Page 86 of Bar Down, Baby

ME:Everything okay?

MEGAN:Yes. Baby looks great. Just doing the glucose test thing.

ME:Hang in there. I’ll talk to you tonight.

MEGAN:xox

I press my hand to my chest for a long moment.Fuck. She trusted me with those pictures, with that video. And now my staff has seen her at her most vulnerable. They won’t say a word, and the last thing I want to do is add to her stress. There’s no reason to make things more stressful for her.

But for some reason my heart won’t slow down. Not when I jerk off in the shower. Not when I come a second time over the bathroom sink to the image of her from earlier. And not when I watched her on Facetime and came a third time, telling her, in the filthiest words possible, where I’m going to come the next time I see her.

Everything feels unsettled, and I don’t know how to right it.

CHAPTER32

MEGAN

My phone is ringingfrom somewhere in the depths of the mountain of yarn I’m sorting, and I can’t find it.

I’ve been sorting inventory upstairs in Midge’s flat lately. She’s been so generous, letting me use her table and some extra shelf space to sort through Lule’s yarn. She says she’s been sleeping elsewhere, but I don’t know how much of that is really true. I worry about taking advantage. I should probably be paying her rent to use her space like this, but any time I try to bring it up, she changes the subject.

The ringing stops, but I still need to find it. My notes from Lule on what else needs to be ordered is stored in my notes app. Business has been better than she anticipated, and as fall approaches, the web store shows no signs of slowing down.

I’ve also picked up some other clients. I redesigned the web page for a woman who makes soap in Carlton, and she referred me to a small vineyard and a French-style bakery startup in wine country. If someone had told me a year ago that I would be managing an internet company and consulting on a handful of other e-commerce sites, I would have never believed it.

But also, if someone had told me a year ago I would be in a relationship with the head coach of a college hockey team, and pregnant, I’d have found something to drink so I could do a really great spit take.

I know Derek is worried about the pregnancy. I think he’s afraid to get too attached in case something goes wrong, which breaks my heart. I’m trying to be understanding and supportive, to not ask too much of him, and to show him my gratitude for everything he has given me.

And I don’t mean material items, although he’s done plenty in that regard. When I mentioned that I didn’t have any pants that fit, he came home the next day with a stack of maternity pants he’d found at a fancy maternity store in Pioneer Square. I almost didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d picked three different sizes. But then he cut me off and explained he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to be in the business of guessing wrong, asked for the adjacent sizes, just in case.

I never realized I could love someone so much for buying me the wrong size.

Which is where it gets a little tricky. Because I can feel myself slipping into something that feels a lot like what I imagine love feels like.

Bee says it’s pregnancy hormones. Midge thinks it’s all chemistry. Ainsley says it’s the sex cloud we’re living in. I think it might be a combination of the three, although Ainsley might have the advantage. The sex is still incredible. As my belly gets bigger, I feel more and more awkward, but it’s like he anticipates it, and finding different angles that make me feel so. Damn. Good.

My phone rings again. I trace it to the box of eggplant angora wool and pick it up. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Megsy? Is that you?” It’s my mother. My stomach tightens, and I prepare myself for whatever is coming.

“Are you still there, sweet girl.”

“Yeah. Hi, Momma.”

“What are you up to, sweet girl?”

I frown. This isn’t how she usually starts a conversation. For one, she actually sounds lucid. Second, I haven’t actually spoken to her since I left the rehab facility where she told me she married her pimp. Her pimp who I have history with.

“I’m working, Momma.”

“Working? Is this the yarn business? The website?”

I frown.

“Yeah, how did—”

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