Page 82 of Bae

“Okay, great,” I said, shifting the Kate Spade bag in my grip. “Have a nice evening.”

“You, too,” she called out as I walked away.

In the elevator, I pulled out my cell and checked the time. Romeo was probably still at practice, so I figured I would wait to call him when I got home. On the way, I’d stop and get a bottle of the vitamins the doctor recommended as well.

Nerves filled me once more at the thought of trying to have another baby. Desire also swelled deep inside me. I would be able to feel all of Romeo again, no thin layer of latex between us. I couldn’t wait for that moment, so I started brainstorming ways to make the night he came home special.

The elevator opened. I stepped out, still daydreaming about my husband, his body, and the night he’d finally arrive home. I moved through the lobby without really paying attention, then pushed through the wide glass door and onto the sidewalk opening up to the parking lot.

I got about four steps outside and instantly regretted not paying attention.

Fantasizing about my husband was all well and good… but it probably shouldn’t be done in public.

The sounds of pounding feet, shouts, and the glare of flashing cameras caught me completely off guard. I groaned out loud because the disappointment and surprise at seeing the vultures was so real.

How did they know I was going to be here? I’d been so careful on the way, making sure no one followed me. I told no one I was coming, and I even came after hours!

I felt like stomping my foot on the ground and having a hissy fit right there.

“Mrs. Anderson, can you tell us what you were inside for?”

“Rimmel! Is it true this is your doctor’s office?”

“Are you having IVF treatments because you can’t get pregnant on your own?”

Oh my God! Did these people have no morals? No respect for others? What kind of people would literally sit outside a doctor’s office so they could harass someone and shout the most insensitive questions at them on the street?

I turned so I could go back in the building, but I was surrounded. It was as if I were in a bubble of people. People I was seriously considering kicking.

I turned back and started forward, thinking I would just push past them all and make a run for it. It wasn’t parked far; I could make it.

Everyone moved as a unit around me. It was overwhelming, and in only a few seconds, a minute tops, my limbs were shaking.

They yelled my name, hurled questions, and continued to take pictures.

“No comment!” I yelled, trying to push through the swarm as I walked.

“What do you think about the list of women offering to give your husband a child?” someone yelled.

I gritted my teeth.

At the edge of the sidewalk, I paused because the thick line between me and the pavement was congested. I locked eyes with a photographer, a man with a greasy man bun, ratty jeans, and a bad shave, and gave him my best intimidating stare.

“Excuse me,” I half growled.

“Answer some questions for me first,” he intoned. “Can I get a shot of your stomach? Turn sideways.”

“No!” I shouted. “Move!”

He laughed, as if he thought my display of annoyance were fun. I turned from him toward the next wall of man and pushed out my arm, using it as a battering ram to hopefully get through.

He and the greasy man bun stepped toward each other and forward, which caused me to bounce back. I tripped and nearly fell. My handbag landed on the sidewalk, and I quickly bent to retrieve it.

This was mortifying. It was incredibly demeaning, and frankly, if I didn’t get through, I was afraid I might cry out in frustration. Some days, I would give anything for Romeo’s size and muscle mass.

Sure, I could stand there and pose for a few pictures, maybe answer a couple questions. It wouldn’t help. They would just want more and more.

Do not engage. That was the way my family and I had come to operate with the press. It worked, for a while.

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