Eight weeks later

---

Every waking moment of my existence feels like I live in a post-apocalyptic dystopian world called Nausealand District 40. In this society, everyone is deeply sick to their stomach, and the battle between good and evil hinges on the ability to consume just enough calories to maintain the life force that keeps the universe going:

The Placenta Quadrant.

In a battle to save the human race, pregnant women must face the ultimate challenge: eat enough micronutrients to propagate while vomiting out the body’s perceived poisons until every blood vessel in their face explodes.

“Represent,” I mutter after my morning barf. At six weeks on the dot, the morning puke kicked in. I’m at ten weeks now. You try throwing up every morning, like clockwork. My Fitbit tells me I’m burning about thirty-three calories every time I retch up my morning bile. Small comfort to know the system is fed data by crowdsourcing, which means other women are in the same boat, face in the toilet the second they’re conscious.

Welcome to pregnancy.

My belly’s still flat. Well–as flat as it’s ever been. My face looks like I’m ready to star as a mutant in the next Avengers movie. And a disturbing trend has emerged in my dietary habits:

I can only eat orange food.

“Shannon?” Dec calls out from the other side of the bathroom door. “What can I do?”

“Keep your breath away from me! I can’t believe you made me throw up!”

Oh. Right. Another, even worse trend:

I cannot stand the smell, taste, sound, feel, or sight of coffee.

“I’m so sorry. I normally chew some gum before I kiss you, but–”

“The whole apartment smells like it! Did you bathe in it?”

“I went to work,” he says in that infuriatingly rational tone of his that makes me want to poke his eyes out with a coffee spoon. “Had a single macchiato. Drove home. Tried to kiss you, but you turned into a–”

“I can’t believe you did that. Are you sure you didn’t brew any in the house?”

“I’m sure. All the coffeemakers are downstairs in storage, right where you made me take them four weeks ago. Along with the espresso cups, all coffee-scented candles, the coffee bean art your sister made, and the box of sugar cubes you said reminded you of coffee.”

“And you didn’t bring any home in a to-go cup?”

“Shannon. I swear. Can I come in?”

“Yes.” I start to cry. “This is horrible.”

“I know.”

“How the hell would you know, Declan? You’ve never been pregnant. Or do you mean it’s horrible for you because I’m a terrible garbage person who isn’t being nice to you? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I am so sorry.” My shoulders start to shake with sobs, but the movement makes me queasy again. Immobilizing myself, I try to cry with as little movement as possible.

“That’s not at all what I meant. I was expressing sympathy.”

A heavy, cement-like feeling pulls my stomach down into my womb, where it twists into a pretzel. A nauseating pretzel. From there, the sensation of paresthesia takes over every pore, until I’m not just nauseated.

I am nausea personified.

“I hate this!” I sob. “It’s been an entire month! Mom said she went through seven months of this. What if I’m like her? What if it’s genetic? I feel like someone’s crushing me between two giant slabs of stone after making me eat tainted fish!” As those last two words come out of my throat, my gut spasms. Even talking about being sick makes me sick.

Dec pulls me to him, not too tight, because that makes me sick, too. “I’m sorry. Carol said hers ended right at week thirteen, remember? She woke up one morning and it was like a light switch had been flipped.”

“That’s still three more weeks. And I can’t even come to the office! I’ve been working from home for a month as COO of a new company and I’m a failure,” I moan, the air in my throat expanding and contracting like a womb in labor, my emotions fighting to figure out what to do next.

“You’re fine. Everyone understands.”

“I don’t want them to understand! I want to work in my own office!”

“Well, honey, that’s hard given the circumstances. We’re directly above the microroasting room downstairs. The whole point of locating HQ there was to be with the coffee.”

“Whose stupid idea was that?”

He goes silent.

Oh. Right.

It was mine.

“Is there anything you can eat that helps?”

“No. I’ve tried everything. You know that.” I reach into his jacket pocket, knowing I’ll find a wrapped piece of ginger hard candy. “This is it,” I say, popping it in my mouth. The cloying taste is getting old fast, but it helps.

Barely.

“Carrots still okay?”

“Only raw.”

“Sweet potatoes? You said the midwife told you they’re full of micronutrients that help.”

