Sam shot up, his tablet clattering to the ground and the blankets pooling at his waist. His gaze went from Sunday morning sexy to serious. "What? What do you mean? I know, but what—or, when? How long? Are you sure? I mean—"
"Eleven weeks. Maybe twelve. I don't know exactly. I must have lost track," I said. I pointed over my shoulder, toward the bathroom. "I'm not sure but I just took five tests and they're all positive and I think…I think we're having a baby. But it's still early. Anything could happen."
Sam vaulted out of the bed and towed me into the bathroom. I watched as his eyes raked over the row of positives. He turned to face me, his expression at once soft and wild, and he brought his hands to my cheeks.
"Tiel," he whispered, his lips pressed to my forehead. His hands shifted to my shoulders, down my arms, and settled on my waist. He dropped to his knees, pushed my t-shirt up, and ran his palm between my hips. His eyes were bright, and it wasn't until that exact moment that I felt the gravity of all those double positives. "Will you ever stop surprising me?"
"It was a surprise to me, too," I said. I dragged my fingers through his hair and canted his head to meet my eyes. "It's still early."
"Don't do that." Sam wrapped his arms around my waist, his face pressed to my belly. "It's early, but it's notthatearly."
21
Sam
November
The waiting was the worst.
We were now squarely in second trimester territory but the earliest available appointment with Tiel's doctor wasn't until later this week. The near-eternal wait was torture made tolerable only by the ridiculous names Tiel routinely proposed—we werenotnaming our baby Amadeus—and Riley's insistence that he could call one of his "gynecologist friends" who could squeeze us in for a last-minute appointment.
I was absolutely certain that "gynecologist friend" was another way of saying "vagina enthusiast."
Between me and Tiel, we were doing a marvelous job at freaking the fuck out over every tiny thing, too. We debated whether we were tempting fate by adding to the baby t-shirt collection or sketching designs for a bassinet, but never came to a conclusion.
Last week, shescreamedfor me while she was in the shower. The nine steps from the bed to the bathroom shaved years off my life but I gained them all back when I found her tracing the small belly that popped seemingly overnight.
Then, in a fit of panic after Tiel slept on and off for an entire weekend, I reached out to Nick for his expert opinion.
He assured me Tiel's doctor was thorough and worth the wait. "That's who I'd want treating my wife," he said. "But listen to me, man—do notlose your shit. Do not get on the internet and read terrible things from Doctor Google. Do not hover around her and piss yourself about everything she eats, says, or does. Do not show her that you're off your rocker, because you need to be the level-headed one here."
"I'm notoff my rocker," I snapped.
"Fuck yes, you are," he drawled. "You called me because your wife issleeping. Leave her alone. Pregnant women need sleep. Growing a person is exhausting work. D'you disagree?"
"No, but—"
"There is nothin' else to it, man," Nick said.
He rattled off all the precautions that I'd memorized from my first read of the baby books, as well as the warning signs. As if I didn't know those, too. He offered some statistics that were meant to be comforting but left me agonizing over the dark side of those numbers.
All of this rendered me completely useless at the office. I had a pile of new properties in need of design, and several consultation requests that merited attention, but I couldn't find my focus. I was staring out the window when my door rattled open and Shannon called to me in greeting.
"I need to sit for a few minutes before I go back down to my office," she said, out of breath. She dropped to the leather sofa and propped her feet on my pillows. In the process, her phone slipped out of her hands and she swore under her breath.
"I got it," I said, rounding my desk and fetching the device from under the coffee table. "How's Froggie today?"
Shannon smiled and rubbed her belly. "Froggie might be an expert break dancer, or a ninja warrior. Either way, this kid has all the moves."
I'd never seen a more pregnant woman in my life. People frequently asked whether she was having twins or triplets, and she always responded with a pleasant offer to suck her dick. Several weeks ago, Riley asked whether she thought another baby was hiding in there, one the doctor hadn't noticed. She kicked him out of the Monday morning status meeting for that comment.
She was due any day now, and for the most part, she was upbeat despite her obvious discomfort. She'd permanently ditched the heels in favor of flats, and couldn't sit through a meeting without a meal. I made the mistake of mentioning that she was eating like a Hobbit once, and she said her husband would make my body disappear if I ever mentioned it again.
So noted.
"What are you doing up here?" I asked, a vague wave toward the hallway I shared with Patrick and Andy. Aside from the attic conference room, this was the quietest part of the office, far away from the bullpen chaos of where Shannon's staff resided. "Isn't everyone required to come to your office?"
She made an impatient, snarling sound and adjusted the cushions again. "I was beginning to forget what it looked like up here," she said. "And my husband is parked in my office because he, in his commando wisdom, believes Froggie is making an appearance today, and he's driving me up the motherfucking wall."
