare bedroom once James moves out.
I feel like things are moving at lightning speed.
Especially when I saw the shock mirrored in Sylvia’s face.
She didn’t jump up and down with joy—not that I necessarily expected it—but the news was followed by plenty of discouraging follow-up questions.
Are we getting married?
Did we even want kids?
Why the hell hadn’t we used more effective birth control?
While I didn’t necessarily feel like I was being scolded by my mom, I started to doubt whether or not we made the right choice.
I knew it all came from a place of concern, not reproach.
She just needed a little nudge in the right direction, something to reassure her that we had this, but it didn’t help ease my mind.
James stepped up in more ways than I thought possible.
He snuffed any reservations our friends had, reassuring them we’re two consenting adults, not some teenage delinquents with raging hormones—though that last part is disputable.
Even though the conversation ended with a round of hugs and heartfelt congratulations, I couldn’t help but worry how our news would be taken on Christmas Day.
This time with a larger group who are more invested in our future.
Will we be asked the same questions? Like what will our future look like after the baby’s born?
How will we pivot parenting and a new relationship that didn’t even get a chance to hit the honeymoon stage?
And again, that question about marriage.
We haven’t even thought about that. At least I haven’t.
Has James? It seems so far-fetched to talk about getting married.
I mean, I get it. Things are backward with us.
The whole kissing in a tree followed by a marriage and that baby in a baby carriage has been tossed up in the air, only for it to land back on solid ground in a jumbled mess.
Just as my brain starts to skitter with worry and doubt, James re-enters the bedroom balancing a plate of eggs and a separate bowl of fruit.
He carefully sets it down on the nightstand before disappearing again.
He’s all business and determination when he returns with a mug, a ribbon of steam hovering over it, and I move to settle back in bed.
“I got more of that decaf chai,” he informs me, gently setting it down next to my breakfast.
“Thank you,” I say with a half-smile. One that leaves so much to decipher. And I see it in the way James looks at me, concern drawing his brows together.
“Is everything okay? Are you not in the mood for eggs anymore?”
“I’m fine,” I assure, shaking my head. “I think I’m just a little anxious about having to tell people next week.”
“I thought we were past that,” he states. “That’s why we bought the crib. And why I’ve been collecting cardboard boxes at my place.”
“I know,” I agree. “I guess it’s just the hormones or whatever.” I wave a hand in his direction, brushing off my concern with nothing other than a bout of pregnancy-related side effects.
“Is it because of what happened when we told Syl and Tommy?”
I bite my lip. I offer a small nod, unable to speak into existence my fears. Because if I do, then that means they’re right. We’re playing house as if we bought a Cabbage Patch doll and placed it in our crib fresh from the box.
“Baby, you know there are going to be people who don’t agree with our choices,” he admits. “We’re doing things backward, and some people are going to give us their two cents even when we don’t ask for it.
“Not making me feel any better,” I mutter, a wavery laugh ending my sentence.
“But,” he adds with a lighthearted chuckle. He runs his hand down the side of my face. “We’re doing what’s best for us. We aren’t children. You and I both have jobs that pay…enough. We’re responsible adults who will love the heck out of this baby.”
“Yeah,” I agree with doubt plaited in my body language.
“Would you prefer we tell them one at a time?” he offers for what feels like the hundredth time. The tenderness in his voice makes me wonder how he came to be this patient, constantly letting my ambivalent nature rattle up my insides without growing irritable or frustrated.
We played with the idea of going door to door, repeating the rehearsed words until they start to lose meaning.
A less of a rip off the Band-Aid approach by dragging it out, letting their reactions pile on, one after the other.
But what if they all react like Sylvia did?
What if they shun us for making such a huge decision without even a single conversation with our parents?
Maybe ripping off the Band-Aid, clean and quick, might be better.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, leaning into a more seize the day approach. “We already decided this. I just have to put my big girl pants on.”
He gives me a look like he doesn’t believe me, and I run my hand over his jaw.
“Really,” I assure him. “I can’t hide this for much longer anyway. They’re going to find out.” It’s inevitable, and I have to stop acting like it isn’t.
“But if you change your mind, you can tell me. You know that, right?”
“Of course,” I say softly. “But I won’t.” I lean in for a quick peck to his cheek and eye the food.
He smiles, picking up the extra fork he brought with him. There’s enough on the plate for the both of us, but I can see he’s waiting on me before he starts on his share. He nudges a lone blueberry in my direction while leaving a good chunk of eggs untouched.
“That was yummy,” I say as I’m sipping on my tea, the plate scraped clean.
“You want anything else?”
I shake my head. “We have to get going.”
He leans in for a kiss, deepening it until I’m left breathless. “I’m going to miss you.”
“You’re going to be gone for four days.”
Another kiss on the tip of my nose. “Still.”
“And we’ll talk on the phone.”
“Still,” he repeats.
“So dramatic,” I tease. But to be completely honest, I’m going to miss him just the same.