Baby for the Bosshole Page 20

  Could they?

  I glance around to make sure nobody’s watching and quickly Google “effectiveness of the pullout method.”

  Say it’s one hundred percent. Say it’s one hundred percent!

  But no. When done perfectly it’s only ninety-six percent effective. In real life it’s only about seventy-eight percent effective in preventing unwanted pregnancy.

  I stare at the screen, frozen in horror. That’s basically one in five.

  I look down at my belly with horrified shock.

  Be positive! You could be one of the four in five who avoided pregnancy!

  Emmett has to have had a lot of experience, I think, clenching and unclenching my trembling hands. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s doing in bed.

  Experience with sex. Don’t know if he’s done a lot of pulling out, a contrary voice argues. How often could he have been taken by surprise while masturbating, then jumped by a horny—

  Shut up, shut up!

  I look at my phone, then shake my head. There’s no way I’m texting him about this.

  He’s flying home tonight. I drive home after nine, willing myself to bleed. Now.

  But nope. My underwear feels drier than midday in Vegas. Fuck it.

  I pull into the lot of the Target closest to my place, then walk in and buy a pregnancy test. Not that I think it’s going to come back positive. But I need to eliminate the possibility.

  I use the self-checkout and scan the box myself, breathing hard. I think about all the reasons a woman might miss her period—other than pregnancy—then remember Mrs. Ashworth, my tenth-grade gym teacher. She wasn’t even forty, but had an early onset menopause.

  I perk up. There’s a great possibility. I’m only twenty-eight, but it could be, like, ultra-early onset. That’d make it hard for me to get pregnant later, but medical science is a beautiful thing. I’m sure they can discover a way to fix me up. Pump me full of estrogen and resuscitate dear dead Auntie Flo.

  Feeling marginally better, I shove the test into my purse and go home. Then, to confirm that what I have is just an early onset menopause, nothing serious, I pee on the stick.

  Then wait.

  And wait.

  If I’m pacing, it’s only because I need the exercise, not because I’m nervous.

  Because I know I’m not pregnant. No way, no how.

  Except…

  The stick slowly reveals two lines.

  I put a hand over my mouth. My head goes blank—just a barren white space with nothing. I’m sure I’m supposed to feel or think something, but I just can’t. Not when the stick says I’m pregnant.

  How can I be pregnant? I have job interviews! And an offer in Virginia! A job that will require I put in close to a hundred hours a week. Does the Blaire Group have a twenty-four-seven daycare center for its employees?

  My knees start to shake. I stumble into the sink and knock a few things off. Something made with glass falls on the floor and shatters. But it’s hard to care when my life just got upended.

  Not just upended. Fucking nuked. Above me, a mushroom cloud is rising.

  I plop down on my butt on the bathroom floor. My womb feels perfectly at peace.

  The door bursts open behind me.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Sasha says, her eyes wide. She’s still in her office clothes, her laptop bag hanging from her shoulder.

  I turn and blink up at her.

  “I heard something crash.” She comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”

  Do I want to get up? I mean, I guess I should. I lift a hand.

  She starts to bend down to help, then stops. “Oh. My. God.”

  “What?”

  She lets out a gasping breath. “You’re pregnant?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Amy

  Oh, crap. The test!

  I didn’t mean for Sasha to see it. Not when I have no idea what I’m going to do about my new medical condition. “Hey, at least it’s not early onset menopause.”

  My best friend looks at me like I’ve just lost my mind. When I merely stare back at her, her expression shifts to worry. “Um…yay…?” she says.

  “I guess. Yeah. Yay.”

  She parks herself next to me on the bathroom floor. She’s probably decided mental intervention is more urgent. “Okay. What’s going on?”

  “Well, unless this stick is defective…” I gesture.

  “Is it?” Her tone reminds me of my kindergarten teacher talking to a child in denial.

  “Probably not…?” The last part comes out in an oh-my-God-what-do-I-do whine.

  “Do you know who the father is?”

  I nod slowly. Emmett Lasker. Holy shit. I’m pregnant with Emmett’s baby!

  The fact is sinking in, heavier than a stone descending into the oceanic abyss.

  “So…are you going to talk to him about it?”

  “I don’t know.” This pregnancy is a major surprise, the kind Emmett will hate to hear about.

  Sasha thinks for a moment. “It’s not Rick’s, is it?”

  I almost gag. “Hell no! I had my period since the last time I had sex with Rick, so I’m safe.”

  “Sorry. Had to make sure. I’m glad it isn’t his.”

  “You’re glad…?”

  We both start laughing. But if the child were his, I wouldn’t be this conflicted, since there’s no way I’d let him back into my life.

  But does Emmett want to be a dad? If so, can he be a good one?

  He’s intelligent. Rich. And surprisingly fun. But he’s also contrary, arbitrary, unpredictable and loves to escalate just for the hell of it. He also has no problem sticking a knife into your heart and twisting it if he doesn’t think you measure up.

  Hmm…

  A child is going to need a dad who’s going to be there, in their corner no matter what. At the same time, the dad has to be firm and teach the kid right from wrong, instill good moral character and discipline. To be empathetic yet fair, be kind without getting taken advantage of. A dad who will provide the stability the child needs to feel secure.

