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I leave him standing at the door while I retrieve said items and slip on my flip-flops. As soon as I return, he grabs my wrist and hustles me out of my apartment.
“What are you doing?” I ask the man dragging me down the hallway.
“Not givin’ you time to argue, Shorty. Let’s go.” Soon after he’s hustling me into one of those mega baby stores.
“I’ve never had to beg a woman to shop,” he says as he pushes a massive cart down a double-wide aisle. “What’s your deal? I thought chicks love to spend money.”
“Not this chick,” I inform him while I examine the obscenely large cart. “It’s as big as a forklift. Nobody needs that much stuff.”
“Go big, or go home.”
“I’ll go home, thank you very much.”
He stops then and stares at something on the shelf. “Darlin’, what about this? Do we need…” He squints at the picture on the box. From where I stand, I can see he’s holding a breast pump. “What is this?” he says, looking at me with an expression of pure terror.
“It’s a breast pump. It pumps milk from my breasts so it can be refrigerated and the baby fed while I’m at work––or with you.”
“Right. When the baby is with me,” he repeats, a soft dreamy look on his face.
“And please don’t call me darling. I’m not your darling, or your sweetheart. I’m the mother of your child.”
His focus swiftly returns to me. There’s mischief on his face, a look I’ve come to know well by now.
“You want me to call you mother?” His lips quiver as he fights to hold back what is surely another of his wicked grins. “Kinky, but I like it.”
While we’re on opposite sides of the aisle, a young woman walks between us––a pregnant one. Her eyes glide up and down Dane’s body. She smiles suggestively. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it. But I did.
The second she passes our eyes meet across the way, his expression perfectly blank. Head shaking, I walk down the next aisle.
“I could call you Mother of Dragons. That won’t be too far from the truth.” He throws a heavy arm around my neck. I try to pull away but he won’t let me. “No doubt any kid of mine is going to be a hell raiser.” The last part he mutters. Not low enough for me to miss it however.
“That better be one of your jokes.”
“Afraid not.”
“I bet your mother has some stories to tell,” I casually throw out, my attention suddenly taken with the variety of car seats available. When I don’t get a snappy comeback, the silence compels me to glance up. All traces of humor gone, his face oddly still. This is a man that is never ever still so this is cause for concern. And then I remember––
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He lets me go to investigate something on the next shelf. “I stopped giving a shit a long time ago.” His eyes remain on the display case of baby carriers, avoiding mine. “Do we need this?”
It’s crystal clear that he’s not even remotely past it, however, I don’t contradict him. I’ll let him keep his illusion. It’s not my place to pick at scabs. It’s also not the first time he’s used the we pronoun.
There’s something so wrong and yet so cute about it. My best attempts at ignoring it have fallen short, and believe me I’ve tried.
My cell rings and Dr. Elmendorf’s name flashes on the screen. The steady beat of my heart turns into a heavy thump. I’m so shaken I forget to answer, standing there paralyzed by anticipation while the phone continues to ring.
“Shouldn’t you get that?”
His voice snaps me out of it. I look up and find Dane watching me curiously, an enviable calmness to him while I’m the complete opposite. My expression must say it all because he gently takes the phone from me and answers.
“Yes, this is her number…uh huh, she’s right here.” Smiling, he hands it to me.
“Hello,” I croak while I stare up at him unblinking.
“Miss Donovan?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Elmendorf’s nurse, Suzanne. She wanted to let you know that we have the results of your pregnancy test.”
“Yes,” I repeat robotically while my eyes stay on the man smiling down at me.
“You’re pregnant, Miss Donovan. The embryo transfer was a success. Dr. Elmendorf will call you first thing on Monday to discuss it with you but she wanted you to know before the weekend.”
“Thank you,” I say in a strangled voice, after which I end the call. A slow, irrepressible smile stretches across my face, not unsimilar to the one Dane is wearing.
“I’m pregnant.”
He hauls me in for a big hug, arms holding me gently to him. Between my face wedged among his massive chest muscles, my air supply being cut off, and his body heat, it’s akin to being buried alive under an electric blanket.
I alternate between giggling like a preteen and breathing. Despite that, however, it feels good. So good I want to curl up in a ball with him wrapped around me.
