VANYA
“Pregnant?” I gasp. “As in… with child?”
“That’s the medical term, yes.”
“You’re saying… there’s someone growing inside me?” I wheeze.
Dr. Lesley’s smile freezes on his face. His eyes dart to Hadyn before jumping back to me.
“Are you sure?” I ask with suspicion.
His mouth drops open.
I scoot to the edge of my seat. “I don’t feel pregnant.”
“Well…”
“I’ve heard people get mis-diagnosed all the time. It’s possible there was some kind of glitch with your machines or scanners or whatever you used to…” My lungs are squeezing so tight I can’t even finish the statement.
“How far along is she?” Hadyn asks, sounding way calmer than he has a right to be.
“I’d say about three weeks. It’s very rare to be experiencing morning sickness at such an early stage, but it seems like your wife is a special case.”
My entire body rejects that statement.
I shoot to my feet. “Look, Dr. Lesley, I may not have a medical degree, but I know my own body. I’m not pregnant.”
The doctor folds his hands together and gives me a long, frowny look. “Well, I do have a medical degree. And you’re pregnant.”
“It’s a stomach bug,” I murmur, trying to bend reality to my will. It doesn’t have to be true if I believe it isn’t. “It’s just a stomach bug.”
“It’s a baby.”
“Stomach bug.”
“Baby.”
“Stomach bug.”
“Baby,” Hadyn grabs my hand, “can you refrain from arguing with the doctor?”
I stare into Hadyn’s slate-grey eyes and the panic gets worse.
I’ve been too busy with my career to date anyone. Unless this is an immaculate birth, Hadyn is my baby daddy.
I’m having Hadyn’s baby.
The child that pops out of my womb will be a mini-Hadyn.
I voluntarily made a photocopy of the most annoying man on the planet.
My heart crashes against my ribs, begging for this to be one long, crazy dream.
“Van, breathe,” Hadyn orders me.
“Hee-hoo,” the doctor mimes.
“Hee… hoo.” I try my best. “Hee… hoo.”
I can tell that I’m starting to freak Hadyn out because he’s looking at me like he’s afraid I’ll make a running leap for the window.
“Do you guys need a minute?” Dr. Lesley—the quack—offers.
“I need chai,” I croak. “Bucketloads of chai.”
The doctor looks confused.
“Vanya?” Hadyn dips his head to maintain eye contact. “Are you okay?”
I blink rapidly. Not only did I marry Hadyn in Vegas. Our torrid affair resulted in a child.
A child.
I’m definitely not okay.
“She should sit down,” the doctor says. His voice sounds thin and panny, like it’s coming from far away. “She doesn’t look too good.”
This can’t be real.
Without warning, I wrench away from Hadyn and run out the door like a potential baby daddy on Maury after hearing those five precious words—You are NOT the father!
Maury is right.
I’m not the father.
I’m the mother.
The hallways are crowded with patients in wheelchairs, doctors on their rounds and nurses flitting from one room to the next.
I stumble through the hospital doors and the hot sunshine is on me. Birds sing from the trees planted all over the courtyard. An ambulance is packing up and heading out to save someone’s life. Across the street, a couple leaves a diner, hand in hand.
Business as usual. The world doesn’t care that my entire life just imploded.
Why is this happening to me?
If I were alone, I’d scream at the top of my lungs.
But all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut, squeeze my fingers into fists, and squeeze the scream back down my throat.
I’m pregnant.
Thoughts zip through my brain like a photographer with his fingers glued to the shutter button. Click. Click. Click. My body’s going to change. I won’t be able to book modeling gigs. I won’t be able to drink wine or alcohol. I’m going to be connected to Hadyn for the rest of my life because of this mess.
I drag in another shaky breath and let an expletive slip past my lips before I relax my fingers.
“It’s okay. You’ll get through this. You can make this work,” I mumble to myself.
“If you wanted to scream, you should have just let it out.”
I whirl around and find Hadyn leaning against the trunk of a tree, massive arms folded over his broad chest.
“Thanks for the advice,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “But it’s unnecessary.”
He looks me up and down.
I squirm. “Did the doctor say anything else when I… left?” Ran running and screaming is a more accurate description, but I’m not going to make fun of myself in front of Hadyn of all people.