  Emmett can probably pull all that off if he’s willing and puts his mind to it. But that’s a big if.

  “Okay. The first thing you should decide is if you want to keep the child,” Sasha says.

  I turn to look at her.

  “All this is moot if you don’t want to keep it.”

  I run a trembling hand through my hair. “You’re right. It’s just… Not keeping the baby never crossed my mind.”

  “You’re in shock.” Sasha pats my hand.

  “No kidding.” The words are unsteady. “This was not part of the plan. Damn it, I have a job offer and interviews. A career.” A career that requires you make appointments to see your significant other. “You can’t work in finance with a baby.”

  Sasha’s quiet for a while. “It’s certainly going to be challenging, unless you have an understanding boss.”

  Which Marion Blaire probably isn’t going to be. Nobody wants a new hire who requires coddling. And maternity leave within a year.

  “Regardless, if you plan to keep the baby, you should talk to the guy. Even if you don’t plan to marry him or anything, he should at least do his part. Pay for child support and all that.”

  “I guess.” It’s my fault. I should’ve just walked away when I caught Emmett masturbating in his office. I squeeze my eyes shut. Why didn’t I do that? And the worst of it all, how am I going to tell him?

  She wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Hey, girl. No matter what you decide, I’m on your side. And my mouth is zipped until you announce your impending motherhood.”

  I hug her back. “You’re the best.”

  “Let me know if you need anything, okay? You don’t have to try to figure this out on your own.”

  “Okay. And thanks.”

  Sasha helps me clean up the bathroom. What made the biggest ruckus and noise was a jar of cream that fell on the floor and broke. The cream exploded on impact and splattered everywhere, kind of like my life.

  When we’re done, Sasha returns to her room to change. I pick up my phone and stare at the screen.

  I should tell Emmett. I don’t want to keep something this big from him. At the same time, I don’t know how to begin the conversation…or if it’s something I can text or should call him about.

  Maybe I should talk to him in person. Except…

  My hands grow clammy. Face to face sounds even more difficult.

  The phone vibrates in my hand. I look down and see a text. Must be Emmett telling me he is in L.A.

  –Emmett: Hey, my flight got delayed. Won’t get in until midnight.

  I let out a shaky breath. The news feels like a stay of execution.

  –Me: How about if I go over to your place tomorrow at

  I think for a second. What would be a good time?

  –Emmett: How about you come over at ten?

  Well. I guess he made the decision, since I can’t think of a single objection.

  –Me: Sounds great.

  –Emmett: Awesome! Can’t wait to see you.

  I exhale. Awesome isn’t what he’s going to feel when I drop the P-bomb on him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Amy

  Okay, time to get proactive. I go out to Target and buy ten more pregnancy tests, all different brands. I also check the batch numbers to make sure they aren’t all the same. Statistical probabilities say I don’t need that many or be this paranoid, but I have to be sure.

  Since my bladder is refusing to empty itself, I drink four cups of water and pace around the apartment until nature calls.

  All ten tests come back positive.

  Fuck. Me.

  There’s no way I’m not pregnant. Which means I need to prep for tomorrow’s conversation.

  I create a PowerPoint presentation to help collect my thoughts and create some props for the upcoming talk. They take forever, even though I can usually make one in an hour or less. The presentation formula is simple:

  Warm up the audience.

  State the agenda.

  Iterate the importance of what I’m about to say.

  Storyboard the material for the greatest impact.

  Closing remarks.

  Q&A.

  Except… How do I warm Emmett up to the news? No matter how I begin, it’s going to go over as well as an exploding landmine.

  And the greatest impact? I doubt he needs or wants a greater impact than what just telling him will provide.

  Argh! I shove my fingers into my hair. This is worse than telling Dad I crashed my car in high school.

  Still, I manage to put something together, mainly focusing on pros of the baby and options available to him, such as joint custody and reasonable child support as determined by an attorney. I don’t want Emmett to think I’m angling for some kind of commitment between us because of the baby, since that isn’t what we agreed to in the first place.

  Just in case the PowerPoint is a bust—I might change my mind tomorrow—I also draft three executive memos. They read dry and professional.

  Good. Good.

  Since I might possibly need it, I create an Excel model of what the cost of raising a child would look like. Except… How do you quantify the time investment necessary? Maybe I can do it the way some of my friends who went into management consulting do—create a blended rate for me and Emmett and use that to put a price on parental involvement.

  I sigh as I stare at the model, my whole body collapsing like a sandcastle under an unforgiving wave. How the hell am I going to put a price tag on my plan—paying off my student loans and buying Dad the retirement home of his dreams? I make the money I make because I put in the hours I put in. If I want to pull back, then I’m going to have to make a career switch, which would pay far less but allow more free time.

  Hey, at least you’re going to give your dad a grandbaby to bounce on his knee!

  Some silver lining. I’m certain a surprise accident baby isn’t what Dad has in mind for me.

  I toss and turn all night, getting up three more times to tinker with the presentation, memos and model.

  The next morning, I don’t feel any better. Would it be bad if I canceled on Emmett?