“Yes. I can choke down one a day, with a little cinnamon.”

“And peaches?”

“Yes, but it’s hard to find ripe ones.”

“What about frozen? Or canned?”

I gag. He moves back an inch. I haven’t thrown up on him yet, but the guy is quick on his feet.

“We’ll stick to fresh. I’ll have Dave order some to be sent regularly until this clears up. Anything else?”

“Cheddar cheese. But it has to be orange. I seem to be able to eat only orange food.”

“At least it’s healthy.”

“You try eating four things a day that are all the same color. I’ve turned into a sick episode of a preschooler’s television show on repeat.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Quit saying that.”

“But I am. I’m fine. Nothing’s changed for me. I eat whatever I want, get up and go to bed when I want, do work when I want. But here you are, throwing up and asleep by five every night, dragging.”

I yawn.

Dec walks out of the bathroom after kissing the top of my head. I stare into the mirror. What was the word Dave used that day at work, a month ago? The day I found out I was pregnant?

Oh, yeah. Peaked. I look peaked.

Three more weeks of this is going to suck.

This first trimester thing is bullshit. Bullshit. My body has this incredible superpower. I am building an organ. An organ that did not exist until now. No, I’m not regenerating my liver or cutting off a foot and growing a new one. But while gestating our baby, my body has to create the placenta from nothing but pieces of me and what I eat.

That’s pretty amazing.

From what I gather from reading every book on pregnancy I can find (and avoiding the worst of the online website articles), my body is rejecting all these other foods–including coffee–because it perceives some chemical in them as a threat to the baby. I’m not sure I believe it, but what I believe doesn’t matter these days.

Biology is all that counts.

And biology has decided to play a sick joke on me, the co-owner of an emerging national coffee chain, and make me hate the drink with the passion of a thousand suns.

And one stunning gag reflex.

You know what is even worse than all this? I am showing no signs of actually being pregnant. I look like a strung-out junkie most days, when in fact I am twenty-five percent through with the miracle of making a baby with my own body. Instead of getting attention and praise and ooohs and aaaahs, I’m ooohing and aaaahing into the toilet.

So not the same.

I’m not showing yet, I can’t feel the baby move, so as far as I know, this is all a whole lot of suffering for nothing.

Sure, sure, in a few weeks it’ll all change, but when you spend the day feeling like an extra from The Walking Dead minus the makeup, it gets old. Fast.

I shuffle my way through a shower, sipping some warm water from the spray, and make my way into the bedroom to put on whatever loose pants and baggy shirt I can find. If I can’t work at the office, might as well take advantage of being at home.

Dec walks back into the bedroom, car keys and phone in hand, and finds me toweling my hair. I look up as he comes in for a kiss.

He is so hot.

I don’t mean attractive hot. Of course he is. I mean that I am married to a man who is the full package. Trim and muscular, wearing a tailored coat that is unbuttoned, his shirt flat against his torso, tucked in. The belt bisects his body, the dark navy slacks ending with cuffs perfectly aligned with Italian leather shoes in a shade of brown only nature can make. He’s wearing no aftershave, the clean scent of soap hard enough for me to handle. We’ve barely touched for a month, because I’m so brittle.

I hate this.

“Dec,” I say, voice shaking as he turns away to leave.

Stopping in the doorway, he turns around, ever attentive. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I’m a mess. I won’t have sex with you. I eat nothing that isn’t orange.”

“Oh, Shannon.”

“And you’re–” I wave at him. “You’re all that.”

He looks down at himself. “All what?”

“You’re this hot billionaire who wears fine Italian suits and smells like sex and everything in the world that is perfect and sophisticated and I smell like ginger and frumpy.”

“Is that the name of a new cartoon? Ginger and Frumpy? Are we going to memorize the jingle after our toddler makes us watch it a thousand times?” he asks softly, smiling as he sits next to me on the bed, taking my hand, being all patient and perfect.

I married the perfect guy.

Which means I should be perfect to match, right?

But I can’t do it.

I drop, flat on my back, my unrestrained breasts doing their best to rappel down my ribs. “Stop. You know what I mean. I’m a mess and I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t deserve what you’re doing for me, sweetie.”

“Millions of women have babies every year. They don’t fall apart like this.”

