“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.
