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Chapter Thirty
Josephine
We’ve passed the ‘Honeymoon Phase’ of pregnancy and have entered the third trimester. It’s a brief respite from the changes of the last two trimesters. I’m sleeping more soundly, and more sleep means more energy. Taking advantage of my surge in oomph, I’ve gotten a jump start on many of my engineering designs for upcoming renovations and building projects this summer.
The problem is everything in my life feels like a project that needs to be finished. I may only be thirty weeks along, but I’ve officially entered the nesting period. I want everything done, and I want it done now.
Work on the restaurant remodel is coming along nicely. It’s a fairly extensive project, with the size of the establishment we are working in. Gutting and reinforcing the old building structure took up most of January. Re-insulating the ceiling and walls was a priority during the winter months—none of my crew members wanted to work in an icebox. I had to reconfigure my design when a potential electrical issue came up in the kitchen, but I got it handled quickly. Last week we started plumbing and now we’re on to cosmetics.
With my vigor back in full swing, Maceo and I went baby registry shopping. The sales clerk handed each of us a scanner, her first mistake. Her second mistake was leaving us unattended in the baby store. Our registry somehow turned into a laser tag fight. We managed to scan all our desired items before we were asked to leave—apparently, some shoppers complained about our juvenile behavior. We laughed about it all the way home.
The nursery has become my new favorite project. Normally, I would decorate myself, but things like painting the walls and moving furniture are not safe in my condition. I would have recruited Jared or one of my workers to assist me, but Maceo wanted to be as involved as a partner can get.
He painted the walls a faint blue, which I instantly hated—pastels have never been favorites in my designs. Without muttering a single grumble, Maceo repainted the wall a flat navy—a much better option. He then went ahead and assembled both cribs, moving the furniture in without me asking.
I kind of liked sitting on my butt and watching him do all the heavy lifting. Doesn’t hurt that he’s built like a gladiator and hot to boot.
When Maceo’s home, he attends every one of my four appointments between my OB/GYN, prenatal specialist, and dietician. If he’s preoccupied with work, my mom comes in his stead.
Maceo continues to have a packed schedule. The crew has started shift rotations to keep up with the demands of the job. Along with paid assignments and identifying Opal’s abuser, the crew is tracking probable locations Esteban may reside in Colombia and the surrounding countries based on some old maps they found on their last mission. It’s a giant checklist, going through each location and finding out who owns it. So far, nothing suspicious has come across, but the guys are hopeful.
Life is busy, but today I’m taking a much-needed break from the grind. It’s Sunday—Romcom day. This is the only time I kick back and binge-watch Netflix for a few hours while pampering myself. Maceo is not a fan, which is fine because Punk is. Neither Simone nor any of the other girls could join us, all being conveniently unavailable today. I’m pretty sure they’re planning me a baby shower, so I didn’t press it.
After Punk and I apply the first cream in our facial process, the two of us sit with the dogs in the living room watchingPretty in Pink. I’ve been listening to him bitch the last twenty minutes about how the good guy never gets the girl in these movies while he selfishly eats Twizzlers next to me.
My eyes follow hungrily as Punk lifts the twirling strand of sugary-goodness towards his greedy, candy-loving mouth. My mouth salivates with the urge to stuff my face full.
My fingers manage to snag one from the bag, but it’s quickly knocked out of my hand. “Ow.”
“No, Jo. Twizzlers are not your friend.”
“I beg to differ.” I reach for another one.
Punk snags the bag away from me. “What is wrong with you? You can’t have sugar. It’s bad for your‘betes.”
My arms fold in a huff.Stupid gestational diabetes.
Man, it’s odd. I haven’t wanted sugar since I became pregnant. But recently…it’s like my body is screaming for it. These cravings are going to be the death of me.
The more I think about it, the stranger it seems. My numbers have been consistently good when I test my blood sugar. Maceo had said there should be a spike occasionally, especially after I eat. There is a slight jump after meals, but I haven’t had any seriously out of whack readings. When I asked if he thought my test meter was faulty, he had Flay get me a new one. It was apparent after a handful of days, my numbers were no different between the meters.
“Do you think I could’ve had a false positive on my glucose screening?”
Punk stops picking at his facial mask to look at me with narrowed eyes. “Huh?”
“I think I may not have the‘betes.” I explain my sugar cravings after having aversions to it and how my numbers are terrific.
He scratches his bic’d-razor head. “It does seem strange. Maybe talk to your doctor about it before jumping to conclusions? He may want you to retake the test because of everything you describe?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll do that first,” I say, sinking into the back of the couch. “Guess I’m just hopeful because I miss sweets.”
Punk gives me a sympathetic smile. “I got just the thing to get your mind off the sugar. Let's turn on some music.”
My ears perk up. “Angry punk music?” I ask hopefully. He knows I have a weakness for it, especially 80s British punk rock.
“Of course!” He grabs my phone and connects it to the Bluetooth speaker on the end-table. Billy Idol blares out around the room and Punk starts doing the sprinkler.
I laugh like a loon, watching him bust a move.