“I’m sure some of them do.”

“I should be stronger than this.”

“You’re plenty strong enough.”

“Quit invalidating my pity party!”

“Sorry. But I’m not joining in.”

“If you loved me, you would.”

“If I loved you, I’d negate your self-worth?”

“Yes!”

“Pregnancy has definitely changed you, Shannon.”

“No kidding.”

Bzzzzz.

Our doorbell rings just as Declan gives me major side eye. “Expecting a delivery?”

My phone buzzes. I look. “It’s Amanda.”

The relief in his face is comical. “Oh! Great! She can cheer you up.”

“Don’t look so happy.”

“I’m always happy to see Amanda.”

I let that one slide as he goes out to the front door and I hear the unmistakable sound of Amanda and a jingling dog collar in my living room.

“Did you bring Spritzy?” I shout.

“I did! And ice cream.”

“Is it orange?” I drag myself up and shuffle into the living room to find Spritzy on the big leather sofa, chin on my favorite toss pillow, eyes already closed.

“Make yourself at home,” I mutter.

“You need an intervention.”

“I’m growing a baby, not getting shitfaced every night.”

“It’s hard to tell the difference. Shannon, are you sure you don’t need to see your midwife? Or the OB in her practice?”

Alarm washes over Declan’s normally stoic face. “What? Is this–is this the kind of symptom that requires medical attention?”

“Define symptom,” I growl. “It’s just morning sickness.”

“You’re definitely experiencing personality changes,” Amanda chirps, looking all fresh and happy and not nauseated.

“Or maybe I’m just so sick, I can cut through all the bullshit in the world and call it like it is.”

Panic fills Dec’s eyes as Amanda looks at him, catching the unshielded emotion. “I’ve got this,” she tells him, patting his shoulder.

“You sure?”

“I just gave you an out, big guy. Go for it.”

The only time I’ve seen Dec move that fast indoors is around my mother.

“You didn’t drink coffee this morning, did you?” I interrogate her, sniffing.

“I did, but I brushed my teeth before coming here.”

She passes the sniff test.

“And you didn’t bring any gross food, right?”

“We’re testing orange sherbet today, on your request.”

“Request?”

“You asked me to come over this morning. Remember?”

“I did?”

“It’s that bad, huh? Forgetting everything?”

“Take your stomach, give it food poisoning, put it in a blender with glitter, and then pour it into your eyes.”

“I’m never having kids.”

“Right.”

Reaching in and pulling out a small plastic food container, Amanda peels off the top. I look in.

Cheeto-marshmallow treats.

“Ew! You did not!”

“I did, too,” she retorts in a schoolmarm tone. “They are orange.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I noticed you only eat orange food lately.”

“When I can keep it down.” I shove the container away. “Ew.”

“Try one.”

“What? No! The baby won’t let me eat junk food.”

“Have you tried?”

I eye her suspiciously. “What’s in there? Did you crush prenatal vitamins and sneak them in?”

“Have you managed to keep them down yet?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, but that’s a damn good idea.”

“Amanda!”

“Shannon. I want to help. My Cheeto-marshmallow treats are their own kind of magic. Whenever I am at my worst, they always make me feel better.”

I carefully sniff the air.

No nausea.

Gingerly, I pull one out of the bowl. I raise it to my lips. I press it, my tongue poking out between my lips.

“You look like Tyler when he was little and picky.”

“Well, we’re related, so that makes sense.”

“One bite.”

“Fine.”

The crunch is satisfying, the salty-sweet taste helping to quell my nausea as I chew. Better than ginger, superior to saltines and soda water, this crazy treat of Amanda’s is... working!

“You are my new best friend.”

“I thought I was your old best friend.”

“You’re both. Get me some sparkling water and I’ll make you my best friend for life.”

“But I thought I was already– ” I hug her so hard, she can’t breathe.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” I have no idea why this disgusting treat makes me feel so much better, but it does.

And then divine inspiration strikes.

“Remember those over-the-top drinks our competitor started rolling out?”

“The milkshakes with crazy themes?”

“Yeah. Do I have any ice cream in my freezer?”

She looks, digging out a pint, holding it aloft. “You do!”

