Page 60 of The Baby Bargain
My thoughts forkin two directions.
In one, I'm a doting mother, raising a baby girl (Charlotte, after my mom) in my old room. My brothers are constantly hovering. They're practically co-parents. They shower her with so much love and attention she's spoiled rotten.
We play with blocks. I dress her in tiny black Converseandlittle pink dresses. I rock her while I'm studying. And bring her to defend my thesis.
She doesn't come into the room with me. She stays outside, with Forest. And Dad. And Holden.
When I'm finally awarded my PhD, we celebrate at a big, chain restaurant instead of some fancy local place. Because they have high seats and kids menus and crayons.
She's the center of my life. And that life is so big and full. It bursts with love from family and friends. I kick ass at my job, but I still go home at five every night, and take her to the park on the weekends, and watch her run around the waves in the summer.
There isn't a man involved. There are three—Dad, Forest, Holden. But they know I'm the one in charge. They help when I need it. Help more than I need it. But it's still me and my little girl against the world.
Then there's the typical, domestic path. The one I used to imagine with Phillip.
I'm a million months pregnant in a lacy white wedding dress. We kiss at a ceremony on the beach. He holds my hand in the delivery room. Holds Charlotte when I'm sleeping.
He's there, turning her mobile, rocking her to sleep, cooing over her smile.
He's at the park, holding my hand, as we try so, so hard to let her play with other kids. It's scary. She might hurt herself. Someone might pick on her. But we have to let her go.
He's there, holding her hand as she runs through the water, teaching her to swim, then surf, then run.
Handing her a basketball and challenging her to get past him.
Teaching her to draw. Teasingyou must take after your momwhen she scribbles a crooked stick figure.
Smiling at me.
And I'm smiling back. And my heart is so full I'm sure it's going to burst.
Because, God, Chase really would be a great father.
I try to sub in other guys, but it's always Chase.
I haven't even kissed the guy and I'm already imagining our baby.
This is exactly the kind of behavior that gets women labeled "crazy." Which is rude and reductive. Crazy isn't even a scientific term.
But, God, this is crazy.
And so out of the question.
But the more I stare at my inbox, waiting for responses from potential baby daddies, reading responses from potential baby daddies, imagining doing the deed with potential baby daddies, going through an entire pregnancy on my own—
I keep wanting it to be Chase.
But that's still so out of the question.
So I imagine what I can with my, ahem, suitors. Soft lips on my neck. Rough hands on my hips. A hard body over mine.
Sure, Chase makes his way into those fantasies. But so does Phillip. And Idris Elba.
It's just a fantasy.
It doesn't mean anything.
I'm still doing this.
