Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
What the hell is wrong with you? How long are you going to let a few bad decisions on both your parts ruin your chance at happiness?
Are you really that much of a coward?
The inner voice drones in my head as I load our bags into the trunk, while Mom hands in the key at the front desk.
Maybe it’s right.
Maybe I’ve been lying to myself for months about why I put the phone down every time I’m tempted to call the woman I can’t stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try…
Maybe it’s been fear calling the shots this whole time.
Looks like I have ninety minutes to decide if that’s true.
And if it is, what I intend to do about it…
twenty-two
ELAINA
I’m not cut out for normal motherhood.
Clearly.
I hate every décor sample Maya’s brought over from the “New England Baby” store with a deep and fiery passion.
“That one’s…okay,” I say, doing my best to hide my contempt for pastel whales with giant googly eyes.
Why are the eyes so big? Wouldn’t that be terrifying to a child, to have a whale’s massive googly eye staring down at you when you’re freshly born and still adjusting to life outside your cozy fluid sack?
“Oh yeah?” Maya arches a brow. “Then why is your lip curled like that? You look like you’re about to vomit.”
Fixing my face, I assure her, “No, not at all, I just…” I sigh. “Aren’t they awfully googly-eyed? And cutesy?”
“What do you mean?” She cocks her head. “I don’t think so, and I love the mix of green and yellow. Much more fun than the usual pink and white for girls.” She shrugs. “But I know we have different styles.” She pulls another item from the box beside her, holding it up against the wall. “What about this one? A classic choice. And only half pink.”
I eye the pink-and-green flower mobile Maya holds up against the exposed brick with one hand as she pats the sleeping bottom of her own bundle of joy with the other. Mario has been snoozing in his sling for nearly an hour, but when he wakes up, our peaceful contemplation of decor will be over.
Mario is a sweet little bean with a fantastically gummy grin and his daddy’s deep brown eyes.
But he wakes up starved and pissed as hell about it every time.
“I mean, it’s better,” I say, hating that I’m being so fussy, but unable to help myself. I just want everything to be perfect. Or as perfect as I can make it considering I can’t leave the house to do any décor hunting myself. “But flowers are so…meh. These babies are going to be badass little girls. They need something cool. Something counterculture. Something that will inspire them to be whoever they want to be.”
Maya laughs as she tosses the mobile back into the box with the others. “They’re going to spend most of their time in the crib sleeping, honey, and they won’t even be able to see color until they’re almost four months old. It really doesn’t matter that much. You should just choose what you like.”
I wrinkle my nose. “No, I want to pick what a baby would like, not a cranky twenty-six-year-old who’s been pregnant forever. Maybe we should ask Mario.”
“Oh, he would love the whales. Babies love googly eyes.” She glances down at Mario, smiling before she presses a gentle kiss to his sleeping head. “Right, bud?” Lifting her gaze, she assures me, “And your girls will grow up to be badasses, no matter what you choose for the nursery. Just look at their mama.”
I roll my eyes with a sigh. “Yeah, such a badass. That’s why I haven’t left the house in weeks and cry every time a cat food commercial comes on TV.”
Captain Crunchypants meows from beneath my chair, as if agreeing that I am indeed a sad case and probably in need of psychiatric help.
The Captain has been my loyal companion every step of the way, but even loyal companions start to lose patience with you when all you do is watch reality television, take lukewarm baths, and cry because you’re secretly scared to death that your life has gone completely off the rails.
“You’ll be back to badassery in no time,” Maya says. “Give yourself some grace. You’re on bed rest, and I cried all the time right before Mario was born. And right after. Pregnancy hormones are no joke.”
“I guess.” I shift uncomfortably on the chaise lounge that’s become one of my three approved locations, along with the bed and my new recliner with the massage function that Sydney had sent over as a “sorry you’re on bed rest” present.
Well, not “bed rest” exactly. They don’t call it that anymore. My doctor referred to it as “restricted movement.” Which basically means I can’t do anything except piddle around in my apartment, standing for no longer than ten or fifteen minutes at a time until I hit at least thirty-four weeks.