“Wait!” I say, looking at the orange sherbet she brought. “Hold on. That is vanilla ice cream. Let’s stick with the orange theme.”

She puts the vanilla away. “What are you thinking?”

“What if we make a Cheeto-cino?”

“A what?”

“A Cheeto-cino! A Cheeto-marshmallow shake.”

“With... coffee in it?”

I shudder. “God, no. I have standards.”

“Right. Of course.” Amanda clears her throat, tapping her fingernail on the sherbet carton. “Until five minutes ago, you couldn’t touch anything except a handful of foods. Now you want to make a milkshake filled with Cheetos?”

“Doesn’t it sound good?” For the first time in forever, my stomach feels happy at the thought of eating.

“It does.”

“Look, this could be a signature product at Grind It Fresh! We could get the millennials.”

“We. Are. The. Millennials.”

“Oh. Right.”

She brightens up. “Add avocado and you might have a winner there.”

“Avocado is so 2017. No way.” I start pawing through the cabinets to find the blender.

“You’re serious?”

“I am. Cheetos, orange sherbet, marshmallow cream.”

A long pause ensues. She grins. “Then let’s get cracking!”

“This is why you’re my bestie.”

“No, it’s not. But someone has to protect you and hold your hair when you start barfing.”

---

---

I’m at this dive bar down the street from the Westside Center for the Arts, where my ex-chauffeur and bodyguard, Gerald, likes to play pool. It’s the kind of place I’d never set foot in if it weren’t for the strange friendship we’ve developed, but at a time like this, it’s a lifesaver.

“So you’re basically a bachelor who can’t sleep around,” he says, taking his turn on stripes.

“Right. She works from home, and by the time I get back, she’s fallen asleep in bed with a plate of half-eaten orange food on the nightstand.”

“Poor Shannon.”

“I know.” My turn. I get the seven in the right corner pocket.

“I can’t imagine Suzanne acting like that.”

“Until a month ago, I couldn’t fathom Shannon like this, either. I can’t even brew coffee in our apartment.”

“She can’t make you stop drinking coffee,” Andrew says, returning from the bar with two pints of something dark that will help me unwind. I haven’t mentioned it to Shannon, but for the last four weeks, I’ve been drinking more. Not a lot, and nothing that even touches danger territory. I’m lonely.

There. I said it.

I’m lonely, and a beer or two every night while doing work, the television on while I half listen, feels like a little company.

“No. But she’s banned it from our place,” I tell my brother as Gerald takes his shot.

And misses.

“Banned? Who’s the man here?” Andrew’s cockier than usual today, after closing a nine-figure deal for a new property in Singapore.

“Don’t try to conflate being an asshole with being a man.”

“It’s not reasonable for her to put limits on you like that, Dec.”

“It is when she’s growing my baby. I will survive without coffee in my own home for a few months. Poor Shannon throws up at the smell of it. This is how long-term relationships work. You care about the other person and put their needs first.”

“I know that!”

“Then act like it.”

Gerald watches us, calm and cool, then closes his eyes and laughs. “Babies change everything.”

“How would you know?”

“It’s a general proposition. Not basing anything on experience. But I will say, you two deciding to start a family has Suzanne and me talking.”

“A little Gerald? I can’t imagine. Would he come out bald, wearing an earpiece?”

“You’re half right,” Gerald cracks. He looks at me. “What did you think pregnancy would be like?”

“I didn’t think it would be like this. I feel like she’s Sleeping Beauty and I’m not allowed to kiss her awake.”

“Especially after drinking coffee,” Andrew adds.

“No kidding. She made me get rid of the coffee-scented candles. The unlit ones.”

Both guys mutter indistinct sounds of sympathy.

“They say they’re only sick for the first trimester.”

“That’s three more weeks, minimum. I’m doing everything I can to make her feel better, but it’s a really awful feeling to watch her suffer and have no way to alleviate her pain.”

“If you think this is bad, wait until the birth,” Gerald says, eyes narrow as he studies me.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re feeling helpless now, when she’s got an upset stomach and goes to bed early because of exhaustion? How are you going to handle an eight-pound baby coming out of her after hours of grueling labor?”

Oh, shit.

“That’s going to suck,” Andrew says, joking drained out of his voice. “Don’t they have painkillers for that?”