“He recommended an obstetrician.”
If I were in my right mind, I would tease him about using big words and ask if he even knows what it means.
But at the moment, I can’t feel my legs.
I adjust my purse and wobble in the direction of the street.
“Where are you going?” Hadyn follows me.
“To get a taxi.”
He captures my arm. “I’ll drive you home.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone right now.”
His eyes search my face. He must see something in my expression because he backs off. “Call me if you need me.”
“Now that I’m your human incubator, you’re worried about me?”
“Vanya.” His mouth tightens.
“I know. That was…” I rub my forehead. “I’m sorry.”
“Call me,” he growls, staring me down.
I nod wordlessly and hurry down the street. The wind picks up and my extensions slap me in the face like a brawling octopus. I gather the hair in one hand and hold it in place. I’m moving without a destination in mind.
Eventually, I stumble on a cute little café.
The bell jangles as I throw myself at the door and half-walk, half-crawl to the counter. The smell of coffee makes my stomach rumble in discomfort, but hole-in-the-wall cafés like this usually serve the best chai.
I’ll reserve judgement until proven otherwise.
“Hi, and welcome to…” The woman on the other side of the counter, the one who holds the key to my precious chai, stumbles back when she sees me. “Holy crap. You’re Vanya Beckford.”
She’s a pretty little thing with cocoa-colored skin, big brown eyes and frizzy curls pulled back into a ponytail.
Since I’ve been recognized, I paste my most professional smile on. But it cracks and falls apart with every second that the barista spends staring at me.
I don’t want to be Vanya Beckford the supermodel right now.
Hell, I don’t know if I can ever be Vanya Beckford the supermodel again. A baby is going to rip my body to shreds. There’s no guarantee that I can get back to this shape again. Not to mention stretch marks and C-section cuts and breasts that swell with milk before drooping back to size like a balloon without air.
“That’s not me,” I say, dropping my purse on the counter. “But I get that a lot.”
The barista peers at me with disbelief before shaking her head. After a head-to-toe scan, her suspicions strengthen. “You look exactly like her.”
“I get that a lot too,” I mumble sheepishly. “Look, can I have the biggest cup of chai that you offer here? I’ll take it hot, cold or cubed. I don’t care.”
The server, who’s nametag says ‘Dejonae’ still looks skeptical. I can’t fault her for not believing me since I am, technically, lying right to her face.
Thankfully, she walks off to fulfil my order.
“I’ll just be over there.” I point a finger at the corner of the café where, hopefully, I can freak out about my life without being recognized.
Once I’m settled into the booth, I drop my face in my hands and try to make sense of my new reality.
I’m having a baby.
In about nine months, my stomach’s going to be so big, I won’t be able to wiggle into a booth like this.
Nine months after that, I’ll be running behind another human being, desperately trying to keep tiny hands away from electric outlets and wiping tiny butts after epic poop bombs.
I’m going to be responsible for a person.
This isn’t happening.
A baby is not in my plans.
Not even close.
I have a list of all the things I want to accomplish with my modeling career. I have ideas for ‘Vanya Scott’, the name I use for my healthy cookbook brand. Each step is lined up perfectly and each time frame is in sequence.
But this baby is a giant wrecking ball with a half-naked Miley Cyrus swinging into my world and sending all my perfectly lined dominos tumbling. And then setting it all on fire.
“Excuse me, ma’am? Are you okay?”
“Very okay,” I say, sounding more hysterical than I thought I could.
“Here’s your chai.”
A cup thunking on the table near my twitching hand prompts me to look up with hope.
That’s not a cup of chai.
It’s a bucket.
“I love you,” I murmur to Dejonae. Then I lurch for the chai like a rabid dog and tear the top off. Liquid seeps from my mouth and drains down my cheeks. I’m a giant baby who’s having a baby. The irony.
“Here.” Dejonae hands me a napkin.
“Thanks.” I dot at my face and glance up. With a sheepish grin, I inform her, “By the way, I—uh, I wasn’t being honest earlier. I’m Vanya Beckford.”
“I know.”
I choke a little and the chai goes up my nose, causing me to sputter.
Dejonae hurries around me and pats my back. “It’s pretty obvious, but I figured you had a reason to lie.”
“Just like that?”
