“I want to do a big reveal.”
As he nodded, I caught his eyes roaming my body again. “Why are you working out anyway?”
“Look at me. I’ve gained so much weight since I got back.”
He kept staring at me like he was enjoying the view. “You look great.”
I playfully rolled my eyes, fighting the urge to blush. “Yeah right.”
He leaned one shoulder against the elevator wall and insisted, “You do. You’re a baddie.”
I giggled. “Baddie? You don’t sound right saying that.”
The corner of his mouth curled upward. “Well, you’re a bad bitch then.”
I started cracking up and suddenly things between us were less tense.
I looked down at my stomach and then back up at him. “Chicago food is making me thick.”
He let his eyes move over me one more time, and the way he did it made my skin heat up all over again. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
The elevator dinged before I could respond. The doors opened onto my floor, and we stepped out into the quiet hallway. Following him to my apartment, I shook off all the feelings his compliments had just given me. No matter how easy one second with him could feel, I knew we could be back at each other’s throats the next. And I was trying hard to keep a line between us now. It seemed like he was trying, but I couldn’t afford to trust it. I was tired of being the messy one in a family full of polished love stories. Everybody else had the kind of men who either wanted them out loud or knew how to get their shit together enough to try. Reek kept teetering, caring one minute and completely withdrawing the next. So, I needed a hard line for me and for whatever peace I could still have for the rest of this pregnancy.
A FEW WEEKS LATER
16
AVA REYNOLDS
It was now January. The holidays hadn’t been nearly as painful as I thought they were going to be. I had gone into Christmas and New Year’s expecting to feel like the single baby mama amongst a bunch of well-kept wives, but somewhere after that moment in the kitchen when Reek felt the baby kick, he had started changing. He was doing everything he felt like he should do and anything I asked. He never missed a prenatal appointment, no matter how insignificant it might be, and instead of sitting there like somebody had forced him to be there, he was more engaged and attentive now. When the baby moved and he was around, he always wanted to touch my stomach and feel it for himself. Sometimes he would be talking to me and stop in the middle of the sentence because he saw my stomach jump under my shirt. Then he would come over and put his hand there with this goofy grin on his face. He had even started talking to the baby. But I still had PTSD from how cruel he had been in the beginning. I still heard his anger in the back of my mind, and I refused to let myself just melt because he suddenly was willing to act right. But at least he was there, acknowledging my child, and was involved.
He had spent an obnoxious amount of money on Baby for Christmas too. Reek had bought so many little designer outfits, baby coats, tiny hats, socks, and gym shoes that Baby probably wouldn’t even get a chance to wear half of it before growing out of the sizes. I had sat on my living room floor surrounded by boxes from Dior, Burberry, Jordan, Nike, Gucci, and Baby Vuitton with my mouth hanging open while he stood there proud as hell.
And when he came over now, he usually had food with him too. If I mentioned a craving one day, he’d show up with it two days later.
It was sweet to witness. But every time he did something thoughtful, the old feelings I had for him started trying to wake back up. And I did not need that because, though he had come around to being a father, he still hadn’t come around to being a husband, and that’s what me and Baby deserved.
That January afternoon, I was at home by myself trying to hang a painting I bought from Rhythm. It was one of her pieces that had all these warm browns, creams, and golds in it, which matched the color scheme of my condo perfectly. I had the painting balanced against one hip and was on a small ladder trying to hold the nail in place with one hand and the hammer with the other. The baby shifted, which threw my balance off. My foot slipped, and before I could catch myself, the ladder tipped sideways. The painting fell and so did I. I landed with a thud on my stomach, hard enough to knock the breath out of me for a second and make me panic.
I froze there on the floor, heart racing. I slowly rolled to my side and pushed myself up, wincing. My hands were shaking.
I stood on shaky legs, holding my stomach. I grabbed my phone off the dining room table and called my OB’s office. The receptionist transferred me to my doctor’s nurse after I explained I had fallen.
The nurse asked me a million questions. Was I cramping? Was I having fluid leakage? Was I bleeding? Did I feel dizzy?
“No,” I kept answering.
She finally told me, “If you’re not bleeding, cramping badly, leaking fluid, or feeling decreased movement, you’re probably okay. Just rest, monitor yourself closely, and call us back or go in immediately if anything changes.”
That was enough to calm me down a little. So, I got off the phone, picked the ladder up, and sat on the couch with both hands on my stomach trying to breathe through the leftover nerves. After a while, I convinced myself I was okay.
Then there was a knock at my front door.
Nobody had texted me that they were coming over, and Reek had finally started to let me know before he came.
When I looked through the peephole, it was Kam standing there with a pizza box and a brown paper bag in his hands.
I opened the door, and he smiled. “Hey.”
