Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
I’d never admit it out loud to anyone, but deep down, I feared that Beau would marry a beautiful, outgoing woman who was everything I wasn’t and our child would prefer being with him and his family to being with me, a loner introvert.
I hated that feeling not good enough was so ingrained into who I was, but my fears and worries came from years of being looked past, ignored, and neglected. While I could put on a brave, confident face, deep down I felt inadequate.
“Text him back, Shelby,” Marlowe implored. “Tell him the truth, whatever it is. I know you miss him, don’t even bother denying it.”
“I do miss him,” I admitted.
She moved into a sitting position, her eyes sparkling. “Text him back right now. Be brave. I know you have it in you to tell him something real.”
“I’m always real,” I countered defensively.
“No, you’re not. Not when it comes to him. If you ignore him, that’s a response. It says you don’t care enough to respond. And you do care. I see it all over your face right now.”
I rubbed my hand over my baby bump, not bothering with a passive aggressive response. We both knew she was right.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll respond.”
“All I ask is that you respond bravely,” she said. “Vulnerability is brave.”
“Are you starting a new podcast where you psychoanalyze people?”
She laughed. “Better than psychoanalyzing myself. I’m a hot mess, but at least I can admit it.”
I glared at her as I picked up my phone. Marlowe was younger than me, but she was wiser.
Things had gotten messy between me and Beau. We’d gone off-script, and I didn’t want things between us to end with his awkward Christmas departure from my apartment. If nothing else, we needed to clear the air.
“Ask him a question,” Marlowe said. “That’s how you tell him you want him to text back.”
My fingers were poised to type out a text when I paused. Did I really want to open myself up to Beau again? I’d spent New Year’s Day calling pawn shops in the area to see if I could track down my laptop and my grandma’s watch—and I’d succeeded. I’d given myself that one day to feel sorry for myself over both Beau and my mom, and then I’d closed the door behind me and moved forward.
I still saw his smile in my mind, though. Every day. And the little crinkles that appeared by his eyes when he smiled. I heard his hearty laugh and relived the feel of his skilled hands on my body. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget.
Me: I miss you too. How have you been?
My heart raced as I stared at my phone screen, waiting and hoping for those three little dots indicating that he was texting me back. After about thirty seconds, they did.
Beau: I’ve been busy with hockey. Can I see you? Soon?
“He wants to see me,” I told Marlowe.
She grinned. “You have to say yes. I think he’s the real deal, Shelby.”
He was the real deal for now, but how long would that last? Beau had agreed to be my sperm donor, but what would happen between us once the baby was born?
All the unknowns made my pulse pound with worry.
“Look, even if you guys are never anything but good friends, don’t you at least want that?” Marlowe asked.
“Enough already. I’m going to see him,” I said, giving her a wide-eyed look of annoyance.
“Now?”
I laughed. “Will you stop?”
With a deep breath, I texted Beau back.
Me: How about dinner this week?
Beau: Sounds great. I’m free on Wednesday and Thursday.
Me: I have my prenatal yoga class on Wednesday, so Thursday would be good.
Beau: Pick you up at 6?
I hesitated, because I’d suggested dinner so we could meet on neutral ground. If we stood in my apartment and he gave me that look again, like he did right before he kissed me on Christmas, I’d melt into a puddle at his feet.
He’d picked me up for dinner before, though. I’d handled it then.
That was pre-kiss, Shelby, my inner voice said in warning. Before you knew what his erection felt like pressed against you.
It was dinner. Nothing more. I texted him back.
Me: See you then.
“He’s picking me up Thursday at six for dinner,” I told Marlowe, setting my phone down, leaning back and putting both hands on my pregnant belly.
“Can I hide inside your apartment so I can spy when he picks you up? It’ll be easier for us to break it down after if I can see it and hear it.”
“No,” I said, laughing, not even considering it.
She grunted in disapproval. “Fine. And just FYI, it’s perfectly safe to have sex when you’re pregnant. Just don’t let him put all his weight on the baby and squish it.”
I gaped at her. “We’re going to dinner, not having sex.”