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She’s totally making fun of me, but I don’t even care, because deep down, I know how much this means to her. I know it shows her that I’m willing to go the extra mile, that I’m in this for the long haul. And at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters.
It’s been a month since we found out Stacia was pregnant. And while some days, it still doesn’t feel real—for me, at least—Stacia is in the thick of it. Poor thing is constantly exhausted, and her tits are so tender they’re officially off limits to the likes of me, which really fucking sucks because hot damn have they grown. She also has to pee every five minutes and is experiencing some crazy food aversions. She’s pretty much surviving off of french fries, peanut butter toast, and bacon right now; the mere thought of other foods makes her gag.
“You just about ready?” I ask as my beautiful baby mama stomps into the room. One look at her crestfallen face and I know she is not ready. “What’s wrong?”
She gestures wildly to where her jeans won’t button. “How is it possible for me to already be showing? I’m barely two months pregnant!”
My eyes move over her, taking in the barely-there curve of her lower belly. “You look beautiful to me.”
She huffs. “Thanks, but that doesn’t help my pants button.” Oh, did I mention the mood swings? Those are super fun.
I stand and step to her, taking her in my arms. “Buttoned or not, you’re a goddess. You are creating life within you. Plus, it’s probably just bloat. I read online—”
She steps back from me, her eyes watery. “You think I look bloated?”
Fuck. “No, baby. No, no, no. Not what I said.”
Her lower lip trembles. “Yes, it is. You said—”
I swoop in and cover her lips with my own, kissing her until her knees are weak. “I want you to listen and hear me. You. Are. Gorgeous. Your body is changing, and I can imagine that’s frustrating. If you want, we can get you some new jeans today, but please don’t be sad. Nothing kills me more than seeing you cry.”
She inhales a shaky breath. “Okay, yeah. Let me just change.”
I send her off with one last press of my lips and immediately begin googling where to get the best stretchy jeans.
She emerges ten minutes later in a long cotton dress that clings to her chest and floats down to the floor. “Sorry for the crazy,” she says, ducking her head.
“You’re not crazy,” I tell her, hoping like hell she knows I mean it. “Now, are you ready to go see our baby?”
She grins and wiggles on her feet. “Oh my God! So ready!”
We head out to my daddy wagon, as Stacia lovingly calls it, and set off for Dr. Flory’s office. Like I’ve done with pretty much everything since we found out she was pregnant, I’ve been researching the hell out of what to expect at this first appointment, and I think I’m ready.
Fuck that, I know I’m ready. I’m ready to see the little grainy peanut and hear the heartbeat. I’m ready to know our due date and to meet the woman who will help us usher this new life into the world.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting off to the side in a small-ass chair while the nurse sends Stacia into the restroom with a small plastic cup. I wait awkwardly for her to return, feeling very much like a fish out of water.
My phone buzzes in my pocket while I wait; I slide it out to check the screen, only to slip it right back where it came from when I see my dad’s name flashing at me. He’s been on my ass ever since I blew off our lunch plans. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his feelings were hurt. But Roland Larson doesn’t have feelings. No, he’s just pissed I’m slipping out from under his thumb. He’s angry that he’s losing his control over me, enraged that I’m no longer toeing the line and playing my role of dutiful son. To a man like him, loss of control—real or perceived—is the end of the world. He’s spent so long treating everyone in his life like they’re nothing more than pawns on a chessboard. He’s in for a rude awakening from me, though, because I’m counting down the minutes until I can tell dear old Dad to get fucked.
After what feels like for-fucking-ever, Stacia emerges, bringing my attention back to the here and now. The nurse directs her to step onto the scale and marks down the three-digit number on the display screen. “Okay, you can go ahead and have a seat, Ms. Kellan.”
My heart thumps angrily at the nurse calling her that—which is absurd. Kellan is her last name, but over the past few weeks, my inner-caveman has been whispering to me, begging me to lock her ass down with a ring and a new last name—my last name.
