Page 50 of A Risk Worth Taking

“Good, then we’re on the same page.” I squirt the whipped cream on top and then hand him his bowl, sitting next to him.

We both take a bite, moaning in unison, which makes us both laugh.

“Now for the tough discussion,” he says, glancing over at me. “Baby names.”

“Ugh.” I take another bite of my food. “I’m going to need some more sugar in me before we go there.”

Lincoln laughs. We both take another bite. And that’s how we spend our evening. Talking and eating ice cream. It’s the most normal thing we’ve done, and it reminds me of when I was younger, when things between us were simple. Despite the age difference, I’d like to think we were friends. And more than anything, I miss that. Lincoln was always someone I could talk to, and my hope is that someday we can get back to that.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

I drag my feet into the kitchen and plop onto the bar stool. “I think I have a hangover.”

Lincoln laughs. “I wouldn’t doubt it. I told you that third bowl was too much, but you didn’t listen.”

“Yeah, yeah. I need—” Before I can finish my sentence, Lincoln places a plate of eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit in front of me, along with a cup of coffee.

“Half decaf,” he explains, knowing I need and love my morning coffee, but since I’m pregnant, I now take it with only half the caffeine.

“Oh my God,” I groan at the sight and smell of the food and drink in front of me. “You are the best baby daddy ever.”

Lincoln barks out a laugh. “Remember that when I tell you what name I want for our son.”

“Nope,” I say, covering my ears. I read the biggest argument couples have is over the name of their baby, and since what you name your child is so important, I don’t want to mess this up. Take my name for example—Eliza, named after my psycho bio dad. Or London and Brooklyn, named after where their parents fell in love and renewed their vows. And so because naming our child is a really huge deal, I’m not ready to discuss it yet, even though Lincoln thinks he has the perfect name. I’m a mood reader, a mood dancer, a mood decision maker. If I’m not in the right mood, this name thing can go either way.

“Fine,” he says dryly. “Eat your food. By the way”—he smirks—”see that mango?” He nods toward the pre-cut fruit on my plate. “When it’s put together, that’s the size of our baby.”

I glance at it, then snort out a laugh. “I don’t even want to know where you learned that.”

“I looked it up. Apparently, there are pregnancy growth charts that compare baby sizes to either fruits or vegetables. According to the fruit chart, next week he’ll be the size of a banana.”

I stare at him, oddly touched that he’s looking up stuff about our baby, and a bit disturbed that people compare them to foods.

“Huh. Thanks for that tidbit of info. Let me know when he’s the size of a watermelon. It’s my favorite fruit.”

“Won’t be for a while,” he says with a shrug. “Watermelon is the endgame. When he’s that size, he’ll be ready to come out.” Suddenly his eyes go comically wide, as if he’s suddenly thought of something.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking a bite of my delicious bacon.

“Nothing...It’s just...” He clears his throat. “How the hell do you think a baby the size of a watermelon slides out of a woman’s hole? I mean, I know some women are loose...But take you for example. You can’t be more than the size of a lemon. I just don’t see how the hell a watermelon is fitting inside of a lemon without causing major damage to both of you.”

I’m in the middle of drinking my coffee when he says this, so my drink flies out of my mouth and all over the place.

“Oh my God, Lincoln! Thank you for the visual,” I splutter, grabbing a napkin to wipe my mouth. “The hole widens to accommodate the baby. Sometimes there’s tearing and it has to be stitched up, but for the most part, the woman’s body stretches open for the baby.”

Lincoln looks at me, part amazed and part traumatized, and I note not to let him anywhere near my lower half when I give birth.

“Any plans for today?” he asks after a few quiet moments.

I roll my eyes. “You know I’m supposed to be relaxing.”

“True,” he agrees. “Which is why I got you this.”

He pushes a paper across the island, and I pick it up and read it. “A pregnancy spa day?” I ask. “What’s the occasion?”

“For you to relax.” He smiles sheepishly. “Consider it a belated Mother-To-Be Day gift.”

“You know how much I love the spa here.” Technically, since Lincoln and Micah own the hotel, they also own the spa, but I learned a long time ago that just because you own it, doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay just like everyone else. But cost aside, this was very thoughtful of Lincoln.

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