Accept Me (14 page)

“Jo, baby, where are you?” I hear Brian call out from somewhere in the penthouse.

“In here!” I shout from my perch on the guest bed.

A moment later I hear him scurry down the hall to me. He swings the door open wide, holding two plastic bags from the pharmacy down the street.

“Okay, don’t panic! I’m here! This is going to be just fine. If you’re knocked up, you’re knocked up. That’s fine. Women get preggers every day. Who cares that you and the big guy aren’t getting married and now you’ll have to be a single mom—”

“Brian!” I shout, sliding off the bed. “Get your shit together. I
may not
be pregnant. It may just be a scare. Like you said, PMS.” I hold out my hand expectantly.

He puts the loops of the two bags on my wrist and starts digging into his man purse. Setting the bags down on the bed, I begin ripping open boxes of tests. I’m not even sure how to take these things. I’ve never been late before.

“This is like an at home chemistry set,” I moan, looking over the test strips, droppers, plastic cups and instructional pamphlets.

“Here,” Brian says, holding a hand out for the directions for the test in my hand. He flicks the paper open and reads aloud. “Okay, says here that there are two methods for taking the test properly.” He skims the bulk of the instructions, mumbling as he goes, and I feel my temperature rise with the bile in my throat. “All right, you can pee on it,” he snatches the test stick from my hand and makes a crude visual demonstration that includes him spreading his legs and squatting, “or you can dip it.” He tosses the paper down, picks up the plastic cup, and demonstrates that too.

“Oh my God, Brian. What are you, the flight attendant on Pregnancy Test Flight 101 on route to disaster?”

“What?” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I thought a visual would be helpful.”

“Gimme this,” I snatch the foil-encased test stick and head for the bathroom.

“Pee on it, then come out here for three minutes!” he calls after me. “And don’t forget to wash your hands!”

I take a moment to examine myself in the mirror, hoping that this is just a dream or at the very least just a false alarm. Stress can affect your period, right? It could very well be that I’ve stressed myself into this mess. With one deep breath, I rip open the inanimate plastic stick that isn’t really inanimate at all. I swear to God that thing is laughing at me.

I take the test, replace the cap, and wash my hands. I walk out of the bathroom to kill the three minute wait time and see Brian with his ear pressed to his phone and his hands at work on his tablet.

“…no, she just… it’s nothing life threatening. W-well, she’s not bleeding or anything, actually that’s kind of an issue…” he sputters out.

“Ahem!” With my hands planted on my hips, I scowl at my friend from across the guest room.

“Gotta go, Boss.” He’s quick to hang up. I doubt Damon got a word in edgewise anyway.

“What in the hell are you talking to him for?”

“Jo, he threatened to fire me if I didn’t explain this
emergency
,” he mocks, making air quotations.

“You didn’t tell him anything, right?” I ask with my head slightly cocked to the side.

“No, I just kind of hung up on him.” He winces, knowing full well that Damon will have something to say about that later.

I sigh in resignation and plop down on the Queen Anne couch beside him and Hemingway.

“What are your symptoms?” he says conversationally. “The directions say we have three luxurious minutes to chat and I did some googling while you were in there.”

“Of course you did,” I mutter, fiddling with the hair on the tips of Hemingway’s ears.

“Okay, top ten signs of pregnancy,” he begins, looking to me. “Missing or late period, check. Frequent urination?”

“Meh,” I shrug.

“Tender or swollen breasts? How are your boobs?” Brian reaches over and gives one breast a squeeze.

I wince then bat his hand away.

“Okay, sore boobs, check. What about—”

“Fondling my ex-fiancé was the emergency, Brian?” Damon’s deep, smooth voice causes both of us to jump.

We both freeze under his glare. I’m frozen in part because there he is, looking as beautiful as ever, and in part because the cat is about to be let out of the proverbial bag and I know it.
Shit! Shit! Shit!

“No. Not my scene,” Brian admits honestly.
Bless him
.

Damon stuffs his hands into his pockets and keeps his eyes on us as he enters the room. He makes his way to bags on the bed and looks down at the mess of boxes, pamphlets, and various testing paraphernalia. Holding up a box, he looks right through me. I want to die.

“This is the emergency?” His voice is low and velvety and disturbingly calm.

I’m certainly not calm. I don’t respond as I get up and walk past him to the bathroom. I shut the door behind me, leaning against the back of it to close my eyes, preparing myself for the verdict. One deep breath in then one out, and I step over to the counter to read the results.

With the test in hand, I reappear, ready to face Damon. I open the door and scan the room for his daunting presence. He’s gone.

“He left,” Brian explains unnecessarily.

It’s a hard, cold, uncaring slap in the face.

“Two lines?” he asks, getting up from his seat and coming right to me.

A nod is the only response I can muster. I’m pregnant with Damon’s baby. Under other circumstances, I think I may actually be excited. But this is not good. Brian’s sympathetic eyes land on mine. Tears build and swim in my eyes.

