Page 28 of Love You Too

I just need to get through this meeting. Then, I can deal with the rest of my day. And the rest of my life.

CHAPTER 10

Beatrix

I’ve spentthe past few days thinking. And thinking. I always planned to have kids, but sometime in the distant future. But when? I had no rule book or planner with the date marked in pen. But turning thirty a few months ago flipped a switch, so suddenly, my biological clock feels very real. I know I have time, but…with the way I work, is it ever going to feel like the right time?

So I do something I haven’t done in years—I take a personal day and leave Julie in charge. I give myself a single day to visit the doctor and figure out what the heck I’m going to do about all of this because something Ren said has been bouncing around in my brain.

“I don’t mean juggling. I mean balance.”

I’d never given it much thought because being a productive achiever felt good. It felt like enough. But now, I don’t have a lot of balance. I do want a life outside of work, and maybemotherhood is fate’s way of urging me down the path to that life.

But with Ren, of all people? The guy who didn’t want to be with me ten years ago isn’t going to want this entanglement now. I’ve accepted that, but I do have to tell him.

Me: Hey! How’s it going?!

I never use exclamation points in my texts, but I’m nervous about what to tell Ren, and it manifests itself in my punctuation. I might as well be shouting at him in all caps, “EVERYTHING’S NOT FINE.” Hopefully, he doesn’t know me well enough to sense that I’m freaking out.

Ren: Hi! Nice to hear from you! Tru’s been asking about you all day

Note to self: Dominick Renaldi has no issue with using exclamation points in texts.

Me: I’m so sorry, but can we reschedule our plans? Work got crazy

Ren treats me to a string of gifs showing sad dogs with droopy ears, dogs crying fake illustrated tears, dogs whining and whimpering.

Ren: Of course. Get your work done and lemme know what’s good

Me: Will do. Thanks for understanding

I’m only three weeks past the time I was supposed to get my period—which means I’m somehow already six weeks pregnant, according to my doctor, who I saw this morning. I have a master’s degree in design and yet I do not understand pregnancy math. Two weeks ago, I didn’t have a clue I was carrying a baby,so I don’t see how that could possibly add up to six weeks of anything, but I didn’t want to argue with my doctor. Not when she had an ultrasound wand inside me.

On the positive side, the doctor says my cells are multiplying appropriately, and my hormone levels suggest that everything looks good. It’s too early to see a heartbeat, which is just as well because not seeing it allows me to live in my state of semi-denial for a little longer.

It only made sense to hold off saying anything to Ren until after my doctor’s appointment, which is why I postponed our plans.

I’ve heard stories about pregnancy tests giving false results, so I wanted to hear it from the doctor herself. “You’re six weeks along,” Doctor Salinger said, moving the ultrasound wand into uncomfortable positions and looking at the screen. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was seeing, so I trusted her wonky math, even though a part of me still thinks it’s impossible that I’m pregnant.

I wander through Sunshine Foods, willing myself to have an appetite for something on one of the shelves. At first, potato salad sounds good, so I pop that into my basket and make my way to the aisle of chips. I grab some Ruffles and a bag of extra spicy Doritos. Spicy sounds appealing, so I wind through the shop until I find the hot sauce aisle. I load up on a couple different types. Then I decide the idea of potato salad feels sickening, so I return it to where I found it.

That happens twice more with lemonade that no longer sounds appealing after carrying it down two aisles and corn flakes which barely make it into my basket before I change my mind. I walk down the last aisle and spot a jar of green olives and a pickle display. I grab three kinds of pickles, feeling every bit the pregnancy cliché.I will not eat them with ice cream, I vow.

I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone, so once I finish my shopping, I stroll down a side street. The fresh air feels good, andfor the first time since seeing that pink plus sign, I feel like I can clear my head enough to think about it. I inhale. I exhale.

My brain finally quiets down enough that I can think. The first idea that enters my head seems a little impulsive. It doesn’t make any sense, and I am neither impulsive nor nonsensical in my actions.

Um, I think you’ve proven otherwise…

Point taken. I pull out my phone and dial.

I feel guilty.

“Is this a bad time?” I ask, gesturing around to the small swing set and patchy grass that looks like it hasn’t been watered for the past year. Dash surveys the same half-dead grass and play equipment and shakes his head, but he continues to regard me with the same skeptical look he’s had since he hopped out of his truck and found me staring at the small, random park.

“It’s fine. Weird, but fine.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed. He has a point. In the years we’ve worked together at Buttercup Hill, I’ve never summoned him in the middle of the day to look at a dilapidated park. “Is this some kind of design recon for the inn? You planning to install a swing set from the last century and kill all the plants?”

“Not exactly.”

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