“If I were a rich and famous supermodel, I’d probably get tired of people recognizing me too.”
I like her.
And not only because she brought me chai.
Because she didn’t pre-face the term ‘supermodel’ with ‘black’ or ‘plus-sized’. I know it’s an important distinction for people who want to identify with me, but sometimes I just want to be acknowledged for my skills.
Normally I wouldn’t care.
But now that I’m staring down the barrel of a future without modeling, I’m getting contemplative.
“Do you want to sit?” I jut my chin at the chair.
She observes the mostly empty café and eases into the seat across from me.
I wrap my hands around the massive cup of chai as if I need it to ground me. “Are you interested in fashion?”
“Not really.”
My eyebrows hike.
Her lips curl up. “I recognized you because my sister is an aspiring model and she’s obsessed.”
“What are you into then?”
“I’m studying music at the university. Specifically the piano.”
“A classical musician?”
“A songwriter, actually. I couldn’t get a scholarship to Julliard, but I applied for the classical music department at my local college and got in.”
A part of me is relieved that she’s not a fan. There’s nothing scarier than seeing the admiration drain from the eyes of someone who’s put you on a pedestal.
Speaking of, how am I going to tell dad I’m pregnant? Never mind the fact that I got married in Vegas without even telling him. He’d be devastated to hear of this torrid affair. I promised I would introduce him to any man I was serious about. No part of that plan involved tequila shots, toilet paper wedding dresses and an Elvis official.
Can I keep the pregnancy a secret and spring a grandchild on him in a year? Parents always soften up when kids are involved, right?
Maybe not.
I groan loudly.
“There’s a… principle in music theory.” Dejonae adjusts the napkin dispenser until it lines up perfectly against the wall. “‘The rest is as important as the note’.”
“Huh?” I glance up.
“I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but there’s nothing wrong with taking a break to figure it out. If you have nothing but note after note in a piece, the music can get noisy and repetitive. The rests, the pauses, they add to the music too.”
“How old are you?” I give her a head-to-toe scan. “If you’re in college, then you’re not old enough to be the Chai Jedi of Wisdom.”
Her lips twitch. “I don’t know what that is. What I do know is you might want to leave through the back door.”
“Why?”
“You have a stalker.” She points to the window facing the street.
I scowl when I see Hadyn leaning against his convertible. He’s got his arms folded, his legs crossed and he’s staring right at me.
“Is he a model too?” Dejonae asks, her eyes glued to him. If she drools any harder, I’m not leaving a tip.
“He’s a nuisance.” I purse my lips.
“I wish I had a nuisance who looked like that.”
“Trust me. You don’t.” I take out a bill from my purse and leave it on the table.
Dejonae jumps to her feet. “Let me get your change.”
“Keep it.” I smile at her. “That thing about rests in music, thanks. It’s comforting. Not as much as the chai but…”
“Glad I could help.”
I swipe my chai and cradle it in the crook of my elbow. With a deep breath, I stalk out of the café. The bells crash loudly, signaling my exit.
Hadyn gives me a lazy look as I stomp toward him. He doesn’t even bother straightening to greet me. How can he look so calm after hearing that I’m pregnant?
Oh, I know why.
Because he’s not the one who’ll suffer the mood swings, body changes or have his privates stretched so far an entire human being can jump out of it.
“I told you I wanted to be alone,” I snap.
“Weren’t you?”
“You followed me.”
“You didn’t even know.”
“Does that make it any less creepy?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not my fault that you’re not careful. You should really be more aware of your surroundings, Van.” He tuts at me.
All the calm that I’d experienced while sipping my chai and chatting with Dejonae evaporates in an instant.
“Were you always this annoying or is that a new development?”
“Were you always this prickly,” he shoots back, “or was I just immune to it?”
I narrow my eyes.
We’re back to glaring at each other. The air is charged with tension.
I break it first. “Go away, Hadyn.”
“I will. As soon as I get you home safely.”
“Look.” I barrel over to him, waving my arms. “Thank you for the chai, the smart comments and the semen. But your face is pretty much the last thing I want to see right now, so it’s better if you get in your car and drive back to the carefree single life that you had before it all went to hell this morning.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Van.”
I throw a punch.
