Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
We were lying in bed.
Rowan had already gone into ultra-protective, prospective dad, alpha mode. Therefore, when he was done fucking my brains out, he ordered me to stay put while he gently cleaned me then went downstairs to get me some dry toast since I told him I was feeling queasy.
He propped pillows, fussed over me, and Maggie was the same, jumping on the bed and laying her head protectively on my stomach.
But it was only after I got up to pee that I truly thought about being pregnant. I’d been so caught up in telling Rowan, I hadn’t thought about the reality of the situation.
“Oh my god,” I said as it hit me. “I’m going to be a terrible pregnant person. I’m going to be worrying constantly, thinking something is wrong, and my OBGYN is going to hate me.” I put my palm to my forehead, ready to spiral.
But Rowan was around, so he didn’t let me spiral. He always actively watched, preventing me from spiraling. He was the anxiety whisperer.
He grabbed my shoulders, steadying me, tethering me to the earth and stopping me from pacing around the room.
“First, there is nothing on this planet you can be terrible at,” he told me firmly. “Except parallel parking. You are terrible at that.”
I scowled at him, even though I was fighting a smile.
He rubbed my upper arms. “Cupcake, you need more appointments to check on our baby, we’ll make more appointments. If your OBGYN gets pissed, we’ll find another one.”
He said these things like they were very reasonable, logical things. He made plans around my senseless anxiety. Because that’s what he did.
“I love you,” I whispered, my eyes brimming with tears.
“And I love you, cupcake,” he beamed at me, leaning forward to brush his lips with mine.
Rowan was right, I wasn’t terrible at being pregnant. I wasn’t entirely great either. But I didn’t think anyone was actually great at being pregnant. Those women who worked out right up until their due dates, who didn’t worry about a thing and didn’t get fat ankles—I was positive they didn’t exist. Or at least I convinced myself that they didn’t exist.
Because I didn’t work out right until my due date. Granted, I wasn’t exactly known for working out. But I did work at the bakery right up until my water broke on the kitchen floor of the bakery. Like the movie scene water-breaking type thing. Rowan was right there because he was always right there with me first thing in the morning. He’d practically moved into the bakery when I got closer and closer to my due date.
Interestingly, I was the one who stayed calmest during the actual labor portion of the pregnancy.
Rowan, “ran around like a chicken with his head cut off,” Fiona described later.
He rushed us back to our place to get my hospital bag then raced around the house, muttering about needing our passports.
I had, underneath a laugh, told him we didn’t need our passports for me to give birth in the hospital twenty minutes away.
That treated me to an angry scowl. Well, until a contraction tore through my body. Then Rowan dropped everything and went into protective alpha mode, suddenly clearheaded and mission-driven.
My labor was painful. Horrendous actually. Especially since I was the idiot who wanted to do it ‘all natural.’
It killed Rowan to see me in that much pain without him being able to do anything but sit there, feeding me ice chips, brushing hair from my face, and holding my hand. He was there, barking at doctors and nurses, kissing me, speaking tenderly.
Then he was there to catch our daughter, Ana Jill Derrick. To be the first person to greet her into this world.
Although it might’ve been the pain, exhaustion, the emotions, I swore I felt Ansel in the room, right beside me.
“You deserve this, sis,” he said. “Your happily ever after.”
The wound inside of me healed just a little in that moment. And in the many moments after that, with my husband and my daughter. In our home. With our dog. My bakery. The countless visits from Rowan’s parents. The tumultuous marriage between our two best friends.
Though it wasn’t without drama or even pain, it was a happily ever after. Mine, at least.
Fiona’s was a different story.
Recipes
The Crisis Cake
1 ½ cups flour
1 ½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
1/3 cup neutral oil (I use canola but coconut or grapeseed works too)
1/3 cup natural peanut butter (unsweetened)
1 cup light brown sugar
2 eggs (cooled to room temp)
1 cup buttermilk (you can make your own with 1 cup milk & 1 Tbsp white vinegar or lemon juice and let sit for 5 min)
1 tsp vanilla extract
Method
Preheat the oven to 350 & grease a 9x3 round baking pan. Or two 6 inch pans for a double layer cake.
Sift the dry ingredients in a bowl and set aside.