Forever with You

Well, that new begi

The stack of fresh binders wobbled in my arms as I navigated the cubicles Monday afternoon. The revamped HR manual had been completed, but now they needed new binders, because of reasons. The plastic, chemical scent turned my sensitive stomach and I was half tempted to throw them into the stockroom, but once again, there were reasons why that wouldn’t be acceptable behavior.

I stacked them on the center shelf, spines facing out, and then smoothed down the front of my blouse. A different scent overpowered the chemical one, something too musky. Turning around, I almost threw myself on the floor and started flailing like a two-year-old.

Rick stood in the doorway, his flushed face and beady eyes a very unwelcome sight. He was the source of the newest stomach-turning aroma. Some days it smelled like he bathed in cologne. He smirked.

I sighed.

Today was not a good day.

My shitastic mood kicked off in the morning when I tried to slip on this extremely cute pin-striped pencil skirt. I’d gotten it up my thighs and over my hips but when I tried to zip it up, it cut into my stomach and stretched the seams.

Then, after experiencing the very first pregnancy-related clothing failure first thing in the morning, my stomach was not a happy camper the entire rainy commute to work. Not having had the foresight to check on what pregnant folk could use to deal with nausea, I just had to suffer until I got home. My paranoia would not allow me to Google that info while I was at work.

Since my stomach felt like it was just bubbling with bile, I couldn’t eat much for lunch, which made me hangry—hungry and angry at the same time. But that wasn’t the main source of discontent during lunch. I’d hidden in my car and started calling OB/GYNs, and dear God in heaven, was everyone in the county pregnant and in need of a baby doctor? I had to make six different calls to find a doctor who could see me by the second week of November.

The second week of November!

Holy crap, by my calculations, I’d be around eight weeks pregnant by then. Eight weeks! That was two months and some spare change. What in the hell was I supposed to do between now and then?

There were a lot of things I could screw up in two and half months.

But I made the appointment, and then, even though the di

No response.

Not a damn thing.

Oh, he wanted to be involved and we needed to be in this together because we were stuck together, but that text message was three hours ago, and he still hadn’t responded? We were getting off to a great start.

Granted, for all I knew, something could be going on, but my shitty day was just shitacular and logic wouldn’t do anything but make me angrier.

And now I had Rick staring at me like the dickhead he was.

I stalked toward the door, pla

Creeper-mc-asshole.

I’d neared my desk when Marcus’s door flew open, rattling the edges. My eyes widened as I jerked to a stop. Andrew Lima raced out of the office, hauling butt to the main doors. Marcus was right behind him. Andrew’s daughter—the quiet Jillian, darted out next.

“What happened?” I asked, my hand fluttering to my stomach for some unknown reason.

As I jerked my hand away, the gesture went u

Chapter 15

Hardly anyone spoke of anything else the rest of the day at work. Everyone was blown away by what had happened in one of the training rings down below. From what I could gather from the guys milling in and out of the office, Brock had been training one of the newer fighters, a young guy who had a world of potential in the mixed martial-arts arena.

No one quite knew exactly how the injury happened, but it sounded like Brock was showing the younger man grappling moves. Something had gone wrong, and Brock was flat on his back, clutching at his chest. He’d said that he felt a pop in his chest, and while I didn’t know much about MMA-related injuries, that didn’t sound good.

And it hadn’t been.

By the time we were starting to close down the office, Marcus returned and the news was grim. Brock had suffered a pectoralis major tendon rupture—a tear in the interior muscle that surrounded the chest wall. The tear was so severe that the muscle had been separated from the bone and he was rushed into surgery to repair it. In a handful of seconds Brock “the Beast” Mitchell had suffered what some feared would be a career ending injury.

Horrified, I hadn’t known what to say. I didn’t know Brock that well, but it was depressing to hear that his entire future could’ve shifted irrevocably. The malaise lingered well past the time I’d gone home and changed into a pair of warm and comfy sweats. Roxy stopped by for a little bit, and I told her about Brock. She was as saddened as everyone else.

When she left to head up to Reece’s, I chatted with Yasmine on Skype for a couple of minutes about nothing in particular before she leaned toward her computer screen, her brown eyes filled with concern.

“How are you really doing, Steph?” she asked, her voice sounding distant over the Skype co

I clutched the throw pillow close to my chest as I eyed her back. “I’m doing good. Like I’ve said.”

Her head tilted to one side. “You look really tired, though.”

Geez. My lips pursed. “Do I look like a hot mess or something?”

“Kind of,” she replied.

“Thanks.”

A wide smile broke out, raising her dark cheeks. “I don’t mean anything by it. You just look tired.”

I’m pregnant formed on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t get those two words out. I had no idea what Yasmine would think. I doubted it would be the typical squeals of excitement that had gone down when Roxy heard Avery was pregnant. It would probably be a lot of “holy craps” and the like. A weird heaviness settled on my chest. I quickly changed the subject, asking about Atlanta.

Once I was off the call with her, I grabbed a snack and then plopped down on the couch, munching on Cheez-Its as I fell down the rabbit hole known as Buzzfeed.

A few minutes after nine, my phone dinged. My hand froze halfway to my mouth and an orange square fell, plopping off my chest as my gaze swung to where my phone rested on the arm of the couch.

It was from Nick.

Ok. I can be there.

That was it? Nearly nine hours later and that was his response? My hand tightened around the phone. I wanted to text him back and demand why it had taken him so long to respond, but that wasn’t me. Or at least that had never been me before, but now was it?

I picked the Cheez-It up off my boob and popped it in my mouth, chewing the poor thing like I was a wolverine with a bone. All I wanted to do was plant my face in a pillow and scream.

Scream so many F-words that ears all around the condo blistered.

And that was a wee bit dramatic.

What was wrong with me? Hormones? Didn’t women get kind of emotional when they were pregnant? That sounded like as good an excuse as any, but did it happen this quickly?

Tuesday and Wednesday were overcast and dreary, matching my mood and those at Lima Academy. Brock had made it out of surgery and he’d have to be in an arm sling for at least six weeks. It was too soon to tell if he’d heal completely and could return, or the outcome would be what everyone feared.