That Baby (20 page)

Me:
 
Sometimes crazy is good. But hang on. I’ll text her.

I glance at the clock, noting it’s nearly three. I can picture my bridesmaid, sitting on her bed in the sorority house, her bubblegum pink toes dangling off the bed and her dark brown waves pushed over one shoulder as she studies. With her piercing blue eyes and great body, she bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Megan Fox, only she has an adorable southern twang.

Me:
 
Hey, Macy!! What’s up? I haven’t talked to you in forever! Do I get to see you at Lori’s shower?

Macy:
 
Did Nick ask you to text me?

Me:
 
Would it be a good thing if he did?
 

Macy:
 
I miss him.
 

Me:
 
He misses you. He’s going crazy. Actually, he said he’s going BATSHIT CRAZY.

Macy:
 
Aww :( I hate that I’m doing this to him. Peter too. He’s such a sweetheart. He just . . .

Me:
 
Isn’t doing it for you?

Macy:
 
Kind of. Everything is so hot with Nick. We have this amazing, incredible chemistry.
 

Me:
 
And Peter?

Macy:
 
He’s my best friend.

Me:
 
Chemistry?

Macy:
 
Not through the roof like with Nick. That’s why I’m so confused. Peter is a good guy. He’d be a great dad. A good husband. I know exactly what I’m getting with him. With Nick, I don’t even know if we’d end up married. Do I risk giving up my engagement to a great guy for a possible relationship with Nick?

Me:
 
Nick said you aren’t supposed to talk to either of them. Have you?

Macy:
 
Peter isn’t abiding by the rule. Does that mean he loves me more?

Me:
 
It’s means he doesn’t want to lose you. He’s fighting for you.

Macy:
 
But Nick isn’t?

Me:
 
Nick is trying to play by the rules you set. He’s being respectful, if you ask me.

Macy: OMG!

Me:
 
What?!

Macy:
 
Some guy is outside the house with a big glittery I LOVE YOU sign. It’s so adorable. And he’s blaring music. I can’t quite make out the song.

Me:
 
Who is the sign for?

Macy:
 
I don’t know. Let me take a closer look.

Macy:
 
OMG!! OMG!!! OH MY GOD!!!!!! IT’S HIM!!
 

Me:
 
Which him?!

Macy: NICKY!!!! Holy shit! I gotta go!

CHAPTER NINE

Dear Baby Mac,

Now you are the size of a lemon and apparently you are sucking your thumb in there. We aren’t going to find out what sex you are, but get this. I just read that if you are super hungry when you’re pregnant—as in hungry like your dad and Danny used to be when they were teenagers—that research shows you could be expecting a boy.
 

I’d be happy with either a boy or a girl. I just pray that you’re healthy.
 

But . . . I kinda think you are a boy.
 

Well, I did. Until Lori started telling me about different ways you can tell what you are having. These ways are called Old Wives’ Tales. Which means they are like a fairy tale and you don’t really know if they are true or not. But if you are a boy¸ you failed.
 

First, she set a key in front of me and told me to pick it up. I picked it up by the narrow part, meaning you are a girl.
 

Then, I had to take off my wedding ring, tie it to a piece of string, and hang it over my belly. It swung back and forth, meaning you are a girl.
 

She also said that because I had morning sickness that I’m having a girl. Which means she is too. It would be fun if you were both girls.
 

But I still think you are a boy.
 

Over the next few months, your dad and I are going to have to come up with some awesome baby names. A girl’s name is going to be hard. It’s a tradition in my family that the first-born girls have the middle name James, which was my great-great grandmother’s maiden name. My great grandma was named Darlene James, my grandma was Elizabeth James, my mother was Veronica James, and I am Jadyn James. And although when I was younger, I hated my name and swore I’d never give my daughter that middle name, now, I want to—in honor of the women who came before me.
 

April 4th

Poetic promises.

As I’m driving to my meeting this morning, I’m smiling and feeling like I’m driving under the influence. They talk about influencers on social media, people with social clout who can make you buy a product or watch a video. Phillip is my influencer. He affects my moods. He’s an integrated part of my soul. The beauty of his love is purely in that love’s existence. The power of our hearts to find our match, and the profound impact on our life when we do.

I almost sound poetic.

Ha!

Which is fitting, I guess. Poetic promises of love are murmured into ears, on top of pillows, and behind closed doors. But I know that real love isn't just a bunch of pretty words.