Brian wraps me up in a consoling hug. “Oh, honey, don’t cry. It isn’t the end of the world. Look at Lindsay. My sister is a single mom and she’s just fine.”

“I don’t want it.” The words fly out of my mouth. I’m not even sure if I mean them. The guilt is quick and unforgiving. An audible sob escapes my throat and I fall apart on Brian’s shoulder. “What am I going to do? He didn’t even stay to find out,” I cry. The condition I find myself in explains a lot. It explains how emotional I’ve been lately. It explains the queasy stomach, the heavy, sore breasts, how tired I’ve been, the snappy attitude. It explains all of it.
Dammit.

“He told me to let him know the results.”

“I don’t care,” I sniffle, “tell him. He obviously doesn’t want to hear the news from me.”

Apparently when a woman finds out that she’s pregnant, suddenly it’s Baby Central. Every commercial on television has something to do with baby gear or baby food or baby diapers, and every other person you see in public is either pregnant or has a baby on their person.

Case in point: I’ve popped out of the penthouse two times to walk Hemingway and either I’ve not noticed before or there is a stroller convention in town because I’ve seen way too many moms pushing babies or toddlers in strollers that look to be intimidating contraptions meant to confuse adults; they’re practically Rubik’s cubes on wheels. I saw six—SIX—pregnant women on our walk this morning.

I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours cooped up in the penthouse stumbling over mounds of clutter and carrying around multiple little plastic sticks that all read “positive” in one shape or form—the actual word, two lines, a plus sign, a smiley face—I took every test Brian brought over and every single one came back the same.

I haven’t heard a peep from Damon and it only fuels my disappointment. I know Brian has told him by now. Doesn’t he have anything to say? Is he mad? Is he upset? Is he indifferent? It doesn’t matter either way because I won’t count on an unplanned pregnancy to tie him down to me. I can’t think of an unhappier scenario for myself.

Brian rescheduled my meeting with Lindsay for me. I felt bad for not showing this morning, so I promised to be there this afternoon. I check the time on the oven clock and pop another peanut butter cracker in my mouth. I’d better get a move on if I’m going to get showered, dressed and down to the store in time to discuss employment with Lindsay. I inhale the last cracker and gulp down my bottled water.

Hemingway is waiting by the door patiently to be taken outside again. “Okay, okay. Let’s go, handsome.”

Despite my homely appearance, I walk out into the sunlight, squinting at how bright it is today. Hemingway and I set out on our normal route, stopping for him to mark his usual spots along the way.

Much to my surprise, I see Andy and Chaucer headed my way. It’s early for him to be out. They make long strides, jogging over to us.

“Hey,” I greet.

“Hey,” he pants as if they’ve been running.

“What are you doing out here so early?”

“No work today,” he explains.

“Oh.”

“Jo, you look terrible,” he says, touching my elbow. “Is something wrong?”

An uproarious laugh bubbles up in me. I double over, I’m laughing so hard. This is all just so fucked up all I can do is laugh right now. I’m in hysterics. Andy chuckles, looking confused but amused just the same.

“No. I
am
terrible,” I sputter through my garbled laughter. I right myself and take a deep breath, sighing. “I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Andy chuckles at my outburst then scowls when he realizes I’m serious. “Oh, damn.”

“Just found out yesterday. Crazy, huh?”

“Yeah. Wow. Um, does your ex know?” He arches a perfect eyebrow.

“Yeah, he knows,” I admit then shrug. “I gotta run to the office for a bit. Catch you later?”

“You got it. See ya.”

We walk in the opposite direction. I turn back to look at him. Andy keeps walking away, now with his cell phone pressed to his ear and Chaucer trotting right beside him.
Calling another prospect probably. One that isn’t pregnant.

A hot shower works wonders on the restless. I feel half human again as I walk to my Volvo. I towel dried my hair and splashed on a minimal amount of makeup. Clothes are already proving to be a challenge, though. Along with a shitty binge fest, my pregnant body is plumper than usual, making clothing an entirely new issue. I dug out a flowy shirt to cover the muffin top that I know is spilling over the waistband of my shorts. I feel enormous.

I’ve managed to estimate that I must be at least six or seven weeks pregnant. It took some pillaging through the pills, a calendar, and some painful memories, but I did it. Damon and I made this baby at a time when we were happy, at least. It’s the only upside that I can find to the situation.

I scurry into the store with Hemingway in tow. I’m late. The hilarity of that phrase doesn’t completely escape me.

“Sorry I’m late,” I announce to Noni and a waiting Lindsay.

“No problem,” Lindsay reassures me with a smile.

“How’s it going, Noni?”

“I’ve got it under control.” She smiles and holds both hands up, looking around at her progress with the store.

I examine the full shelves, stocked coffee bar, and remarkably clean store. It’s a marvel. “Wow. I guess you do.”

Noni smiles, clearly proud of her hard work. I’m so glad she’s working here. If it makes her feel more satisfied with life working here than The Diner, then it’s all been worth it in my eyes. Noni deserves more than life has handed her. Seeing her happy kind of gives me hope that maybe one day I’ll be happy again too.