Chapter Seventeen

Jenna

Work has been hell, with mounting financial problems and the increasingly pushy buyout offers from my competition. But I can’t bring myself to care about that right now. The moment of truth, the moment I’ve been hoping and praying and fretting over for so long has finally arrived. It’s time to see if all my—no, our—efforts have paid off. And I can’t stand waiting another second for my doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon.

After work and a trip to the drugstore, I text Emmett, I bought a pregnancy test. I actually bought three, just to make sure.

He replies almost immediately. Don’t take it yet. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Since I’ve waited six weeks—or more accurately, my whole life—I decide I can wait another twenty minutes. It’s sweet that Emmett’s almost as excited about this as I am.

I try to read a magazine, give up because I can’t focus, and pace rapidly around my apartment until I hear his knock.

I open the door and gesture him inside. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” He pulls me in for a brief hug, and instantly, I feel a little calmer. “Are you nervous?”

I chew on my lip and nod. “It should only take a few minutes until I know one way or the other.”

“I’ll be right here.” He perches on a bar stool in the kitchen with an attentive expression.

I’m grateful for his presence, which seems to ground me. “Wish me luck.” I press a kiss to his cheek and head toward the bathroom.

I reread the instructions for the fifth time just to make sure I don’t mess this up. Okay . . . pee in a cup, dip the test’s tip for five seconds, remove it, wait three minutes. That’s easy. I can totally do this.

After following the instructions, I set the test on the bathroom counter and remind myself to breathe. The seconds tick past at a glacial rate, but finally, something starts to happen. With maddening slowness, one pink line appears . . . then two!

“Holy shit,” I say out loud.

“What?” Emmett calls, his voice muffled through the door.

He sure didn’t stay sitting for long, but if he feels even half as keyed-up as I do, I can’t blame him.

“Hold on.” I rip open the other two boxes and use them too.

“Hey, what’s going on in there? The suspense is killing me.”

“Just one more minute.” I can barely contain myself as I wait for the tests to turn out. Was the first result a mistake, a fluke?

But no . . . the other two show double lines too. I fling open the bathroom door, spot Emmett, and throw my arms around his neck in glee.

“I’m knocked up!”

His face lights up. “Really? You’re pregnant?”

I nod, grinning so hard my cheeks ache. “All three tests were positive.” Then I squeal when he sweeps me into his arms with a sound of joy and twirls me around. We pepper each other with kisses, ecstatically bear-hugging, laughing in sheer excitement.

He sighs, looking into my eyes with tender pride. “We actually did it. How do you feel?”

“We did.” I plant a firm kiss on his lips, tears brimming in my eyes. “And I feel . . . incredible.”

When my stomach ruins the moment with a gurgle, he chuckles. “What about hungry?”

I laugh. “I’m not eating for two yet.”

“I asked about you, not the baby,” he says. “I worry about you sometimes. Knowing your workaholic tendencies, I’m guessing you haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

“You calling me a workaholic? Do I even have to say pot, kettle, black?” I poke the tip of my tongue out at him. “But . . . you got me there. No, I haven’t. I came straight home from work to take these tests.”

We order a Chinese-food feast and spread our army of paper boxes over the little dining table in my kitchen. As we dig in, silence falls . . . and with it creeps a slow melancholy that tempers the joy of my success.

Now what? The question nudges insistently. But how will he answer if I ask? Emmett promised me he didn’t want any part in raising a child and said he’ll happily get out of my way once I’m pregnant.

Hell, at the beginning, that’s exactly what I asked him to do. We were once on the same page, but since then my feelings have drifted so far. I still don’t know if I can handle a serious relationship . . . yet at the same time, now that I’m about to lose him, I realize just how desperately I wish otherwise.

I try to push away my unspoken, unspeakable doubts and make small talk. But it’s halfhearted, and Emmett answers in monosyllables, clearly preoccupied. Eventually, I give up and we eat our chicken chow mein in silence.

When the takeout boxes are empty, I crack open my fortune cookie. “Enjoy the good luck a companion brings you,” I read aloud. “That’s accurate. You’ve definitely brought me luck.”

He gives me a half smile that seems oddly tense. “Glad to hear it.”

“What did you get?”

He opens his cookie and frowns at the tiny paper slip. “‘A dream you have will come true.’ Well, that’s vague as hell.” Then, looking away from me, he says, “It’s getting late. I guess I should get out of your hair.”

What can I say except, “All right?”

As I walk him to the door, our eyes meet and I hesitate. Don’t go teeters on the tip of my tongue. Maybe a quick, formal farewell is the right thing to do . . . but I can’t bring myself to leave things at that. If this is my last chance to touch Emmett, I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t take it. I lean up to kiss him good-bye for the last time, wrapping my arms around his solid shoulders and breathing in the scent of his crisp cologne.

A small noise of surprise escapes him before his arms close around me tight and his hand cradles the back of my head. For a long moment I linger, savoring the feel of his lips, his solid body, trying to imprint it into my memory so I’ll never forget—so I can carry at least that small piece of him with me.

He pulls away slowly, as if he, too, feels reluctant to part. “I . . .” He takes a breath. “Um, if you want to keep me posted about how the baby is doing, how you’re doing with the pregnancy, I . . . would like that.”

“Oh?” I blink, then smile. “Okay. I will.”

I watch him walk away down the hall. Only when the elevator closes behind him do I shut my door. I turn out the lights, brush my teeth, and change into pajamas. Then I lie down in bed, stroking my still-flat belly, wondering what the future holds and how I’ll fare as a mother . . . and how it will feel to let go of Emmett, the father of my unborn baby.

Dammit, this is stupid. I’ve done exactly what I set out to accomplish. My hard-won success has finally arrived. So, why can’t my heart get with the program? Why, under all my excitement and nervousness and pride, do I feel so down?

I know why. But I still try to convince myself that my weird mood is just a standard case of pregnancy jitters.

As I snuggle under the covers, I place the call I’ve been waiting to make for a long time. “Hey, Mom,” I say when she answers.

“Tell me some good news, baby girl.”

“You’re going to be a grandma,” I say, my throat tight.

When she lets out the biggest squeal of joy I’ve ever heard, tears spring to my eyes.

We talk for a while longer, all about baby names and birthing plans, until the conversation shifts to the sperm donor I chose. I don’t know how to tell her about Emmett. Don’t know how to explain him and his role at all. Yes, he was my donor, but he feels like more. Instead, I make an excuse about needing to get ready for bed and end the call.

A ding interrupts my conflicting thoughts. I check my phone to find a text from Emmett.

Make sure not to eat any raw fish from now on. I’m sure you already knew that, but just saying.

My lips twitch up. Of course, I reply.

Another text appears almost instantly. And don’t sleep on your back.

That’s not until I’m much further along, I type back, my smile growing.

Yet another message. Did your doctor recommend you take any prenatal vitamins?

He keeps texting me little tips and factoids and questions until it gets so late, I have to say good night.

I turn off my phone and snuggle under the covers, feeling a little more cheerful. Even if we’re not sleeping together anymore, maybe I won’t have to say good-bye to his friendship after all.