Page 22 of Sweet Escape
Olivia
Between batchesof cupcakes and bouts of nausea, I’ve spent the last six hours running back and forth from the kitchen to the bathroom. Around the fourth trip back from the porcelain throne, Grammy grabs me by the wrist and spins me to face her.
“How far along are you, Livie?” She eyes me up and down, her lips turning into a sympathetic frown.
My shoulders slump. “Eight weeks. How did you know?”
“This ain’t my first rodeo.” Before she can say anything more, the beep of the oven timer interrupts our conversation. “Hold that thought.”
She heads to the double oven and plucks a fresh pumpkin pie from the bottom rack. My mouth waters as my stomach churns, and I roll my eyes at the conflicting desires.
“That’s right around the time you came home,” she says. “Is it Jake’s?”
I shake my head, my chest tightening. I thought I’d been careful, but I’ve had a lot of time to reflect while my head’s been in the toilet, and I’ve since realized I didn’t take my pill the morning I left Jake and Amber in my bed. I missed it again the following day in the hotel, too. This is my fault. Wilder is never going to forgive me.
“Oh, my sweet girl. It’ll be okay. Have you told the father? I’m assuming you know who it is.” She winks and swats me with the back of a pink oven mitt.
Again, I shake my head. “Not yet.” I wish I could make light of it, laugh and joke right along with Grammy, but I can’t see the humor in it yet.
Her expression sobers, her head tipping to one side. “Is it the Hayes boy?” She rounds the stainless steel kitchen island, her hand lifting to my cheek.
This time, a teardoesescape, and she catches it with her thumb.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“He’s a good man, Livie. He’ll do right by you and that baby. Give him a chance.”
I want to. God, do I want to, but I don’t know Wilder any more than IthoughtI knew Jake. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I'm holding my own track record against me. I’m not exactly the best judge of character.
“Thanks, Grammy. Can we keep this between us for now? I need to talk to Wilder first. Dad is going to lose his shit when he finds out I’m having a Hayes baby.”
She scoffs. “Your daddy is a grown man. He’ll get over it.”
“Maybe. You know he has a history with Russell.”
“I do know, but you’re his baby girl. You come first before any stupid grudge.”
“Grammy. Promise you won’t say anything.” I don’t meanto come off like I don’t trust my grandmother, but everybody knows Rosie Sullivan has loose lips.
“I promise.” She briefly rests her forehead against mine, then spins me away. “Now, get your cute little butt upstairs and rest,” she says, shooing me toward the door to the apartment. When I hesitate, she adds, “Go on. I’ll handle the last batch of cupcakes while you figure out what you’re gonna wear to tell that boy you’re having his baby.”
“Grammy!”
“What? You’re a pretty girl, and he’s obviously attracted to you. Don’t think I didn’t see the way he looked at you like he wanted to eat you up,Cupcake.”
I scoff. Nothing gets past Rosie Sullivan.
“Use what ya got, Livie girl. He can’t be mad if he’s well and truly distracted.” She singsongs the last word, sauntering over to the oven with a little extra pep in her step. She’s enjoying this way too much for my liking.
Shaking my head, I bound up the stairs and sink onto the outdated floral sofa in the middle of the living room. My eyes fall shut as I lean my head back against the cushion. The peaceful moment is broken when my phone chimes in the pocket of my apron. I pick it up, finding an unknown number on the screen with a two-word text message that lets me know exactly who it is.
Unknown: Hey Cupcake.
Wilder freaking Hayes. Grammy is officially on my shit list.
I set my phone on the coffee table and place a hand just under my belly button where a baby is growing—mybaby. I’ve always wanted a family, and I love kids, but I thought I’d bedoing this under very different circumstances. Thirty, single, and jobless was never part of the plan.
At some point, I drift off to sleep and wake up in an awkward position, with a stiff neck and sore shoulders. My phone vibrates on the coffee table, and when I flip it over, there’s an unknown number calling. Butterflies erupt in my chest at the prospect of hearing Wilder’s voice, but the excitement evaporates when the one that comes across the line is familiar in a different way. I wish I could attribute the urge to vomit to the pregnancy, but it’s Jake who does it this time.