“Shannon wants to try natural childbirth.”

“I know quite a bit about that,” Andrew says dryly. “I pretended to be a dad for that class with Amanda. Remember?”

“You did that so you could hit on her.”

“Did you know perineal massage with olive oil can prevent episiotomies?”Andrew says.

“Now you sound like your mother-in-law,” I inform him. Pam is an actuary. She does math for a living. This also means she’s a repository of obscure facts. Basically, Andrew’s wife’s mother is the female version of Cliff Clavin from Cheers.

“You’re right. I do. But you and Shannon should definitely take that childbirth class at the hospital.”

“The one where you told me the teacher made you draw vulvas using colored pudding?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would I want to sit through that? You mocked it!”

“Why would you mock that?” Gerald asks, genuinely piqued. “That’s art.”

“It was–never mind,” Andrew grouses. Never make fun of art in front of a sculptor. “Anyhow, the natural birth thing is very cool, even if it is hairy.”

“Hairy?”

“You’ll see.” Andrew gives me a mysterious grin. “Bring popcorn for the movie.”

“When do you take childbirth classes?” Gerald asks.

“Before the baby’s born, ideally,” Andrew replies.

“I meant, how long into the pregnancy?” Gerald’s dry tone makes it clear his patience is thin.

“I have no idea,” I confess. “Shannon knows.”

While Andrew racks the balls, Gerald gives me an inquiring look. “Why does Shannon know and you don’t?”

“Because she’s the one who reads all the baby books.”

“Is this by agreement?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why aren’t you reading them?”

“I...” I have no answer for that.

“Is there some rule that says only the woman reads the books?”

“Not a rule, no. It’s just–it’s her body.”

“You don’t want to know every detail about your woman’s body?” Andrew asks.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why not read the books?”

“I’ll ask Dave to get them loaded into my audiobook app,” I say, nodding. “Good point, Gerald.”

Andrew snickers. “Good point, Gerald,” he mimics. “Jesus, Dec, did someone really have to tell you to read the baby books? Or did you decide you’re going to turn into Dad suddenly?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You went caveman. Full caveman. Assuming Shannon would read it all and you’d defer any need to pull your own weight.”

“You’re way overreaching here, little bro.”

“Am I?”

I’m hurt. I can’t let him see it, but I am.

He’s also right.

That hurts more.

“Look, unlike you, I didn’t have a multi-national corporation handed to me. I’m building one from the ground up at the same time we’re trying to start a family. Shannon’s not even out of the first trimester. It’s not that I planned to dump all the research off on her. It’s just a sequencing issue.”

When someone hits a nerve, you come back with a spear to the heart.

“You’re deflecting because you know I’m right,” he replies, not taking the bait.

Damn it.

“You are right.”

That stops him in his tracks.

“You can be right and a pompous ass, too. It’s not either/or. It can be both/and.”

“You are both an insufferable pain in the ass and an egomaniac,” he says.

“See?” I flash him a grin. “Now you’re getting it.” I take my turn. Scratch ball. “And the comparison to Dad was a cheap shot.”

“I know. Sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

“No one does.”

“Is that why Terry’s never married? Doesn’t have kids?”

“Because you attack him with cheap shots?” I sink the five ball in the left side pocket.

“Ha ha. No. The Dad thing.”

“What’s ‘the Dad thing’?”

“Dad wasn’t the most warm and cuddly father.” Andrew’s words come out as a joke, but we’re dead serious.

“Mom could have taken an iron robot, put it in a bespoke suit and cufflinks, and we wouldn’t have known the difference.”

“Right. So how will we know how to be good fathers?”

My throat tightens. “Parenting is intuitive. No one has to teach it to you. It’s like walking–babies figure it out.”

“Sure, but they have role models. They watch older humans and imitate. That’s how parenting works, too.” Andrew shrugs. “I guess.”

“Then if there are models, are there counter-models? Anti-models? I want to be the opposite of Dad when it comes to raising kids. This isn’t abstract anymore. It’s real.”

“And you’ve got seven months to figure it out,” Andrew adds. “Long enough to do your research, short enough to make your balls crawl into your throat.”

“Speaking of balls–eight ball in the right corner pocket.”

I point.

I shoot.

I score.