Real love is when you are running way late for meeting, and as you are rushing out the door you realize you drove home on fumes last night because you were too tired to stop for gas and put it off until the next morning. You get in your car expecting to have to coast halfway to the gas station, but then in front of you is what appears to be a miracle. The gas needle is not buried below empty, but is sitting on the other side of the energy rainbow—straight up full. And as you look through a shiny, clean windshield, you realize that when the man you’re married to ran to the store last night to buy you Oreos and milk, he took your car, and not only did he fill it up with gas but ran it through the car wash too.
 

When people would ask my grandmother how she and Grandpa stayed married for so long, she would say, it's the little things that matter not just the big gestures.
 

Like every girl who grew up being read fairy tales, I thought love was all about big gestures. But now I understand exactly what Grandma meant.
 

It's the heart he drew in the sand on our honeymoon, driving miles to get me the best chicken noodle soup when I was sick, making me coffee every morning.
 

Getting me gas.

After my meeting with the construction team, I peek into Phillip’s office.
 

“There's my gorgeous wife,” he says, looking up from his computer. “How was your meeting this morning? We on track?”

“I really like the general contractor and the foreman who’s overseeing the job site. They say we’ll finish on schedule.”

“Helps that Dad offered a bonus if they do.”

“I was running late this morning,” I confess.

“Shocker,” Phillip teases.

“And I still needed to get gas.”

He gives me a proud grin. “I got you gas last night.”

“And washed my car. You didn't tell me. What made you do that?”

“When I went into the garage to go to the store, I noticed your car was all salty so I thought I’d run it through the car wash. I didn't have much choice on the fuel.”

“It was sweet. I love you.”

“I’m sweet on you.”

“I have a surprise for you tonight,” I say as he pulls me into his arms.

“I love your surprises, but don’t forget my parents are back in town today.”

“Crap, I forgot. I think my bra is still lying by the couch. But I wasn't referring to sex.”

“Damn.”

“Phillip, do you like being repaid with sex?”

“I didn't do it to get repaid. I did it to be nice. But, yes, I like when you're nice back.”

I leave work before Phillip does, stopping on the way home to pick up his surprise.
 

As I’m pulling in our subdivision, I get a text.
 

Macy:
 
I did it. Broke off my engagement with Peter. Told my parents. I thought they would be so mad but they didn’t want me to marry him if I wasn’t sure. I can’t even tell you the weight that’s been lifted off my shoulders. And it sounds crazy, but Nick and I are officially dating!!

Me: I’m happy for you!!
 

When I bought my condo in Omaha, I had to buy a new refrigerator. Our new house came with a built-in fridge, so Phillip put the one from my condo in the garage, dubbing it his
beer fridge
. But as of yet, it’s only had a few random Coronas and some Miller Lite cans in it.
 

I pull into the garage and get to work, readjusting the refrigerator shelves to allow for three rows of bottles. I then organize the fourteen different types of beer I bought into perfectly neat rows. The cans get put into the produce drawers and the door shelves are filled with back stock.
 

I stand back and admire my work. I can’t wait for him to get home!
 

He’s going to be so excited!
 

I grab my purse and tote out of the car and head into the house. Phillip’s mom is in the kitchen surrounded by flour and has my new mixer—which I’ve yet to use myself—running.
 

“Oh, hey,” she says, wiping her hands. “I have a surprise for you!”

She gestures toward where, in the breakfast room in front of the bay window overlooking the lake, sits a white wooden kitchen table with six shaker style chairs surrounding it.
 

“What's that for?” I ask. I can't say much else. I can't even begin to describe all the ways in which this table is completely wrong for the room.
 

I want to cry.
 

She's ruined my kitchen, my beautiful, modern kitchen. Even though I don’t want to get closer to it, I’m drawn toward the offensive table and realize it's even worse than I thought. Not only has she ruined my kitchen aesthetically—she's added insult to the injury by choosing a table made of pressed wood.
 

“It's similar to the table at our house,” she says, “but I got white so it would match your house better. Surprise! Now you don’t have to sit at the bar.” I tear my eyes away from the train-wreck table to look at her. She's smiling, happy, and still speaking. “Phillip always loved our table. I have so many good memories of he and Ashley, and often you, eating around it.”

“Your table is solid oak,” I manage to mutter, my mind a blur of worry. “It was really nice of you . . . ” I start with a compliment, hoping to ease the blow. “But Phillip and I already picked out a table.”

“Well, now you don't need it,” she says, firmly.
 

I rush into my bedroom. I can't look at the table. I can't pretend to be excited about it. How do I ask her to take it back? To get the hideous thing out of my house?