He studies me for a long breath. Like he’s making sure I mean it. Like he’s trying not to get ahead of himself even though he already is.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
The smile he gives me isn’t triumphant. It’s not even confident. It’s relieved. Almost tender.
“Okay,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I’ll stay.”
twenty
. . .
Natalie
The dressing roommirror is unforgiving.
I’m twenty-one weeks now, almost five and a half months, and apparently that’s the point at which your body decides subtlety is no longer an option. Last week at the anatomy scan, I could still button my regular jeans if I didn’t breathe too deeply. This week? Not a chance.
I’m staring down at my sixth pair of jeans, the button several inches away from success, and I give up. Fully surrender. White flag.
My belly has officially rounded out. There’s no hiding it anymore, no strategically oversized sweaters that can disguise the curve. And the weird part? I’m ecstatic about it. Seeing this physical proof that our daughter is growing, thriving, real. But I’m also frustrated because nothing in my closet fits and I refuse to live in leggings for the next four months.
“These don’t fit either,” I call through the curtain.
Stella’s voice floats back. “None of them?”
“None of them.”
“What about the stretchy ones?”
“Those are maternity jeans, Stella. I’m not ready for maternity jeans.”
“Why not? You’re literally pregnant.”
I yank the curtain open dramatically, the too-small jeans unbuttoned and clinging to me out of pure spite. “Because maternity jeans feel like…admitting something.”
She’s leaned back against the wall scrolling her phone, but she lifts her eyes, one brow raised. “Admitting what? That you’re growing a whole human? Newsflash, babe, the evidence is literally right there.” She gestures at my stomach.
“Admitting my body is changing. That I’m not in control anymore.”
Stella softens immediately. The teasing vanishes, replaced by full best-friend gentleness. “Your body is doing the most important job of your life. It’s supposed to change.”
“I know that. In my brain. My brain is Zen about it.”
“And the rest of you?”
I sigh. “Freaking out.”
“Then let’s get jeans that actually fit instead of torturing yourself. Suffering isn’t a personal virtue.” She plucks a few pairs off the rack. “Here. These are cute and stretchy, but in a good way.’”
I take them and disappear again. The first pair slips on without a fight. They look good. Normal. Like maybe I haven’t turned into a bloated marshmallow.
“These work,” I call.
“Show me!”
I step out. She gives a satisfied nod. “Get them in black, dark wash, light wash, and whatever that fourth color is.”
