“Hey,” Emerson says sternly when I don’t respond positively enough for his liking. “I mean it. You look amazing. I know it’s cliché to say this to a pregnant woman, but you really are glowing.”
“It’s the anniversary of that time I almost died getting an ovary removed, so it makes sense that I look like I’m glowing now.”
Emerson winces. “But you didn’t die. And now you . . .” He gestures at my belly. “You’re making new life, Tilly.”
“Yep.” I reach for the zipper of the bag, and Emerson steps back to give me some room.
Emerson’s not usually one to give space, so it’s not all that surprising when he takes a breath like he’s about to say more, only to hesitate another second before finally asking, “Are you still sure you don’t want to find the guy? I’ve got people for that sort of thing, you know. I bet if we went through security footage, hotel registration, something, we’d be able to find him.”
With a pained look, I push the garment bag off to reveal the costume. Titan’s base costume has that traditional red and blue aesthetic, but he’s a more modern superhero. He goes through a lot of shit, and he’s a magical character, more like a Superman or a Captain Marvel, so he’s got a bit of a chameleon thing going on. In the next movie, things are going to get really gritty, and they wanted a costume that reflects that. So I shifted the colors, warmed them and muddied them, pushing the royal blue into that bastard no man’s land between blue and purple and made the red an unpleasant shade reminiscent of burnt tomato soup. Early in my career, I would have had concerns about this and checked with the lead costumer a dozen times. I’m not like that anymore, though. They told me gritty, I came up with this.
I say nothing as Emerson examines it with a pleased smile and several agreeable nods. He likes the costume, and he’s been so successful with the franchise and has taken on enough producer and director slots that his word is final most of the time.
I’m thinking it’s enough of a distraction that he won’t push his question again, but then he says, “Seriously. Just ask. These things happen; just be thankful you have access to the type of people who can figure it out. I know these guys in Orlando who—”
“I don’t want to know. I . . . he was really nice to me. It was a good night. I know I shouldn’t have been taking men up to that suite, but—”
Emerson turns on me, and the way he pivots puts us close enough that his abs brush lightly over my baby bump. Usually, little touches like that make me heat up. The pregnancy has my hormones all over the place, so there are a lot of times when I really don’t even care who touches me and I’m irritated that most men steer clear of me now. But Emerson’s touch hasn’t done anything for me since I got pregnant. I care about him, love him in my own way, even, I just don’t feel the spark anymore.
“Hey, I don’t judge you,” he says brusquely. “I never have. You wanted to have a good time and I couldn’t be there, so you had a good time with someone else. I wish it could have been me, but it couldn’t be.” He rests his hand on my stomach, and it feels no different from Joss’s or Cora’s hand. Which I guess is a good thing because man, I hate everyone thinking they can grope me these days. But it’s Emerson. He’s fine.
He’s safe.
He’s a friend.
“If this guy was so nice, don’t you think he’d want to know if he’s about to be a father?”
“He’s not about to be a father.” I pace away, glad that Emerson agreed to meet me at Cora’s studio when he initially offered to come to my place to pick the costume up. I lied and told him the landlord was having some renovations done, and then I lied and told Cora it was an optics thing for Emerson,that he didn’t want to risk the paparazzi seeing him fly into Wilmington just to hop into one of his contract workers’ apartments for a couple hours and then fly back out.
Since Cora doesn’t know that Emerson and I have been having an affair for the last three years, she was confused but agreed.
I make myself busy at one of the workbenches, squatting down and looking through one of the drawers like I’m looking for something for the fitting when he hasn’t even put it on yet. “Hewasa really nice guy, so I don’t doubt that if he found out I was pregnant, he’d want to help. He’d probably bend over backwards to take care of the baby and me. But I didn’t give him a chance to make that choice for himself. I chose to keep the baby, and I knew that meant I’d be raising the baby by myself. And if . . . if you think that means I’m expecting anything from you, I promise I’m not.”
Confusion furrows his brow, but then he shakes his head with a startled “Oh!” He laughs. “No, of course not. You let me know if you need anything, and I will be happy to help. I think it’s great if you want to do this on your own. It’s only, I’m concerned . . .”
He trails off with another frustrated shake of his head. He’s a handsome man, the yearly lists of hottest celebrities always confirm that, but missing from that is the fact that even now, he’s wearing foundation. His jet black hair doesn’t move. He’s got a Mediterranean complexion, but he gets a professional spray tan to make sure it stays rich and even.
I do like Emerson. I think he’s a good person. He’s been far more generous with me than he needs to be. Cameras don’t come with him when he uses his celebrity to brighten a sick child’s day. He donates anonymously. But if we ever did try to have a real relationship, he’d drive me crazy in a month.
Which means I can’t stress enough how grateful I truly am for the fact that, although I’d never tell him or anyone else this, he basically saved my life long before any doctor did because I was in a corner I didn’t see any way out of for a long time.
“You’re concerned I don’t have enough money to support a child without your help and I don’t have a career that a child fits into?”
Emerson winces at the truth of it. “I would never say—”
“What you and everyone else is thinking? No, because you’re a good man, and good men don’t say mean things like that to pregnant women. I’m going to get a lot of help, Em. I’ve got money saved up, and I have all these projects that I have long deadlines on. Joss is going to give me some hours at the shop, and since she’s only a couple months behind me, we’ll be able to tag-team babysitting. It’s going to be tight. I’m working with my sister to see if there’s a way for her to chip in on dad’s expenses, but it’s going to work out, like it always does.”
That last bit tasted like the truth, even if nothing else of what I said did. Well, I am going to help Joss out. That was the truth too. But somehow, I’m sure everything will work out.
And I don’t feel cheap at all when, three hours later, Emerson gives me a check for three times what I quoted him for the suit. I didn’t ask for the money, after all.
The funny thing about getting pregnant and going on prenatal vitamins a couple months after finishing up six rounds of chemo is that hair is a total crapshoot.
Legs? Hair. Arms? No hair. I have a moustache that was never so dramatic before. I’m thankful Igot my brows microbladed before the chemo because I could have never justified the cost now, but yeah, apparently that hair all marched down to my lip. And my head?
So far, I’ve gotten less than three inches of growth, it’s the sickliest shade in between brown-black and gray, the texture has changed from a more relaxed curl to tight springs, and it’s growing in about as evenly as a mangy dog.
I’ve got a decent collection of wigs. When I was first diagnosed and had to notify the production company I was working for that I was going to have to break my contract so I could come back to Wilmington for chemo, I had one of my good luck moments. The head of HR’s brother was also going through chemo, and she was sympathetic. She gave me my full pay, promised she’d hire me back whenever I was ready, and donated a box of wigs that they no longer needed.
