I’ve been lucky so far. I’m just about to hit the halfway mark of my pregnancy and my bump is finally starting to look more like I have a baby in there and not ten courses of Chinese takeout. Every time I look in the mirror and see the evidence of the life growing within my body, I’m overcome with a love I’ve never known was possible. That is of course quickly followed by a crying hormonal fit for a good hour.
Between the crying and the weird depression jags, odd food cravings, and unbelievable sex drive—minus the sex—I feel like my body has a mind of its own. I go from elation to fear in two-point-five seconds. And at the heels of all of that is guilt. Guilt because I still haven’t talked to Asher.
At first, I didn’t want to tell him because I didn’t know him. Then, after I got to know him and realized my attraction to him, I was more scared to tell him than anything. What if he thinks I was just another one of Coop’s whores? Or what if he thinks I did this on purpose? Irrational—that’s all it was. Because when you strip all the bullshit away, he deserves to know and I am a huge bitch for not telling him.
So that’s why I woke up this morning I made a promise to myself. I have exactly three weeks to tell him. In three weeks, I finally get to find out if I’m having a boy or girl, and I feel like Asher needs to be a part of that. He needs to know so that he has time to decide if he even wants to be part of that.
God, I hope he does.
Of course, today isn’t going to be that day. I promised Dee that I would try one more date before I gave up on it for a while. The last idiot I attempted to go out on a date with showed up with a car so full of trash that I couldn’t even make out where he was sitting. I wasn’t even sure how he was able to drive that damn thing. There was trash for days—clothes, bedding . . . Hell, I think he had food stuck to his windshield. Of course, that should have been the first clue that I needed to run. He got out, walked around the car, and gave me a huge hug. The only thing I noticed was the overwhelming stench.
So . . . I proceeded to vomit all over his feet. His socks—with holes—and-sandals-wearing feet.
And the worst part was that he didn’t even seem to mind. He smiled, half of his teeth missing, and tried to kiss me!
Needless to say, I all but ran back to my car and hauled ass out of the parking lot. I had to pull over twice to strip the clothes from my body and frantically brush ants off of me.
And then I shamelessly ran back through the lobby of my apartment, past a blushing Joe, and straight to my place—where I took the hottest shower I could safely have while trying to talk myself out of a bleach scrub.
So this afternoon is it. If this date is another date from hell, I’m done.
I wisely told Dee that this date was going to be a lunch date; that way, if it turned out to be another disaster, I wouldn’t have to have my whole night ruined. I talked to date number three, Phillip, on the phone last night. He seemed pleasant enough. Very polite and soft-spoken. He didn’t refer to himself with any weird nicknames, and most importantly, he knew that I was pregnant and didn’t seem to have a single issue with it.
Famous last words, it seems.
Pulling up outside the local burger hot spot, I immediately see him standing against the wall next to the front entrance, our designated meeting spot. He has the tall, sleek build of a runner. Slim hips, flat stomach, and strong shoulders. His hair is clipped short—just enough length for me to run my fingers through his blond locks. I can’t see his eyes from here, but if I remember from the terribly grainy picture he sent me, they’re a warm hazel.
I take in his straight-laced clothes—typical country-club-type polo and dress slacks, all the way down to his loafers.
Okay, that might be a point in the negative column. I’m so used to looking at the guys in their tough-guy boots that loafers throw me off for a second.
Shaking my head at my own foolishness, I climb out of the car and make sure that my clothes are in order. It’s harder these days to find things that don’t show off my stomach. I decided to go with a nice pair of black slacks and a loose-fitting blouse. Nothing that draws attention to my growing stomach.
“Chelcie?” he questions when I get closer. His friendly, open face lights up when he spots me.
“Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Phillip.” I go to offer my hand, but he pulls me into a friendly hug. Errr . . . okay, maybe another negative. I don’t hug.
I awkwardly pat his back a few times and pray that he isn’t going to keep me in this hug crap for too long.
“Not a hugger, huh?” he laughs, pulling away with his warm smile still in place.