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It’s easier than trying to explain to him why my life has fallen apart.
How even with a life jacket of him wanting to support me and be part of this child’s life…
I am forever drowning.
Fifteen
Ava
The moment my pregnancy leaks, the media outlets hound me relentlessly.
I’m forced to stay home for two weeks as Eric deals with the media storm. Of course, the biggest question on everyone’s mind is the father, and the lengths reporters go to is downright disgusting.
It’s expected of Olivier to be presumed the father. But that isn’t enough for them, and speculations include a list of men I’ve never even met.
Once again, I’m labeled the party girl who enjoys her men. They couldn’t be further from the truth.
My parents worry over my well-being, insisting I fly home and stay with them until things settle. Both of them, more notably my father, have had their share of media scrutiny. I recall being in middle school when curiosity got the better of me, and I googled our family. At the time, Millie wanted no part of my nosy findings, preferring to keep the perfect image of our family in her head exactly that—perfect.
Not me, though. I read article after article, fascinated with the media’s depiction of my parents’ marriage. So it didn’t surprise me that Dad was always dragged into some cheating scandal. Though from memory, there was one story about Mom having an affair with our pool boy. That was funny because we didn’t have a pool boy. Our gardener, John, was like sixty at the time and happily married. He occasionally cleaned the pool, but Dad had one of those expensive cleaning systems which cleaned it automatically.
Yet I’ve spent enough time in the spotlight over the years to know this will blow over, eventually. The media will get bored of me, and they are looking for any story to make a dime at the end of the day.
I choose to stay in Manhattan since this is my mess to clean up, and I can’t run to my parents every time something goes wrong. However, I did ask them to postpone dinner with myself and Austin for a few more weeks, just until the air settles and the paparazzi lose interest in me.
In my own forced isolation, I manage to keep busy, spending my days working. It’s incredible how much you can get done when you’re not distracted by lunches and social outings, or even Eric inside your office complaining his back is sore from yoga because he was too busy staring at the yoga instructor's ass and bent the wrong way.
Beyond working, I spend a lot of time online shopping, figuring out what I need for the baby. I text Mom often, asking for advice. Between her and Aunt Adriana, they give me a list that I need to make sure is ticked off before the baby comes.
As for Austin, he is busy with work as usual. After my argument with him, things are dicey between us. He didn’t press further, and when TMZ revealed I am pregnant, I suggested he stay away from me so that he doesn’t get dragged into this right now.
But this circus show can only go so far.
When I woke up this morning, I decided to take matters into my own hands and take a selfie. I’m sitting on my sofa, opting not to glam up with my hair in a messy bun. The outfit I’m wearing is a white boho dress with spaghetti straps, cute yet simplistic. With my legs crossed, I cradle my bump, gazing lovingly at my stomach while my phone clicks, taking snaps.
Without telling anyone, including Eric, I post it on my social media channels with the caption ‘Baby.’
I turn my phone off, willing the impending calls to go to voicemail, then take my tea and a book out onto my terrace. I miss coffee so much, and tea can never compare to the glorious taste of caffeine. Out of everything, more than alcohol, coffee has been the hardest thing to give up.
Oh, and sex.
Lately, I’ve fallen into this habit lately of reading romance, which doesn’t help me since I have no partner to ravage. The steamier the book, the more sexually charged I become. It’s so frustrating, like an itch I can’t scratch. I’m sure this is why you should be married when pregnant. It has gotten to the point that I’m too scared to take matters into my own hands or use my trusty toys, worried I’ll hurt the baby. It’s all weird but doesn’t stop the damn ache below, which refuses to subside.
As I get comfortable on the lounge chair, a slight sensation taps on my stomach. I place my hands on my belly for the flutter to happen again though it is bizarre as I can’t feel it with my hands. I thought I felt something a few days ago but narrowed it down to gas.
Quickly retrieving my phone, I turn it on, ignoring the constant pinging from messages, including a shouty capitals text from Eric saying CALL ME NOW!, to dial Austin’s number.
“Hey,” is all he says.
“How do you know when the baby moves?”
“The kicks? I’ve heard patients tell me it’s like a flutter. Then, as you progress, they become real kicks.”
“I think the baby moved.”
“It did?”
“I think so. I don’t know. It should be moving by now, right?”
