Page 90 of Big Daddy

Locked in my en suite bathroom, I dump the plastic bag out over the sink. Boxes reading Clearblue, First Response, PregMate and the drug store off-brand stare back at me. They guarantee results faster than any other test or brand, all fourof them. I snatch the Snapple bottle from the sea of boxes and crack the top, chugging the Trop A Rocka faster than I ever have before. After my eyes water through a brain freeze, I kick off my heels and jump in place a few times before I stop, wide eyed.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. I thought it was from Big Daddy ravaging them in our fuck session last night but now… I think my boobs are sore for other reasons. Snatching the Clearblue box, I continue jumping up and down as I tear it open, eventually fishing out a stick wrapped in foil. I tear that open too, still jumping, and do the same with the other three boxes. When my bladder finally feels a bit full, I’m out of breath and exhausted. Which I realize… is likely another sign.

Tugging up my skirt, I sit on the toilet and lower the plastic cup beneath me, my eyes closing with relief when I finally relax enough to pee. After washing up and following all the instructions, all four tests are laid out in a row on a sheet of toilet paper. Now, I wait.

I’ve always thought of becoming a parent as something that happens organically this way. I’ve never been one to want to plan this or even marriage. I can’t help but smile, knowing there is a very real possibility that I could be pregnant, and that if I am, Big Daddy will also be happy. He didn’t want to plan things traditionally either, because he did that the first time and it didn’t work out the way he’d hoped. Out of order, in chaos, we do things our way. And I love that for us.

With my back against the countertop, I take a deep breath and brace myself. If it’s positive, I’ll scream with excitement. Not only will Brielle and I be pregnant at the same time, but I’ll be starting my family. My mom was twenty-eight when she had me, and I’ll be around that age when the baby is born. I have my career, my man, my education—I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, truthfully.

If it’s negative, well, I’ll have… more time. More time to work on my little empire. Though, as I think about my work, I realize, it’s a beautiful thing that I can also do from home with a baby strapped to my tit. Okay well, if I'm not pregnant, I’ll just have more time in this beautiful office doing what I love. Will I be disappointed? I chew my bottom lip and find myself twirling a curl around my finger, the same way Big Daddy likes to do. God our kids would be beautiful. He’s tall and strong, his dark hair and dark eyes steal my breath away. I can’t help but envision babies with dark hair like his, curls like mine and bright green eyes, just like mine.

Fuck, now I’m smiling when I should be preparing myself for these tests being negative. Because if they are… that’s fine.

Is it?

My heart is racing and sweat is beading along my back beneath my dress. If it’s negative… a rush of nausea hits me, and I turn just in time to empty my stomach into the toilet bowl.

After rinsing my mouth, I take a deep breath and let my eyes slide to the tests, cautiously peering at just one of the digital screens.

PREGNANT.

The next screen.

PREGNANT.

The next test.

Two pink lines.

The last test.

Two pink lines.

Balling up my fist, I gently bite down and squeal as loud as I can within the small space. “Oh my god,” I breathe, my mind a rush of thoughts, my chest flooded with feelings.

“Hey!” a voice booms through the door, then knuckles pound the wood, and I know without a doubt, Quincey Parker is lurking on the other side of the bathroom door.

“I’m going pee!” I shout back.

“I heard you coughing. Did you get sick?” the knob rattles and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“If I did, why would you want to come in?” I bark back, collecting the urine-soaked pregnancy tests with a tissue, then shoving them in the top drawer. Unlocking the door, I pull it open and Big Daddy steps inside, peering around as I once again roll my eyes.

“Why was the door locked?” he asks, collecting me in his arms. “And if you were sick, I’d want to be in here holding your hair.”

I sigh against his chest, because even though he’s overbearing and nosey, I love it. I wouldn’t have it any other way. “I was puking, if you must know.”

He steps back, his large hands wrapped gently around my biceps as he looks me up and down. “Are you sick? You don’t look ill,” he asks and comments.

“I’m kinda sick,” I say, biting my bottom lip as I hop onto the bathroom counter and spread my knees, allowing him to step between my legs.

He collects my curls in his hands and yanks my head back, exposing the place on my throat that he likes to kiss most. It’s my favorite place for him to kiss, too.

“Did you start feeling ill during Brielle’s appointment? How did that go?” he asks, scattering his words down my chest as he carves kisses out along my collarbone.

“Good,” I reply, running my hands up the back of his dress shirt. “Appointment was good.”

He nips under my chin, then kisses my lips before finding my throat again. “When did you start feeling ill?”

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