Page 82 of The First Kind of Love
26
I THINK WE SKIPPED A FEW STEPS
SHILOH
THREE YEARS LATER
I hate Fulton Cazzarelli. I hate him and this gigantic baby that he put inside me.
Okay, that’s a lie, but still. I’m feeling extra homicidal today because I have two more months of peeing when I sneeze and vomiting at the sight of ranch dressing. Two months! I couldn’t even reach for the remote on the coffee table earlier without pulling something in my hip and groaning like I was twenty-seven going on seventy.
I love this baby, I do, but my God, I’ve never been this sleep-deprived in my entire life. Everything sets me off—Fulton’s obnoxiously loud snoring, the texture of the bedsheets, the weird whirring sound of the ceiling fan. Not to mention that this—albeit lovely—demon spawn jumps on my bladder like it’s a trampoline every five minutes.
Getting pregnant before marriage wasn’t really at the top of our to-do list, but it just sort of happened. Aeris was having a missed period emergency, and since there’s a convenience store on the same block as the shop, I offered to grab her a pregnancy test just to be safe. The box came with two tests—one of whichshe obviously wouldn’t need—so I took it because I knew how important the feeling of solidarity was to her in a time like this. Aeris’ came up with that single, pink line, and I was blindsided by two very stark ones instead.
I mean, it’s no secret that Fulton and I weren’t Trojan’s biggest advocates, but I was on birth control. The statistics for getting pregnant on the pill are low, alright? Less than five percent. I thought we were safe.
But even as mentally unprepared as I felt, I knew that deep down, my heart was ready to make room for another person. Fulton, of course, was ecstatic when he found out. Maybe this was fate, you know? Maybe we were destined to expand our family on some uneventful Saturday in March. MaybeIwas destined for a greater purpose beyond espresso machines and overpriced scones.
Speaking of, the business has been booming. I’m now the sole owner of Deja Brew, and my parents are living out their retirement in a spacious, three-story house on endless acres of land. And not to toot my own horn, but aside from Fulton’s initial investment, it was all achievedwithoutasking him for another loan or having him buy the business as a selfless act of love like he’s some black-tie billionaire in a romance novel.
My family and I earned every penny. The majority of it was through hard work, long hours, and the cost of a healthy sleep schedule, but a small portion of it was due to the fact that the Riverside Reapers started to hold free meet-and-greets here to boost business. The turnout was absolutely insane. Everyone benefited—the diehard fans, the team, Deja Brew. And once people gave our impeccable drinks and desserts a chance, they became customers for life.
Since the announcement of our little plus-one, my parents have come out of retirement to take over the shop while I’m on maternity leave. Which, no, wasn’t my first option. However, everyone was pretty adamant that I deserved a break.
Three seasons. Three seasons I’ve grown this little peanut, and now that autumn’s well on its way, I’m getting ready to nest.
Hunger grips my gut, and the grease-demanding creature that’s single-handedly responsible for me gaining thirty extra pounds is kicking its tiny feet in outrage. I wince, practice the breathing techniques that my doctor suggested, and palm the side of my rounded belly.
“Chill out, would you? Your father’s coming,” I coax, stroking the swell of my stomach.
Then, as if the internal abuse wasn’t enough, Fulton shreds the much-needed silence, bursting through the door with a leaning tower of takeout boxes. “I’m here! I’m sorry. I got everything on the menu. And then I got stuck in traffic. Oh my God, and they tookforeverto make everything. I was waiting in that overpacked sardine can for thirty minutes. Thirty! Can you believe that? Do people not understand the urgency of a pregnant woman craving French fries?!”
“You got everything on the menu?” I ask in shock.
Fulton carefully navigates his way over to me—making sure not to drop his hard-earned food—and then he begins to deposit everything onto the coffee table. “Of course I did; my girls were starving.”
“Starving is a bit melodramatic.”
“You’re eating for two now, Sunshine. I need to make sure you’re getting the proper nutrients,” he insists, his tone ripening with concern.
My lips twitch into a frown, a malaise of guilt sinking into my bones. “You didn’t need to order fifteen pounds of food.”
“I wanted you to have options. Plus, I even got you those miniature churros you like with the caramel drizzle. The restaurant swore they didn’t make the drizzle anymore, but I wasquitethe persuasive negotiator.”
“Ful, that’s so sweet, but…”
“At least eat a bite right now. Please.”
He rummages around for the aforementioned churro, flourishing it like it’s the magic cinnamon stick that’s going to solve all my problems, and the orgasmic bit of caramel drizzle that drips down the doughy groove nearly turns me feral. Unresistingly, I open my lips so he can feed it to me, and once the sustenance hits my taste buds, I practically melt into the couch with a quiet moan.
“Good girl,” Fulton praises, taking his thumb and wiping up the tiny patch of crumbs by the corner of my mouth.
“You’re ridiculous,” I sigh, though I couldn’t be more grateful for Fulton’s affinity for grand gestures and his rather alarming lack of obedience.
“Ridiculously in love with you.”
Maybe it’s the hormones, but the tears are fast acting this time, and I’m sobbing like a complete mess in a matter of seconds, using my well-loved sweater as a tissue.