The giggling dies down and I look up to find him looking down at me. His smile slowly melts, and his gaze becomes a soft touch on my face, full of wonder and joy. The realization hits us at the same time––this is the beginning of the rest of our lives.
He clears his throat and holds me away. “You mean we’re pregnant.”
There’s that pesky we again.
“We’re pregnant,” I repeat, correcting myself with a smile I can’t deny. And then he hugs me again.
“Dane Jr.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Should I be offended?”
“No.”
Sitting across from me at the distressed oak dining table, the father of my child frowns while he dumps more rice onto his moo shu pork.
After we paid for the hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuff that we don’t need, Dane insisted we go to his place and order takeout, and when Dane insists, I’ve learned there’s very little I can do to dissuade him.
Turns out he lives in a beautifully restored brownstone in Greenwhich Village. I expected a super modern apartment in the Time Warner building overlooking Columbus Circle, or a trendy loft in the Meatpacking District. Not this. Nothing like this.
For the first ten minutes I walked around mouth agape. Distressed walnut floors and supersized dark-blue couches, exposed red brick. He has a garden, an honest-to-goodness garden in the back. The large fireplace mantel covered with silver-framed family pictures was a personal favorite.
Of him on horseback when he was in his teens, looking more like a movie star than most movie stars. On the football field. With his sister and his father.
The walls of his office are covered with paraphernalia from all his achievements––and there are plenty. It would take days for me to study them all.
And yet nothing in his house is too precious. Nothing sharp and dangerous. His home is comfortable and warm, inviting. His home is homey. A lot homier than mine. Picturing my child growing up here makes suspicious heat crowd my chest and my throat swell.
The dim light highlights his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on them. He really is beautiful. I’m not blind, I get why women lose their shit over him.
And I’m having a child with this man. The thought keeps circulating in my head.
It’s been almost three months since we embarked on this journey together and I have yet to hear him mention anyone he’s dating. A large part of me wishes he would. It would put a swift end to all the cozy feelings growing between us, that’s for sure. The rest of me doesn’t want to know.
A sneaking suspicion tells me that finding out that he is dating someone will hurt and that would be a tragedy. Because going through life pining for the father of my child would make me my mother. And everything I’ve done up until now to prevent that from happening would be all for naught.
“What about Penelope for a girl?” I suggest. We’ve been playing the name game for the last twenty minutes, grinning at each other like two loons.
“It’s a boy. I can feel it.”
I disagree. However, I won’t rain on his parade tonight. “What about Jacob? Jacob William Donovan-Wylder.”
His greenish eyes flash with excitement. He blinks. “William?”
“For your father. That’s his name, right?”
“Yeah, I just didn’t…”
“Your father means everything to you.”
Dane remains quiet, no smile in sight. “And Jacob?”
“For Ira’s son. He died young. Ira’s like a father to me. I thought…”
“I like Jacob,” he says, before I can finish.
He licks his bottom lip and my eyes automatically drop to them. He has beautiful lips. Full in the middle and yet not so full that they look pouty. His mouth kicks up on one side and I know I just got caught staring.
“And if it’s a girl?” I tease, trying to play it off. Fat chance. Dane’s no dummy.
“Jacob William Donovan-Wylder,” he casually repeats, after which he goes back to inhaling his food.
“Dane––”
“Yeah?” He looks up with a touch of alarm. “What is it, babe?”
Babe? I let it slide because I’m high on life right now and don’t want to throw a cold, wet blanket on the mood.
“You know the first few months are risky. I can have a miscarriage. You can’t tell anyone for at least three months. Until we know for sure.” Eyes bright, he nods a little too quickly for it to be convincing. “I mean it, Dane.”
Shoveling more moo shu into his mouth, I hear, “Mmm, three months. Got it.”
I point my chopsticks at him and give him my best Mercedes Donovan death glare. “And don’t call me babe.”
“Okay, Shorty.”
Dane
“I’m having a baby,” I announce into the phone. Then, placing it against my chest, I catch the shop lady’s attention. “Five dozen roses. The good kind. What do you suggest?”
“A baby?!” my pops echoes back, his voice loud and bursting with doubt.
