Page 80 of Baby, One More Time

Oh, that, yes, I am

From Teresa:

*boggling eyes emoji* And you didn’t think to share that little tidbit?

To Teresa:

Sorry, it hasn’t fully sunk in yet. And you can’t tell anyone. Not even Mom and Dad. I haven’t told them

From Teresa:

When are you going to tell them?

To Teresa:

Christmas, I was thinking. Toward the end of the first trimester

From Teresa:

So you’re coming for the holidays?

To Teresa:

Yes, even if I still think they’re traitors for fraternizing with Dr. Evil

And I’m the biggest hypocrite of them all. Even with Teresa, I don’t know when I’ll be ready to disclose the baby’s paternity.

I know my sister; she’d go off on a tangent, telling me how my being pregnant with John’s baby is destiny and that I can’t fight my fate. Whereas I’m more of a make-your-own-decisions kind of gal—no matter that my decision-making superpowers are utterly scrambled where John is concerned. I want to take a minute for myself and consider the situation without outside input, even the loving one of my sister.

I ask Teresa what she’s doing up at five in the morning. She tells me she’s going for a run, and I roll my eyes at her healthy, Californian lifestyle. We say goodbye, and I hop into the shower, hoping the hot jets will help bring some clarity back into my mind—they don’t. Getting ready for work is excruciating. Lately, I’ve been bone-tired even after eight solid hours of sleep, so the three to four I got last night definitely aren’t going to cut it. I need coffee—fancy, store-bought coffee.

Ready for the office, I put on my coat and open my door only to find John waiting at the bottom of the front steps. He’s holding a tray with two paper coffee cups and sporting a satisfied smirk.

“What’s this?” I ask. “Have you turned total stalker? Should I ask for a restraining order?”

“This is me, showing up and bringing you coffee.”

I stare at the cup, craving it with all my being. We both know it is a bribe, but my morals are loose at the moment.

“Double vanilla, double caramel, extra foamy?” I ask.

He smirks. “I wouldn’t dare bring you any less.”

And maybe it sucks that he still remembers how I like coffee from high school, or that I haven’t changed my order in years. But right now, I’m more glad than annoyed. I take the last step down and accept the cup. The first sip is worth the decline of my ethics.

“Thank you.” I raise the cup. “I really needed the caffeine.”

“Well, it’s only half-caf for the baby’s sake.”

“Still good.”

As I begin to walk toward my office, John falls into step next to me.

“Heading the same way?” I ask.

“I’m walking you to work; I’d imagine so.”

I keep walking, not looking at him, at his crinkly eyes, or full lips. Nope, not even a glance. “Don’t you have places to be? Patients to care for? Or does the clinic let you set your schedule?”

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