He wraps big fingers around my wrist and pulls me in. “‘Vanya Beckford Swings At Innocent Bystander’. I can see the headlines now.”
I squirm against him, hating that being in his arms feels oddly comforting. It’s like he’s grounding me to him. And I need that. Especially right now when the world keeps spinning out of my control.
Hadyn reaches up and brushes my hair out of my face.
I try to bat his hand away and put space between us so I can think, but he holds me tighter.
“Look, Van. I don’t know if I should thank you or apologize to you. I’m not sure of anything right now except that we’ve both had a long day and I’d feel a lot better if I saw you walking into your house safely. So I’m not going to say anything on the drive. You can treat me like a taxi. I’m going to drop you home and that’s it. Okay?”
I debate if I should stand my ground just to teach him a lesson. But dealing with Hadyn is now a part of my new reality. There’s no more walking away. No more screaming and glaring. Co-parenting might as well start somewhere.
He waits a beat before withdrawing his hands and escorting me to the car. I sit in the backseat, and he gets into the driver’s side.
Hadyn stares straight ahead as he drives, his shoulders rigid and his jaw muscles bunching. If he keeps doing that, he’s going to grind his teeth to powder.
We’re going to be parents. Most people would have shouted for joy, called all their friends and thrown a party. But for us, it’s a huge wrench in our lives. A new responsibility that neither of us asked for. It’s a future I find terrifying. And Hadyn does too. Probably. He’s a professional lady-killer. I’ve heard that bawling babies can be mood killers in the bedroom and it’s not like he can drag a toddler from one club to the next.
That’s assuming he even wants to be in this kid’s life. Maybe he dips out. Takes another trip to Europe to ‘find himself’. It’s all possible.
The convertible slows down in front of my apartment building. Freddy is at the door where he always is. He waves at us, recognizing Hadyn’s car.
Hadyn gives the doorman a head nod in return.
I unbuckle my seatbelt.
When I place my hand on the door, Hadyn speaks, “Don’t think about doing this without me.”
My eyebrows hike.
“I’m not going anywhere, Vanya.”
“You promised you were going to leave me at the door, Hadyn.”
“You know what I mean.” He turns around and pins me with an intensely determined gaze. “Whatever happens next, I’m going to be there with you. For you…” His intense eyes drop to my stomach. “And my kid.”
That is too weird.
And so… final.
I’m not used to Hadyn looking serious. Or sounding responsible. Or acting like a grown-up.
It’s making my head spin.
His eyes come to me. “Do you hear me, Van?”
“Yes,” I croak. Then, like a coward, I scramble out of the car with my chai and call Juniper.
“I need you,” I bawl as my heels click on the tiles of the lobby.
“Say no more. I’m on my way.”
I trot to the elevator in a daze.
Just then, my phone lights up.
It’s Dawn.
“Hey,” I say weakly.
“Hey, Vanya. Heads up about our date tomorrow. Sunny and Kenya called to say they’re dropping by too. Beth wants to do a presentation on auto mechanics for her project and the boys insisted on tagging along. It’s going to be a full house, and we won’t have much privacy.”
I blink rapidly. The children she’s referring to are Beth, Bailey and Micheal. Beth is Dawn’s brilliant daughter. The boys, Bailey and Micheal, are Sunny and Darrel Hasting’s kids.
“Vanya?” Dawn calls. “Are you there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
“Are you okay?”
That’s the hundredth time someone has asked me that today.
It might be because I’m currently mid-panic attack, but I don’t want to lie anymore.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt.
There’s total and utter silence on the other end of the line.
The elevator opens with a ding, but I have no strength to walk out. I don’t even have the strength to stand.
Slowly, I slide to a crouch.
My fingers dig into the phone.
“Dawn,” my voice breaks, “I’m pregnant.”
“Where are you? I’ll come and get you.”
“No, it’s okay.” I struggle to breathe. “My manager’s coming soon. He’ll take care of me.”
“At times like these, you need your friends.”
“Friends?”
I don’t have friends. In the modeling industry, everyone is your competition and the people closest to you can replace you in a second. It’s hard to make a genuine connection.
My closest confidant is my manager.
And Max and Hadyn. I’ve known those guys forever, but one half of that duo is engaged and the other impregnated me. It’s not like I would turn to the guys for comfort either way, but…
I do trust Dawn.
