Pregnancy heartburn is no freaking joke. I’ve never had issues with this before, and now it’s practically a daily thing. I’lleat or drink something I’ve had a million times before, and it’ll hit me, but after my captain brought spaghetti for everyone last week, and I spent the rest of the night with my chest and throat on fire, I put two and two together that red sauce, especially, doesn’t sit well with me. I’m living off Tums for the foreseeable.
“Yeah, it really does.” I snort, before taking a sip from the frozen pineapple coconut mockarita Graham ordered for me. “Wow, this isincredible.”
He beams, looking across the table at me. “I knew you’d love that.”
Remembering something I saw earlier, I grab my phone and unlock it. “You know what’s funny? I’m almost positive my fruit or veggie baby milestone next week is a coconut.”
“It’s this week,” Graham says casually.
My eyes dart up to his face, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “No, it’s next week.”
“You’re thirty-one weeks,” he adds matter-of-factly.
I tilt my head to the side, confusion and something else entirely swirling around in my mind. “Not for a few more days, but how do you know all of this?”
He’s been very involved in this pregnancy, but I didn’t realize he was keeping track of how far along I was by week. I don’t know why, but that makes my stomach flutter.
“I have my ways.”
“Do you know what the food for thirty weeks is?” I ask.
“Zucchini.”
“You made zucchini bread earlier this week,” I murmur, almost to myself.
“I did,” he offers, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Wait a damn minute.” I feel like one of those characters in a cartoon with a lightbulb going off above my head. Bringing my attention to my phone again, I scroll back through the weeks, my heart pounding harder as things come together like pieces ofa puzzle. Lifting my gaze, I’m met with soft green eyes already watching me, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll figure it out. As I hold his gaze for a minute, my mouth dries, and it’s like the ability to speak has evaded me. “Graham…” I finally manage to croak out. “Have you been doing what I think you’re doing?”
Flashing me a grin that makes my stomach dip, he says, “I don’t know, Sunny. What do you think I’m doing?”
Without even saying it, I know I’m right. Tears prick the backs of my eyes and the tip of my nose stings. “You’ve been incorporating the milestones into the food you’ve been making, haven’t you?” I don’t give him a chance to answer before the words are tumbling out of my mouth again. “That’s why you ordered this drink for me. It’s why you made the zucchini bread. All those off-the-wall meals you’ve cooked… That dish with the plums, grapefruit chicken, the eggplant parmesan you made a couple weeks ago… You made those specifically because of the pregnancy, haven’t you?”
Graham’s cheeks are a deep shade of pink, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “You’re right, I have.”
My throat is so thick with emotion, I can barely breathe. “But why… Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He shrugs, his eyes nearly as misty as mine. “I thought it would be more fun letting you figure it out on your own.”
I don’t know why this realization is hitting me as hard as it is. Graham’s a chef; it shouldn’t surprise me that he’d figure out a way to incorporate his interests with the pregnancy. But it feels like so much more than that. He not only wanted to track my pregnancy milestones and always know where our baby is at developmentally, but he also took the time to find recipes that specifically use the certain food of that week to make for me. That is, quite literally, the most thoughtful thing anybody has ever done for me. And it’s gone on formonthswithout him getting any recognition for it.
“Graham…” My voice cracks, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep it from quivering.
“Mama sad,” Ellie Mae says softly.
Glancing over at her, I shake my head. “No, I’m not?—”
The words die on my tongue as what sheactuallysaid hits me.
Mama.
She called me Mama.
My gaze darts over to Graham, wanting to see if he caught that too, and based on the way he’s looking at me, with his eyes glassy and his lips parted, I know he did. Both of us seem to be at a loss for words, but as a tear spills over and rolls down my cheek, I manage to look back at Ellie Mae and smile.
“I’m not sad, sweet girl,” I murmur. “These are happy tears. Promise.”
Her smile is wide, and my heart skips a beat.
