Now.
Sure. The same way you were going to tell me that you’re seeing other men?
Are you accusing me of cheating?
He shrugs.
That shrug alone tells me that he saw all of it indifferently. Indifferent to meeting me. Indifferent to our arrangement as long as he got what he wants. Indifferent to the night we shared that I thought everything was real. Indifferent to the baby growing inside of me that is very much without a doubt his.
So, no. As much as I love that studio, I can’t just go back in there. And it kills me.
“My in-home studio is fine,” I tell Noah over the phone. “It’s nothing like what you have. But the work will get done and the audios will be clean, and you won’t be disappointed.”
“I know you won't disappoint me. It’s just…” he trails off and I sigh, pushing away from my desk.
“Just what, Noah?”
“He’s trying really hard.”
“And?”
“And usually when a person in a relationship tries hard the other one should give in a little. Push and pull, you know?”
“He doesn’t want his child,” I say flatly.
“Did he say that?”
“Not in those words no. But it was obvious he wasn’t happy.”
“There! You see? He didn’t actually say those words. Men are complicated creatures, Amanda. It was a lot to process. And now that he’s had time, he’s ready to talk.”
I shove up from my seat. I’m obviously not getting any more work done today, not with Callum’s idealist bestie on my case. “I have put everything into this job. I have sacrificed a lot. I’ve made promises to him I never should have made all so that his face and his name weren’t jeopardized. I never wanted to go to that stupid auction. I didn’t raise my paddle on purpose. I didn’t want him to pay for the date. I didn’t think working together was a good idea once I realized who he was, and I almost turned the job down. I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant. So, excuse me for not wanting to talk it out. I’m done talking it out. “
Noah audibly sighs but I hold my ground. Callum has a good best friend, that’s for sure. But it doesn’t change the way I feel.
“I got you,” he says softly. “Just let me know when the demo is done. I’m sure it’ll be fire.”
After we hang up, I look around the room. It’s just that– a literal spare room of a two-bedroom apartment. It’s a nice apartment for sure. Modern, chic, clean. The main area of the room has a desk against the window. One wall lined with records and books and artwork. Another wall lined with guitars. There’s a keyboard. A mixer. A violin and a cello. An Alesis drum set with audio. The walk-in closet is soundproofed and set up with mics and recording equipment.
Is it Hardin material? No.
Is it a damn good makeshift studio for a freelance songwriter? Absofuckinglutely.
I set my notebook aside and turn off the soundboard. I should probably take a break anyway. I need to eat something, or I am going to get nauseous. I have always had a considerably healthy relationship with food. I don’t do trend or crash diets, but I don’t overindulge either. I listen to my body and try to eat well with treats here and there. I drink a lot of water and tea. Am I society’s idea of what a woman should look like? Probably not. I’m no Kate. I’m not thin and blonde. But I’m happy. Healthy. Me.
And right now, my body is telling me to eat. Problematically, as I browse the fridge, I realize I haven’t done a lot of grocery shopping recently. Part of that has been from getting used to working at home again. The other part is stress. But the little person inside of me likes to let me know that if I don’t eat, and eat well, I am going to get sick. Iris is also good at reminding me of that. Daily, in fact. And speaking of Iris…
A soft knock raps on the front door before it opens. She walks in with grocery bags and a smile full of her usual put together energy.
“Good afternoon,” she says, setting everything down on the counter. “I brought sandwiches that I made with homemade sourdough. I read an article saying that pregnant womenshouldn’t eat cold cuts? So, I made vegetarian but with plenty of hummus so that you get enough protein. I also brought some lemon bars because they sounded good and of course jalapeno kettle chips because I know they’re your guilty pleasure.”
“You are the best,” I tell Iris, hugging her before tearing into the chips. “Do you think spicy food is bad when you’re pregnant?” I ask after crunching down on one.
“Maybe for heartburn? I say if you can stomach it, eat it.”
“I love you,” I say with a full mouth. We move to the couch to enjoy our lunch which is beyond amazing. I also make sure my water bottle is full and sip between bites so that the texture of the different veggies doesn’t weird me out. Don’t get me wrong, I love veggies. All the veggies prepared all the ways. But apparently, pregnancy and textures don’t blend. For an Iris sandwich though, I’ll find a loophole.
“So how have things been? Has he stopped hounding you so you can decide how you feel?”
