Attempting to become less of a burden, I plotted out my days in precise detail—ensuring I wouldn’t have to ask him to do anything for me. But he would inevitably find something to yell about.
And even after I finally left him, I still found myself grateful for Jack in my lowest, most insecure moments in the year that followed. Thankful that I had learned at leastsomeonewould want me. That I was capable of being loved.
That scared me far worse than Jack’s temper ever did. The power that I had given him to validate my desirability. The power Icouldgive to someone else if I was foolish enough. So I decided I wouldn’t give anyone that power ever again. Not until I love myself enough that someone’s favour—or disfavour—won’t turn the tide.
It’s taken me almost four years to get back to a place of neutrality and vague acceptance of myself. Some days, like on Halloween, I think I’m beautiful. Inside and out. Other times, I hear Jack’s voice in my head, the cruelty in his aloof, melancholic drawl, telling me how useless I am… and I believe it.
But I learned to not trust those thoughts once, and I can do it again. I’m going tohaveto do it again. Because what comes next is an entirely new challenge. One that will require all my confidence. The very best of me.
Tomorrow, I’ll give myself permission to try and fail. I’ll start planning and overthinking strategies for motherhood that are adaptable. I’ll begin stockpiling baby clothes with easy fasteners, researching hands-free wraps and carriers, and plan on testing strollers and car seats.
But for today, I’ll pretend that it won’t be an issue at all. I’ll let myself feel like anyone else who just found out they’re pregnant unexpectedly. I’ll feel giddy and terrified and nervous for all the usual reasons without adding further baggage on top. I can give myself today.
Doing just that, I sink farther into the bath and daydream. Eyes closed, with my hair flowing around me like ink in water. My ears under the surface blocking out the sounds from surrounding apartments, muffling Fleetwood Mac’s “Songbird” until it’s nothing but a softened lullaby.
I imagine a small, sweet newborn laid across my chest in here with me. I think of the many baths we’ll take together. All the wonderful things we’ll do together. The sleepless nights and the tantrums and the teething and all the other things parents worry about. But mostly, I think of the good. The bedtime stories and slow, sunbeam-filled mornings. The walks to the park where we pick dandelions or skip stones at the beach. The cuddles, the warmth, and the sanctity of loving someone more than myself.
And I tell myself, over and over and over again, that Icando this. Until, eventually, I feel like it’s at least a little true.
CHAPTER 8
Nine Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of a grape.
Inhalingfeelsnearlyimpossibleas I approach the end of the counter to pick up my order. Everything on the café’s menu sounded disgusting. Just as most foods have for the last week. Even better, when the foodisacceptable to my brain, Istillthrow it up later.
Doctor Salim calls it morning sickness, as if it doesn’t happen every hour of the damn day. She did say it would most likely stop in the second trimester, and I pray she’s right.
But today’s nausea is not from the tiny baby growing inside me. No,thisis the result of a week spent mulling over an imaginary conversation and still not being sure of what to say when Bo arrives. It’s from not knowing how he’ll respondorwhat my reaction to his response will be.
Granted, my emotionshavebeen extremely up and down—again, to be expected—but this conversation is pit-in-your-stomach, sweating-when-it’s-cold-out scary.
During this past week, I’ve begun attempting to calm myself with a peaceful visualisation entirely from my imagination. Me, on the beach in July. My bellyhuge,sticking out far past my bikini, and my brightly painted toes pressed into the sand, with a warm breeze blowing my hair off my face. I have both hands on my stomach, feeling the baby kicking up a storm as the seagulls fly overhead and the waves crash ashore.
I think, deep down, I’m reminding myself that either way, it will be okay. I’ll still have me, the beach, and this baby come summertime, even if Bo reacts poorly. Even if he wants nothing to do with us. I’ll still have my peace. I just might have to work a little harder for it.
I thank the barista, taking my London Fog to a small round table tucked away in the most private corner of the café. I sit facing the door and wait for the blond giant to arrive, fighting the urge to flee through the back exit or a bathroom window.
It was a little embarrassing to have to ask Bo to grab coffee, considering the last time we were together, he was getting dressed to leavemomentsafter he’d been inside of me.
I’m sure he was under the same impression I was—that we’d never see or hear from each other again. There would be no follow-up, no dates, certainly no coffee meet-ups on a random Sunday morning two months later. But he agreed to meet me. So that’s a start. Enthusiastically so, actually.
ME: Hey Bo, this is Win. The other pirate from Halloween… I was wondering if you’d be free to grab coffee this weekend?
BO: Win, hey. You didn’t have to follow up your name. I remember you, obviously. And yeah, I’m up for grabbing coffee. Do you know Saints on Cosgrove Ave? Sunday at ten?
The café door chimes, and in walks the unknowing father-to-be. And dammit,he’s even more gorgeous when he’s not dressed as a swashbuckler. He’s got on a long beige sport coat and scarf with a green knitted sweater underneath. Black jeans with matching black boots. His beard is a little longer than it was on Halloween, and his hair is still just as unruly. He waves at me from the doorway as he kicks the snow off his boots, a broad smile overtaking his face. Then he points to the counter, silently asking,do you want anything?
I hold up my mug in response. He throws me a thumbs-up, turning toward the barista to order.
Poor guy has no idea his whole life is about to change.
I realise, suddenly, that I’m the Doctor Salim in this situation. I have to try to remain cool, factual, and compassionate. Butshit, I don’t know if I can be. I’m still reeling too. And I’m flustered around him. I’ve run into past hookups accidentally. The city isn’tsobig. But I’ve always been able to play it off. This, I certainly can’t play off. There’s nothingcool or casual about this.
Eventually, he makes his way over with a wide-mouthed mug and a plate filled with three different pastries. I grind my teeth, wondering if he’ll wish he’d gotten them to-go.
“I thought we could share these,” Bo says, setting the plate on the table between us. “And, uh, hi,” he chimes warmly, lowering into the seat across from me, unwinding his brown scarf. “This was a pleasant surprise.”
“Hi,” I force out. My voice already has theI’m so sorrylilt to it. “Um, how are you?” I ask.
