Page 58 of The Biker and the Professor
Much to Judge’s dismay, Nero had to resign from The Metal House to start his new life as an electrical engineer. I'm so freaking proud of him. He's been so much happier and positive since then. Excited about being a part of something that could, in the future, turn out to be something amazing, monumental, life changing. There’s been not one morning when he wakes up and “don’t feel like going to work.”
“Yo, take this,” Cookie’s voice hauls me from my reveries, and I turn to find her holding my phone out. “Found it in the kitchen. It kept going off. A million bucks say it’s your lunatic baby daddy.”
I frown as I take the phone from her. I must have set it down somewhere at some point during my preparation mania.
Unlocking the screen, I find “25 Missed Calls” and “11 Text Messages” waiting for me. All from Nero.
Nero:Babe. Running late. Might not get there on time.
Nero:How are you feeling?
Nero:Are you in any pain?
Nero:How are your feet doing? Did the massage this morning help?
Nero:Calling you. No answer.
Nero:You better not be on your feet.
Nero:Why aren’t you answering? Are you OK?
Nero:Babe?
Nero:Cookie’s not answering either. The hell are you two doing?
Nero:Just called our doc to confirm you’re not in labor. ANSWER THE DAMNPHONE.
Nero:Babe
I both roll my eyes and grin at the same time. This is what I've been dealing with for the past five months. Ever since he found out I was pregnant, he’s become this overprotective, neurotic irritant. Or as Cookie now calls him, a lunatic. He checks up on meallthroughout the day, and if I don’t respond within five minutes or less, he turns into a basket case.
When I first discovered I was pregnant, I was shocked, anxious, terrified, and even contemplated whether I should go through this again or not. I was afraid of being disappointed again. Most of all, I was afraid of disappointing Nero. My ex-husband used to be so crestfallen and even depressed each time I miscarried.
Consequently, I kept the pregnancy a secret from Nero for almost five months, successful only because it took around month three for a slight mound to emerge.
By the end of month four, it could not be hidden anymore. I could no longer convince him that I was just “bloated from all the dairy I’ve been consuming,” or to let me keep my nightie on during sex, or to do doggy-style and reverse cowgirl. At four and a half months, when I finally told him, I started tohope, started to believe that this could actually happen, that I wasn't ruined or damaged, that I wasn't incapable of giving birth. Four and a half months was record-breaking for me. All my previous miscarriages had always occurred between two and a half and three months.
That knowledge made Nero borderline psychotic about this pregnancy. He's reluctant to leave me in the mornings and tries to get me to sit down, to rest, to not lift this, or not carry that. If he could get me to lay in bed all day and not move a muscle, he’d be a happy man.
That is why as soon as he’s out the door in the mornings, I let loose. I doallthe things I want to. I’m too energized from this pregnancy to just sit around and watch Netflix. I’ve got a business to run. I have to make use of all the pent-up energy inside me or I’ll explode. Then whenever someone lets it slip that I've been doing all the things behind his back, he goes berserk.
Suffice it to say, we've been havinga lotof arguments of late. At this point, his harassing onslaught of calls and text messages is normal.
Inhaling a breath of patience, I hit the number assign to his name on speed-dial and lift the phone to my ear.
“Babe, what the hell?” he barks into the phone.
Can’t fight fire with fire, so I respond with, “I love you, too, baby.”
“I've been calling you. Texting you. Both you and Cookie. Why haven't you been answering?”
“I was busy.”
A pause. “Busy? Busy doingwhat?”
Here goes… “Helping…with the opening.”
“Babe, you're not supposed to be helping with anything!” A brief pause, then, “Wait, where are you right now?”
