Oh my God with the baby-daddy bit. She wanted to claw off his hat and run it through a shredder.
“How do you feel about using a different term?” she asked. Something less annoying that held a bigger punch.
“You don’t like ‘baby daddy’?” He paused his wandering around the room.
“Yeah, Bax.” She shivered. “The baby-daddy thing, it’s kinda creepy.”
“So I can’t call you my baby mama?” Aw, he looked a little sad at that.
She didn’t want him to be sad. Also, she didn’t want to be referred to as his baby mama. Motherhood was so conflicting.
Thankfully, Bax shoved his hands in his pockets as he noodled on her request, which at the very least prevented him from touching anything else.
“Let’s just try something else on for size,” she said, as cheerful as she could. “See what happens.”
“Ten-four.” He rolled up on his toes and gestured between them. “Then we need to figure out what we’re gonna call each other.”
“I was thinking I’d call you Bax, and you’d call me Courtney.” She fussed with the edge of the gown. “That seems to have worked so far.”
He shook his head. “That’s no fun. Can I at least have a pet name for you?”
“Yeah, you can call me Courtney.” She flashed him a grin. “And nothing else.”
“No fun. No fun at all,” he muttered, and went about examining the posters on the wall. There was one illustrating the stages of fetus development, from embryo to delivery.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. Since becoming pregnant, her fun factor had significantly declined. She should let him have a pet name for her, something perky and exciting.
“Hey,” he said. “Take my picture.” He struck a pose, pointing at the photo of the baby at seven weeks—right about where she’d be.
“I’m not taking your picture.” Though he looked kinda sweet there, studying those illustrations with awe.
“Can you believe we’re here?” he asked, still looking at the poster.
No, no, she couldn’t, but she didn’t say that.
Bax finally—thank fuck, finally—sat down in the chair beside her. His foot bounced with pent-up energy. The guy either needed to perform onstage or get laid.
That thought made her tongue feel funny. Sandpaper funny.
Was he still seeing other women?
He could. There was no reason he couldn’t.
For what it was worth, she could see other men too. But that would be weird and lead to a conversation she definitely did not want to have with anyone.
Also, the thought of being with someone else made her chest ache and had the same effect as smelling bacon—great and wonderful pre-pregnancy, but not so much now.
Bax lifted what looked like a long microphone from the side of the machine.
“What do you think this is for?” He held it near his mouth and started singing one of the Dimefront classics that was really about giving a blow job, but most people assumed that it was about taking a walk. Those who were really Dimefront followers knew that it wasn’t gum in the song girl’s mouth.
A quick tap-tap on the door and the new doctor breezed in.
New doctor paused, made a sound like she’d eaten a squeaky toy, and then turned, walked out, and closed the door.
“Shit.” Courtney turned to Bax, who hadn’t removed whatever the wand thing was from near his lips. “She’s a Ten.” Ten was the pet name for the Dimefront groupies. “That woman is not delivering our baby.”
The door opened again, and the doctor lady seemed to have gotten herself together a little bit more because this time she held her hand out to Bax and said, “Brennan Baxter. You’re Brennan Baxter.”
