Page 96 of Tender Offer
I’m not ashamed to admit I peed a little, because how are those two wordsnotfunny?
I’m pregnant.
I thought Maury Povich would waltz out to say, “You arenotthe father!” A pregnancy reveal the day before UK Mother’s Day is nasty work, but I give Bellamy credit. I would never fake one.
The laughter burning my lungs mutated into a knot in my throat when I saw Preston’s pained expression.
I stopped laughing immediately.
Bellamy is pregnant with his baby.
My stomach lurches in demand of another dry heave into the toilet. I’m very much without child, but I get sick thinking about the bond Preston and Bellamy will share. One that prompted him to use condoms with me so as not to further complicate a complicated situation.
A baby.
Baby.
We’ve only made love twice in the two weeks since Bellamy waltzed into his office. Every attempt is an awkward placement of limbs with no eye contact. Our intimacy is gone, and I don’t know how to get it back.
I reach for toilet paper, wipe the saliva from my mouth, and stand. All it took was a few days in Paris. A detour from Preston and Bellamy’s casual arrangement. The fact that a child is the byproduct of his desire for her makes me question if the feelings he held for his longtime friend were nonexistent when he started pursuing me.
It was easy for Terrence to fade to black. We only see each other in passing, and we certainly weren’t fucking. Preston swears he hasn’t thought about Bellamy sexually since I came back into his life. Sleeping with a close friend isn’t a practice of mine. I don’t know what is and isn’t possible when it comes to matters of the heart.
It raised questions that had me looking at him differently.
Does his mind focus on business when he’s with her, or the memories of their pleasure?
Will her changing body excite new curiosities as she carries their child in her womb?
Will his undying love for his heir shift his feelings for the mother of his child—a lifelong friend he’s known longer than me?
What I do know is Bellamy is now seventeen weeks. She wasn’t showing the day of her reveal, but now she has a fuller, rounder stomach. One she rubs every chance she gets.
She confirmed her pregnancy at around eleven weeks, when Preston worked long days and nights by her side in Paris. It turns out her leave was to process the pregnancy, as well as Preston and I together.
Cold water pierces my skin, an attempt to wake me up from this nightmare. Flashbacks of Preston passing off a candlelit dinner as a styling consultation pull me through a forest of suits surrounded in musk in the walk-in closet. The bistro table and chairs are now anchored to a past that no longer aligns with our future.
That I moved into Preston’s penthouse last month is another change. It was pointless to stay down the hall in mine. If he wasn’t in my bed, I was in his. He joked how living together was a sign I’d accept his tender offer, and he pulled out all the stops to get me to agree. Homemade dinners he cooked in nothing but an apron. Endless foot massages. Waking up to his head between my legs.
Now he walks on eggshells, terrified I’ll leave and too guilt-ridden to face me. What time we do spend together is not the same.
I clamp my lips to hold in a sob as I stare at the section of his closet that’s just for me. I’m trying my best to be okay. I tell myself tomorrow will hurt less, that I can be supportive and not feel like my world is being ripped apart.
Preston having a child on the way is no different than if his baby was already in his life. It happened before we got together. That doesn’t erase the lingering feelings, the waiting for the chance to ask what if.
What if he wants to give a relationship with Bellamy a try for the sake of the baby?
What if decades of friendship blossom into the love he’s been waiting for?
A loose cream turtleneck sweater flies off the hanger at my tug. I toss on ripped jeans and grab a pair of oxfords.
I need to get out of here.
Raindrops splatter the pavement under gray skies. The sun has yet to peek out, not that it would brighten my day.
The blisters streaked across my feet from hours of walking have numbed to a dull ache. There is no destination in mind, only distance from the home I haven’t left in weeks.
A gust of wind flips my umbrella inside out. I take cover under an awning and bend the panel back into its proper form. My hair is a different story. Persistent rain coiled the edges into a mane of frizz. It’s tied up in a messy bun, emphasis on the mess.