  Yes. Yes, it would. He’d want to know why, and I don’t want to lie to him. Besides, telling him I’m sick won’t work, either. He’ll just come over with a vat of chicken noodle soup.

  Why couldn’t he be a little bit more selfish? Like Rick?

  Of course, if he were like Rick, I would’ve broken up with him by now.

  I make a cup of coffee to fortify myself before I go, but Sasha stops me. “You might want to limit your coffee and tea. Caffeine is supposed to be bad for babies.”

  I look down at the fresh brew. You gotta be kidding me. But I don’t want to do anything that could hurt the baby, so I sigh, resigned to the fact that I’ll have to go cold turkey on coffee for a while. “Life is so unfair. You want this?”

  She gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry, but…yeah. Thanks.”

  It takes me a long time to pick out clothes. I don’t want to wear something super casual, but I don’t want to look like I’m going into the office to talk to the boss, since it isn’t that kind of rendezvous. I settle on a white cotton shirt and dark jeans. Then I slip on my favorite high-heel sandals. Half casual, half serious.

  By the time I park in Emmett’s driveway, I’m quivering with nerves. My hands are clammy around the steering wheel, and I’m honestly surprised I was able to drive here.

  I’m also probably starting caffeine withdrawal. And I have to throw Emmett into a minefield.

  After taking several deep breaths to calm myself—which doesn’t work—I sling the biggest purse I could find in my closet over a shoulder. It contains my laptop. I didn’t want to bring my laptop bag because that might look weird.

  I ring the doorbell and wait. Emmett opens the door with a wide grin that would normally make my heart flutter. Right now I’m too nervous to appreciate how hot he is in his gray V-neck shirt and black shorts.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder and sweetly pulls me inside. “Missed you.” His lips brush over mine.

  I pull back with a smile that I hope looks relaxed and happy. “Me too. How was the trip?”

  “Went well. Surprisingly so.”

  I nod. “You were just well prepared for it.” Far better than me right now, because now the PowerPoint presentation and memos and Excel model I made last night seem stupid.

  “Do you want—”

  My belly growls.

  He stops, and my face heats. My stomach’s too knotted for food. Why is it embarrassing me?

  “I slept in,” I say as smoothly as I can manage. “Late.”

  “Let’s get you fed, then,” he says.

  I open my mouth, about to turn him down, then catch myself. Breakfast is going to take at least half an hour. People shouldn’t talk about uncomfortable topics while eating, to avoid indigestion.

  “Sure,” I say with a smile, hoping he offers me saltines or dry toast. My gut can’t handle anything more than that, and not because pregnancy-related nausea has started.

  “Okay. Let’s go.” He picks up his keys.

  We can’t go out because he’s going to want to go someplace fancy, like another champagne brunch. I’m not ready to tell him why I can’t drink. Yet. Especially not in public. “No, we should stay in.”

  “We should? Why?”

  “I don’t want anything rich.”

  He nods slowly. “Okay. No problem. We can do something quick and light, although that doesn’t give us a lot of options. I don’t really cook.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.” I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite anyway.

  He walks into his pantry and gazes at the shelves, one hand on his chin. “Well… I have bagels.”

  “That’d be great.” I sit at the counter and paste an expectant expression on my face. Yum. Bagels.

  “Plain or egg?” he calls out.

  “Plain, please.” Nothing that reminds me of eggs, fertilized or otherwise.

  Emmett brings out a couple of toasted bagels and cream cheese. “Coffee?”

  I squelch a sense of resignation. “Just some orange juice, thanks.” Vitamin C is supposed to be good for you, so it’s probably good for fetuses, too.

  I nibble on the bagel, sans cream cheese. When should I broach the subject of the baby? And how am I supposed to smoothly pull out my laptop, boot it and start in with PowerPoint? Or Excel?

  Instead of sitting and worrying last night, I should’ve dropped by the office and printed everything out. That way, I could take it out of my purse, all slick and ready.

  Maybe we should talk about it tomorrow. It isn’t like I have to tell him now.

  “… Amy?”

  I start. “Huh?”

  “I asked you what you think about the plan.”

  “The, uh, plan?”

  He gives me a look. “Were you listening?”

  “Sorry. I was just…thinking about the Drone due diligence.”

  “I said we should do the wine country tour we were going to do last weekend.”

  “When?” I ask, out of reflex.

  “This weekend.” Now he’s frowning at me.

  “Oh. Well.” Shit. This is going to be the second time I’m torching his plan. Well, the baby’s going to torch his life, too, but… Crap. “Maybe not this weekend.”

  “It’s no big deal. There are tons of flights, and I can book the resort right now.”

  I swallow. He obviously thinks I’m worried about the logistics. But planning a sudden trip is the least of it. When you have the kind of money he does, nothing’s out of reach.

  On the other hand… Maybe this is the opening I need. I can turn down the trip and tell him why I can’t go drink a bunch of wine. I just have to do it all cool and calm.

  “Emmett, there’s, um—”

  An alarm suddenly blares and lights start flashing above us. Emmett curses and picks up his phone from the counter. He taps the screen a couple of times, and the alarm dies.