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“Thank you,” I respond in the same bland tone.
I make sure to walk slowly enough so she can get a good look at the art on the walls and the boxes of yet to be put together baby swings and bouncy chairs leaning up against the furniture.
“So it’s true then.”
I don’t have to ask what she’s referring to.
“Yes.”
There’s already a steaming kettle on the table with the box that holds the array of teas Mrs. Jones keeps on hand. My mug…I can only assume it’s my mug…is already steaming with the bag tied to the handle, the soft creamy beige color confirming it’s my favorite caramel chamomile with a splash of milk.
“Thank you,” I sigh sincerely in Amelia's direction before slipping into my chair. “You take such good care of me.”
The seats are arranged around a corner of the table so that the chairs face each other, half angled from the table so whoever is sitting there can have a conversation without the space of a table built for twelve between them.
“I’ll just be in the other room, child,” Mrs. Jones warns, then leans down to place a kiss on my brow. “Yell for me, if I’m needed.”
The threat is clear.
I bite my lip and tip my chin down, so my smile isn’t so obvious.
Awkward.
This is so,souncomfortable. Mrs. Lancaster doctors a cup of stiff black tea, then never lifts it to her lips. I won’t be the one to break this stalemate; she came to me after all. But the rising tension levels are making me sick to my stomach. I’m uncomfortably aware of my appearance. I look a hot mess with my hair curly and falling from its bun, my paint-splattered leggings, and an old shirt of Remi’s he didn’t mind sacrificing to the cause.
Even my paint smocks are becoming too tight on my ever-growing body.
“Have you been well?” she finally asks.
I almost jump in my seat. We’ve been sitting in silence for so long that I momentarily forgot she was here for a reason.
“Um…yes,” I confirm and bring my tea to my lips if only to give my hands something to do. “I didn’t really have any morning sickness or typical first-trimester problems. We were all ignorant of the pregnancy until I got appendicitis.Thatwas a conversation, I assure you,” I say with a chuckle.
She tightens her face and hums.
“Now it’s just the random aches and pains and my overstimulated nose,” I continue. “I can smell everything, and very little of it is enjoyable. Oh,” I add as an afterthought. “Let’s not forget the peeing every hour.”
Did I—
I did.
I don’t know why I just said that. A blush creeps up my cheeks, but I don’t hide my face from her. A small smile tips her lips up, and I wonder if she’s remembering something from her own pregnancy.
“They tell me the child belongs to Remington.”
My hackles raise, and I tighten my fist on the ceramic mug until my fingers go numb.
“Our child belongs to nobody. No,” I shake my head. “Our child is ours. Together. She will have two fathers who adore her and a mother who would die to keep her safe. Her skin tone does not matter to any of us. The fact that you’d even ask such an impertinent question proves you’ve learned nothing over the last six months.”
She flinches, and I get a sick sense of satisfaction knowing I’ve made her uncomfortable.
“It’s a girl?”
I have to give it to the old bag, she’s determined when she wants something.
Of course, I already knew that, didn’t I? My nails tap on the table, nervous energy pouring off me in waves.
“Yes,” I say with pride. “A perfectly healthy baby girl, sitting uncomfortably high, using my ribcage as a pull-up bar and running a little large for her gestational age. Which makes perfect sense if you take a look at her fathers.”
