“That you still ugly, mother fucker.”
We all couldn’t help but laugh at Jason’s crazy ass. This trio really needed to rethink labeling Desmond, the funny one.
“Who said either of you was the godfather?” Gage questioned. “I do have a brother, remember?” Gage interrupted.
“Fuck that, nigga!” they responded in unison.
“Aight, then I’m the best man at you and Mahasin’s wedding,” Jason said, staking claim on an imaginary event.
“And what about Paris?” I asked, being messy.
“Fuck that nigga too!” they replied.
I suppressed my chuckle and pretended to be invested in the view. We were pulling up to a private boutique specializing in maternity styling. Tru, the owner and celebrity runway designer, had designed my gown for the baby shower, and I just knew she was going to have me looking like a goddess.
Gage parked in one of the private shopper spaces and looked over at me. His eyes were soft, the kind that lingered. Lately, he’d been looking at me like it was the first time every time. Rubbing my massive stomach, he leaned in and started talking to my belly—something he’d been doing a lot more lately. It used to just be during appointments, but now he did it everywhere: when we stopped on the sidewalk so I could catch my breath, when I went too long without eating, and he’d ask my belly what it wanted for lunch like the baby could order it, and sometimes he’d even sing old-school R&B songs to my stomach.
I loved that he was already in love with our baby, but part of me wanted to believe he loved me too.
“Be good to Mommy in there,” he whispered to the top of my stomach.
“Gage, please, you know she starts kicking crazy once she hears your voice.”
“She knows who Daddy is.” He paused, voice dropping low. “Just like her mama.”
“What’d you say?” I asked, pretending not to hear the last part.
“I’ll wait out here,” he said, daring not to repeat himself. “Call me when you’re done—I’ll come grab the bags.”
“You sure?” I asked. “I may be in there a while.” Part of me wanted him to come inside with me. And if I asked, he would. But I was becoming too attached.
“Yeah.” He tapped the steering wheel. “I’m gonna finish talking to these clowns.”
“Wow, we clowns now?” Jason said. I had forgotten they were still on the phone.
I grinned, unbuckled my seat belt, and tried to maneuver my belly out of the car. Gage was at my door before I could even open it. He helped me out and adjusted my clothes, which somehow always twisted out of place these days.
“You good?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I promised.
He bent and kissed my cheek—just below my ear. Somehow, that had become my soft spot. “Call me. Don’t try to carry those bags. My card’s already on file,” he instructed.
Like a lovesick puppy, I walked inside the boutique.
I tugged the gown over my head. It was gorgeous—chocolate brown silk, high neckline, open back, and tailored to curve around my stomach with a slight train. Tru lived up to her name when it came to fabric and thread. No one could out-sew this girl. When God was handing out talent, He hit her three timesin the clothing-making department. So, I had no worries, right? There was no reason I wouldn’t look and feel beautiful.
And with the $3,500 price tag, feeling cheap wasn’t an option.
But when I turned my big ass around in that mirror and caught my reflection, the breath left me.
I looked like a big-ass walrus. Just brown and round. My face was puffy, my breasts fuller, and where the fuck was my neck? My throat burned from the scream I held back. Shifting the fabric was pointless. I didn’t want anything off the shelves, and Tru was booked until March—there was no time to make another dress.
Here came these fucking tears.
You're growing life, Mahasin. Your body is doing something magnificent, and you are beautiful, I told myself as I practiced my breathing. You are a goddess. A beautiful flower. A... a—fucking quarterback in a gown.
And now I was officially in the dressing room sobbing—loudly and unapologetically.