She’s the woman who melted Max Stinton’s icy heart. She’s also a mother. Maybe she can help me make sense of everything that’s about to happen to me.
“I’m about ten minutes from your place,” Dawn says.
“I’ll wait outside then.” I crawl to the elevator buttons and punch the one for the ground floor.
Next, I text Juniper to let him know I’ll be with Dawn and that I’ll talk to him later.
He answers back with an urgent message to call him when I have time.
I’m about to send him a reply text when a red convertible screams to a stop in front of me.
Dawn hops out, hurrying around the hood. She’s got a face built for the limelight. Fine cheekbones press against skin gleaming like brown sugar and walnuts. Her brow arches perfectly over dark brown eyes that are narrowed in concern. The dirty over-alls are an interesting contrast to her slender, delicate face.
Even though I tower over her, Dawn latches onto my arm and looks me over as if she’s ready to carry me on her back like a soldier in a war zone. “Are you feeling sick?”
“I was this morning, but after two cups of chai, I’m back to normal.”
She side-eyes me. “You and that chai obsession.”
“We all have our vices,” I joke weakly.
Dawn nudges me into the passenger side. I can’t believe she’s driving Red Beauty, the vintage car that used to live in Max’s garage. He never used to let this machine on the road, much less let someone else drive it. It’s yet another sign that Dawn has him wrapped around her little finger.
Dawn gives me another once-over as she starts the car. Her look of concern intensifies ten-fold once she sees my face up close.
I pull the sun visor and gasp at my reflection. The wind tore my hair up and left untidy flyaways shooting at odd angles. My face bears the strain of vomiting twice and then running like a lunatic through a hospital.
I wish I’d taken the time to wash my face and get this wig out of my hair before I saw company. Dawn probably thinks I look like a deranged, expectant zombie.
Dipping into my purse, I grab a make-up remover wipe and attack my face. “Where are we going?”
Dawn glances at me. “I’m taking you to the farmhouse.”
“Darrel Hastings’ farmhouse? Why?”
“You’ll see.” She gives me a secret smile and slams her foot on the gas.
The moment I step through the farmhouse door, I’m engulfed by a pair of pudgy brown arms and the scent of mangoes and Caribbean breeze. A musical West Indian accent hums in my ear, “Well, aren’t you just beautiful?”
“Mom, you’re choking the life out of her,” a sultry voice says.
“It’s not every day I get to meet a celebrity, Sunny.” The woman with the musical accent gives me one extra squeeze before letting me go.
I meet a pair of bright brown eyes surrounded by crow’s feet. Two grey and black pigtails drop down the woman’s shoulders. She’s wearing an embroidered blouse and a long skirt, reminiscent of the Mayan women I saw on my business trips to Mexico.
I was doing a photoshoot near a Mayan temple at that time, but something tells me I probably shouldn’t mention that to this woman. Ever.
“Hi,” I stick my hand out to introduce myself, “I’m—”
“Vanya Beckford also known as the mysterious cookbook writer, Vanya Scott. I know.”
“She read every article that came out about you.” A tall woman with long, elegant limbs, straight black hair and brown skin with reddish undertones drops an arm around the older woman’s shoulder.
“You must be Sunny.” I smile.
Sunny smiles back. The sparkle in her eyes is only outdone by the sparkle of her giant diamond wedding ring.
“I’m Kenya.” A stunning woman with a dark complexion and sharp brown eyes enters the room. She’s wearing a ruffled white blouse and black, tailored pants.
“I love everything you’re wearing.” I gesture up and down.
She laughs, flashing straight white teeth. Like Sunny, she’s wearing a giant diamond ring that’s trying its best to beam aliens from space.
What’s up with these billionaires and drowning their women in jewelry?
I glance at Dawn and notice that her hands are bare. She’s mentioned before that she doesn’t wear her engagement ring when she’s working in the garage and I don’t blame her for it. Knowing Max, he’d try to outdo both Holland Alistair and Darrel Hastings for world’s most obnoxious diamond.
“This is Mama Moira.” Dawn hooks her arms around the woman’s waist. “Technically, she’s Sunny’s mother, but we all called dibs so now Sunny has to share.”
“You can keep her,” Sunny calls over her shoulder.
