Page 62 of The Bartender's Baby

EIGHTEEN

TABBY

Isank into the couch cushions, letting out a long sigh as I rubbed my swollen belly. I was at the end of the second trimester and really starting to show now, getting bigger by the day.

I had a few weeks until finals and then a few weeks until the due date at the end of July.

It had been an exhausting couple of months. I hated to admit Nate was right, but juggling classes, work,andgrowing a human inside me was exhausting. Pregnancy brain kicked my ass hardcore, and I was ready to be done with school. About ready to be done with Walt’s too.

Although, I was definitelynotready for the baby to come.

I still had so much to do. I signed up for the prenatal classes at the hospital that my OB-GYN recommended, which were every Saturday morning and sort of helpful. It was nice to get a tour of the maternity wing and to set our expectations for when the time came, but some of the postnatal information was downright anxiety-inducing. Nate, of course, attended them with me, all the while grumbling about how he “knew this stuff already.”

I appreciated how much research he’d done, but he wasn’t the one who had to think about putting a pad doused with water and witch hazel in the freezer for his fucked-up vagina.

Women had been giving birth for centuries, and yet we hadn’t been able to come up with any better medical remedies for birth injuries except for ice packs and ibuprofen? Atrocious.

Though, Nate did getveryexcited about possibly rubbing olive oil on my perineum.

The woman leading the class was great, but her hippie-dippie manifestation and olive oil tricks weren’t going to save me from being torn in two. Because I did the thing I wasn’t supposed to and watched videos.

But I had Nate through all of it. The man bent over backward to take care of me and made sure I didn’t overexert myself. Whether it was cooking my new weird pregnancy-craving foods—onion rings with spicy mayo—at two a.m. or giving me foot rubs after long days, he was always there.

And now he threw himself into nesting. Even on days when he pulled double duty between Walt’s and his new space, he spent all his free time converting the spare room upstairs into a nursery. I told him he didn’t have to go to so much trouble, that the baby would be sleeping in our room at first anyway. But he insisted on getting everything all set up. He had even gone so far as to buy all the things we wouldn’t need until the baby could start moving: outlet covers, gates, cabinet locks, and those little cushions for hard edges.

This baby would want for nothing.

Between Nate’s late-night online shopping habits and his mother, we already had a million boxes and packages lining the office. Shannon—whom I still couldn’t call “Mom,” even though she insisted—had very kindly offered to host a baby shower for me, which I declined. I didn’t have close friends or anyone I wanted to invite, so Genevieve had the idea that we have a girls’night with her friends, Kennedy and Brooke, who were with Liam and Jude, and they could bring a few small things for the baby. That seemed much more reasonable to me and something I would actually enjoy.

While this pregnancy was unplanned and a complete surprise, it was not unwelcome, and even though I still held a lot of anxiety about carrying to term, I didn’t worry about not having enough support.

I had more than enough in Nate.

My wish had come true.

I had more than I needed.

I could be a glutton.

Greedy.

Hoard him all to myself. Keep all his soft, whispered words to myself. Each time he called me princess. Every evening when he kissed my shoulder and said, “Good night, beautiful.” Every morning when he made me breakfast and then made me come.

He was truly written by a woman.

And he was all mine.

Especially when he trudged down the stairs with paint smeared on his jeans, forearms, and shoulder, his T-shirt nowhere in sight. He smiled at me, still in the same position he’d left me in—sprawled out on the couch with my textbook and laptop open, supposedly studying.

“How we doing down here?” he asked, crouching in front of me to lift my shirt, kissing the curve of my belly. “Frogger.”

I brushed my fingers over his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “We’re good. Though someone has been extra active this morning.”

“Yeah?” Nate kept one hand resting on my bump, idly stroking his thumb back and forth. “Maybe they’re bored. Wanna come out and play?”

“Not yet. We’re not ready.”

He hummed quietly. “Room’s almost finished.”

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