Page 42 of My Fakish Fiancé

I hang up with Scott and call my PR rep. She's been earning her paycheck since Orlando.

"Hey, yeah, um, have you seen the photos and the video?" I ask tentatively.

A silent void greets me, then, "Yep. Thought you said there were no more surprises. Now I'm seeing photos of your girl leaving a clinic. This is bad."

"How bad is it?"

"On a scale from one to ten, it's about an eight. This is not a good time for there to be trouble in paradise. Can you call her and clear it up like yesterday?"

"Yes, I've left several voicemails, so I'm sure I'll hear from her soon." I hang up.

I miss the days when you could hang up a phone with anger. Sometimes, my representative infuriates me. Like I control what other people do and what gets on the internet.

After more calls going to voicemail, I start looking at flights. I toss the phone when my schedule does not align with flight availability. This is so aggravating.

My phone rings. Great, now my parents think something is wrong. I ignore it because I don't have any answers, and I don't want to fan the flame if it's nothing.

Come on, Erica, call me back. I continue pacing as my phone blows up with notifications from news outlets, tabloids, and old girlfriends. I put my phone on do not disturb. I am not dealing with this right now.

I try to get some work done, but I can't help but check my phone every few minutes. Nothing from Erica. I had plans to go out and eat with some buddies of mine, but I called them and canceled. I would get mobbed if I went anywhere, and I'm sure I would end up in jail for assaulting a photographer. As it is, a few diehards still have found my address and are staking me out. I can tell who they are because they have big antennas on their vehicles. Nice try, goofballs. I shut the blinds on the main floor.

I finished the work that must be done today and pushed the rest off until tomorrow. I order in and monitor social media feeds to see the word on the street. Lots of speculation about cheating. Why is that always the go-to when someone goes to a clinic for reasons they can't explain?

I go to my exercise room and work out before my food arrives. It helps calm me down some, but not enough. I even lift heavy due to the stress of these unanswered calls from Erica. I recheck my phone — nothing. I call and hang up when I get her voicemail for the hundredth time.

I shower and sit down, waiting for my delivery, which comes shortly after. I open the door, and instead of my order, I get photobombed and asked about Erica. I slam the door and check the peephole the next time my bell rings. It's my food this time. I open the door, grab the bag, say thanks, and close it quickly as I see photographers loitering around for their chance at a picture. I go to my front window, and when I catch a cameraman looking my way, I flip him off and close the blinds again. I mutter out loud to take that picture and shove it up your butt.

I eat in the living room and watch a movie to calm my nerves, which doesn't work because I check my phone every ten minutes. I have zero control over any of this. I need Erica to be okay. I need her to call me. I need many things right now, but the best action is to find my air pods and a meditation app. The soothing sounds flow into my ears, and I immediately feel my breathing slow. I take purposeful deep breaths and exhale. All the stress starts to leave my body, and I feel like myself again.

I'm in my meditative state when the phone rings.

Chapter Sixteen

Erica

Ihavehadmorningsickness daily, but it's not in the morning. It comes all day long. Why call it morning sickness when it's not just in the morning? My cravings are getting weird. Not that I haven't heard that happen. Food I liked before I got pregnant now grosses me out. I ask the obstetrician for some recommendations.

"Crackers and Pedialyte are your best friends for now. Make sure you eat enough protein. I don't care how you get it. Plant-based, animal-based, just get protein in your body and stay hydrated. You will probably have heartburn. I recommend Tums." She is writing as she is talking, and I'm trying to keep up with her, taking notes on my phone.

"I'm concerned about your weight. It's a bit high for your term. Try to cut out snacking unless it's on vegetables. Many women use the excuse, 'I'm eating for two,' but junk food is not good for you or the baby. I see here the clinic doctor gave you a prescription for prenatal vitamins. Are you taking them?"

"Yes, I am, every day. Sometimes they don't stay down with the morning sickness, though."

"That's okay. That will get better in the second trimester. I will provide some nausea medicine to help with that." More writing, more notes.

"Okay, do you have any other questions for me?" she asks.

"Can you tell me what date I conceived?" I only ask because even though I know for sure, if anyone else has questions, like Aaron, I can give the doctor's answer.

"I can give you a ballpark within a couple of days." She hands me a piece of paper with my blood work and urine sample.

Down the page, towards the middle, is the estimated date of conception, plus or minus two days on each side.

"Perfect, thank you. When do I come back to see you?"

"Let's see. You're two months along, so right about month four unless you have any issues.

"Okay, I guess I'll see you then. Thanks, doctor." I walk out of the office in a stupor.

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