Mama Moira grabs a pillow from the couch and pretends to throw it. “Children are so ungrateful. I’m telling you. Don’t have any, Ms. Beckford.”
I stiffen.
Dawn’s eyes go wide.
Kenya observes it keenly. With a thoughtful smile, she gestures to Mama Moira. “I thought you called us over here to knead fry jack dough. Shouldn’t we get to work before the kids get here?”
“You’re right.” Mama Moira scurries into the kitchen.
Sunny returns to the living room and hands me an apron. “Here you go. I don’t want you to get your dress dirty. It’s too stunning for that.”
“Thanks for the apron.” I accept it from her. “And the compliment.”
Sunny stares at me. “Is it true that you were signed off the street?”
I chuckle. “Not exactly. One of the stores around my neighborhood was having an outdoor fashion show and the plus-size model called in sick. They were looking for someone to fill her spot and chose me. It wasn’t a modeling contract or an agency. It was just that one show.”
I fumble with the apron, trying to make sense of the long strings.
“Here, let me help.” Kenya steps in. She gracefully gathers the ties in her hand and makes a bow at my back.
Dawn pops up in the doorway of the kitchen, donning an apron of her own. “But I heard that was when your modeling career began.”
“Have you all done background checks on me?”
“When you ‘came out’ as Vanya Scott to cover for Max and Dawn’s scandal, we did some research,” Kenya explains.
Sunny pulls out a chair at the table and gestures for me to sit.
I do, loving all the smells and sights in the kitchen. It’s a bright open space with tons of windows, stainless steel appliances and an island counter so big that it could probably host twelve barstools.
Mama Moira is hard at work rolling out dough. She glances up when she hears the name ‘Vanya Scott’. “Oh, I just love your recipes. I’ve been trying to get my husband to eat healthier for years, but nothing could match our Belizean seasonings. Everything was so tasteless. It was such a relief to find your books.”
I’m pleased to hear that. “I’ve been all over the world and I’ve eaten cuisine from every culture you can think of. I took the dishes from my travels and tailored them to my diet by swapping out the ingredients or changing it from fried to grilled, so it’s healthier. Some of my model friends sampled the dishes and went crazy. They insisted on getting the recipes. That’s when I decided to write a book.”
“That’s incredible,” Kenya murmurs.
“It’s really not.” I shake my head, feeling shy.
There’s an atmosphere of sisterhood, family, and connection in the air. And I’m not exactly sure what to do with it.
“Well,” Mama Moira declares, “we’re honored to have you join us today, Vanya. And I hope you don’t mind messing up your pretty nails,” she winks, “because it’s time to get to work.”
The kitchen falls into comfortable silence as the other women focus on their tasks. They all seem to know what to do, while I awkwardly poke at the dough in front of me, completely lost.
“You go like this,” Sunny says, drawing my eyes back to her. She picks up the mound of dough, pinches off a piece and presses it into a ball.
I pick up the flour and mimic her, failing spectacularly.
Dawn giggles. “I think I finally found someone who rolls fry jack dough worse than me.”
“Don’t worry.” Sunny pats my hand. “We’ve got about a thousand more to roll. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“A thousand?”
“Elizabeth and Bailey had this idea to sell fry jacks at their school bake sale. We’ll see if the kid’s fancy-schmancy private school is ready for Belizean cuisine.” Sunny rolls her eyes with the skill of someone who’s been doing it for centuries.
“Of course they are,” Mama Moira coos. “They’ll fall in love after one bite.”
“If not, we’ll round em up and stuff it down their throats until they beg for mercy,” Kenya says darkly.
A loud burst of laughter echoes around the room. It takes me a second before I realize that the sound is coming from me.
The women don’t even bat an eye at my loud and obnoxious guffaw. They keep on chatting, preparing the fry jack dough and grilling each other playfully.
In the middle of it, I catch Dawn’s eye.
The pretty mechanic is staring at me with a satisfied grin on her lips.
I dip my chin at her and mouth, “Thanks.”
She shrugs self-assuredly as if she knew this was a good idea.
Later, after Mama Moira serves up some Belizean fry jacks with beans, shredded chicken and cheese, I get a taste of heaven and I realize that this wasn’t just a good idea.
It was a great one.
