She isn’t upset, just insistent. I pull out of her, feeling her absence too quickly and ache at the haste to leave her body. She slides down the door, stumbles to the toilet, and leans forward.
What the hell?
Closing my eyes as if I can ignore the sound of her heaving, I reach for my pants. We just had incredible, spontaneous wall sex, and she’s getting sick from it.
“Scarlett, sweetheart,” I murmur, stepping closer to her as I right my zipper and work my belt, but her hand comes up, stopping me in my tracks. She doesn’t look up from her position, bent forward and aiming for the bowl.
“Are you okay?” I question, my voice rising in a cross between concern and confusion.
“Please, Bull. Just leave me alone.”
What the fuck?
“Scarlett.” I step toward her. Her face ashen. Her lips pale.
“Please. Go.”
Fuck. A woman doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Overall a Baby
Scarlett
The day I saw Bull and his date, and Audrey mentioned the possibility of pregnancy, I didn’t want to believe it could be true. Shelton and I didn’t want children. Correction: Shelton didn’t want children. It was never the right time, he said, and I accepted that as truth. We were both busy in our own careers. As time went on, it just became a thing about us. We were the couple without children. We weren’t going to be parents, so imagine my surprise when Shelton was having a baby with his twentysomething med student.
I remember the day like it was yesterday instead of almost eight weeks ago. I’d just been fired and gone to see Shelton at the hospital. I couldn’t believe my day could get worse.
Dr. Shelton Blake was the chief heart surgeon at Boston General. He had all the makings of soap opera swoon with a cleft chin, chiseled cheekbones, and glossy dark hair perfectly styled on his very smart head. He was still incredibly attractive at forty-five, and the small flecks of silver that speckled his occasional five-o’clock shadow only enhanced his looks. I was a lucky woman, especially as Shelton had always supported my career.
I recall bypassing the nurses’ station, breaking protocol in hopes of finding Shelton in a staff room before his surgery. Another day at the office for him, saving lives. Heart transplants. Repaired aortas. Stents and such.
I was aware of the surgical changing room and caught the door as someone exited, allowing me to enter without a security key card. Shelton had an office on another floor, but I knew he’d be here when I didn’t find him there. We haven’t seen much of each other lately, with him saving the most vital organ in every human and me scandalizing the world with the broken hearts of others. The dichotomy of us was not lost on me.
I just needed a hug. It’d been a long time since Shelton and I embraced for the sake of holding one another, and that day, I needed to be held. I needed to be assured everything would be okay. The night before, we’d made love for the first time in weeks. I was such a fool.
In my mind’s eye, I can see the raven-haired beauty, young and freshly new to her rigorous program, once I entered the forbidden room. There was a finite moment where I questioned how close Shelton stood to her, knowing something was off about the situation but only aware of it afterward with hindsight and perspective and a tremendous amount of heartache.
He’d said my name, confused by my presence. The urge to rush for him, wrap my arms around him and fall into his firm chest stilled like a gate slammed between us.
“This is Scarlett,” the younger woman had said under her breath, and I glanced from her to my husband, my stomach pitching. I had a sixth sense about this kind of stuff, the stuff that makes my nose twitch for more information, smelling for dirt.
Confused by my presence, Shelton scrubbed at his forehead like he does when he has something on his mind. I asked him what was wrong when I’d come to him seeking comfort for myself. I deferred to him first, as I found upon reflection I did too often. He’d told me it wasn’t the time to talk, but I needed to know what was on his mind. I could see it weighing on him, pressing at his shoulders. My desire to console him took over despite my day, and I’d hate myself later for putting him before me during this crucial moment in my life.
“This is Brittney. She’s a med student.” Cute and perky, Brittney. Freshly scrubbed and ready to take on the world, Brittney. Becoming a future doctor, Brittney. “She’s pregnant, and I’m going to marry her.”
The words were cracks in the sidewalk, and I stumbled over each of them, knowing I was missing something.
“You made love to me last night,” I blurted, staring at him. Brittney crossed her arms, jutting out her hip as her mouth popped open while she stared at my husband. My husband, who slept with her.
Med student. Pregnant. Marry her.
As I’d too often done with a story we were reporting on, I had to fill in the missing pieces, sometimes with my own presumptions. The filler I needed for this information didn’t seem too difficult to surmise.
My husband had had an affair.
He’d dipped his scalpel in someone else’s heart and torn out mine.
As I stand inside the tractor supply store, holding up a mini Carhartt pair of overalls and press the tiny clothing over my belly, I realize the universe works in strange ways.
I was pregnant.
Alone, at forty-two, I was having a baby.
Even though a pink plus sign on a stick told me what I suddenly suspected at Audrey’s suggestion, the doctor in Montpelier confirmed it an hour ago, and I’d been feeling out of sorts ever since.
Elated one minute. Shocked the next.
After that awkward moment with Audrey, I calculated the timing, discovered I’d missed my period back in March, and expressed my concern to Rita later that afternoon.
“Maybe you’re just stressed out, or maybe you’re going through the change,” she had said like a horror film announcer. I felt too young for that kind of physical shift, but I’d heard women in their early forties could start the downward spiral to menopause. I’d originally chalked up being sick each morning to a stomach bug, like I told Audrey, or stress, as Rita mentioned. I’d worked through illnesses before and figured as long as I didn’t have a fever, I could fight the fatigue, the aches, and the occasional upset stomach. That lobster roll for breakfast should have been a big tipoff.
“Scarlett?” My eyes close at the rough, questioning male voice, and my hand stills on the overalls over my midsection.
“Bull.” His name is a breathless wave of regret—deep-seated, sorrowful regret. It isn’t his fault I’m in the position I’m in. I’m not upset I’m pregnant. This is all me. Screwup Scarlett, as my parents would say. The only thing I did right in their eyes was marrying the dapper doctor, and even that was eventually a mess.
Opening my eyes, I find Bull’s deep blue gaze on the outfit against my belly, which I quickly return to the rack.
“Baby clothes shopping?” His voice teases me because, of course, why would I possibly need baby clothes unless I was having a fricking baby.
Oh sweet, Bull. I need to tell him. This is the most awkward position I’ve ever been in, but he needs to know. His hand casually comes to the rack, and his forehead furrows while he forces a smile at me. I should explain what happened the other day in the bathroom, how the motion of what we’d done brought on a wave of nausea. Energetic, enthusiastic Bull lived up to his name, and that nausea was because I was pregnant.