I’m going to tell him today.
I can’t not tell him today.
I’m reaching the point where I don’t think I can delay it any longer. It’s been a week since our living room sex-fest, and I still haven’t put on my big girl pants and told my boyfriend we’re with child. But Allie’s right—Garrett is going to start recognizing the changes in me. Last time, he’d noticed my swollen breasts. Who knows what he’ll notice next time. And next time, maybe he’ll connect the dots.
So today’s the day. All I have to do is wait for Garrett to finally drag his ass out of bed so I can tell him. Though in his defense, it’s only eight in the morning. I’m the one who woke up at an ungodly hour.
I thought the upside to pregnancy was not having period cramps, but joke’s on me. Now I have pregnancy cramps. I woke up at the crack of dawn feeling like I was getting kicked in the stomach by a horse. Even a long, hot shower and some Tylenol hasn’t done anything to abate this sensation that makes me long for last week’s constant nausea.
No excuses, an inner voice pipes up, that wise part of me that knows I’d been about to convince myself to use cramps as an excuse to stall again.
But nope. No stalling.
Today is the day.
“Motherfucker!” Garrett shouts from the bedroom.
Okay, maybe today’s not the day.
Lying in the living room with my laptop and headphones while I work on a new song, I jump at the outburst. Sliding the earphones off, I hear what sounds like Garrett cursing and getting into a scuffle with our closet.
I hurry toward our room. “You okay in there?”
“Do I have to wear a tie to this thing?” He comes out half-dressed with a wad of ties in his hand.
“What thing?”
He spares me a dark look. “The Legacy interview. The first taping is in a couple hours.”
Yikes. Today is definitely not the day.
I’d totally forgotten Garrett was doing that this morning. Stupid pregnancy brain has been kicking in lately, jumbling my thoughts. Yesterday I couldn’t remember where I’d left my car keys, searching for twenty minutes before realizing I was holding them in my hand.
“Right.” I eye the tie selection. “Normally I would say no, but your agent would probably disagree.”
Garrett mutters something rude under his breath and goes back to the closet for a rematch. “The premise of this whole thing is ridiculous to being with. I don’t see why they think anyone is interested in watching Phil bullshit his way through a bunch of fond family memories.”
“Because they don’t know it’s bullshit,” I point out.
But he’s now spinning himself into a small tirade. Not that I blame him. If I had a father like Phil Graham, I’d be spitting mad all the time too.
“Swear to God, if he brings up my mom, I’m going to lose it.” Garrett reappears, looping a navy silk tie around his neck. He pulls on it so tight, I’m worried he’ll choke himself.
“Did you give the producers a list of no-no questions?” I know a lot of celebrities do that. Every time Nice gives an interview at the studio, his manager steps in to remind the journalist of the questions they aren’t allowed to ask.
“Landon told them I don’t want to talk about my mother. Gave them the grief excuse, it’s too painful, that sort of thing.” Garrett’s jaw tightens. “But I wouldn’t put it past my father to bring her up himself.”
I bite my lip. “You know, you don’t have to do this. You can just call Landon and tell him you don’t want to. He gets paid to say no for you.”
“Then what? Answer a bunch of questions about why I backed out at the last minute? Phil knows I can’t.”
“So you say nothing, ignore it, and in a week or two it goes away. Some football player gets arrested or says he won’t play until they buy him a pony and you’re off the hook.”
But he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s too late to ease Garrett out of this rage spiral, and the best I can hope for is that he keeps his temper under control while the cameras are rolling. Maybe Landon will have better luck with him.
After Garrett leaves, I welcome the alone time. I slip into a pair of cotton boxers and a tank top and climb back into bed, spending the next couple of hours nursing my cramps and trying to get some work done. Eventually I figure out that part of my stomach pains is hunger and get up to make myself a sandwich—only to come back to bed to see a small red stain on the sheets.
When I hurry into the bathroom to check, I realize my underwear is stained as well.
While it’s not a full-blown panic, my pulse kicks up a notch while I change, strip the bed, and text Allie. She gets back to me while I’m putting the sheets in the wash, with the assurance that some spotting is normal.
ME: You’re sure? I’ve felt like crap all morning.
HER: I’m looking at the Mayo Clinic website right now. Says it’s common.
ME: When does it become not common?
HER: I’ll send you some links. But I don’t know. You know what? Call Sabrina. She’s probably a better person to talk to.
ME: Good idea.
My first instinct had been to text Allie, my closest friend. But she’s right. I should be reaching out to someone who’s actually gone through this. And hey, I’ll even be able to avoid the awkward news-breaking part, because Sabrina already knows about the pregnancy. Allie the traitor let it slip in our girls’ chat.
So I call Sabrina, who picks up on the first ring. I have a feeling she saw my name on the phone and thought, what the hell? We rarely call each other outside of the chat thread.
“Hey. Everything okay?” she asks immediately.
“I don’t know.” I’m suddenly resisting the urge to cry. Stupid hormones. “When you were pregnant with Jamie, did you ever have any bleeding?”
“Bleeding or spotting?” Her tone is sharp.
“Spotting.”
“Light or heavy?”
“Light-ish? Stained my sheets and underwear, but it’s not a constant flow.”
I can almost hear her relaxing on the other end, as she exhales a breath. “Oh, then yes. That’s normal. Any other symptoms?”
“Some cramps this morning, but they’ve subsided.”
“Also normal. My advice is to monitor it for the day. If the spotting turns to bleeding, I’d go to the hospital.” She hesitates. “Could be a sign of miscarriage. But it could also be nothing.”
“Mommy!” I hear a plaintive cry in the background. “I can’t find my purple bathing suit!”
“Sorry. That’s just Jamie.” Sabrina’s voice goes muffled for a moment. “Why don’t you wear the green one instead, then?”
“BUT I WANT THE PURPLE!”
Jesus. I’m pretty sure Sabrina’s covering the phone with her hand, yet I can still hear that kid’s shriek.
“Okay, I’ll find it for you. One sec.” Sabrina returns. “Hannah, I have to go. I’m taking Jamie to the pool and—”
“I heard.”
“Call me if anything changes, okay? Keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
After we hang up, I draw a deep breath and tell myself everything’s okay. But no matter how many times I repeat the mantra, I can’t shake the idea that something’s wrong. Before long, I’m tumbling through my own little spiral as I tunnel deeper into pregnancy blogs and medical journals searching for an explanation. The consensus being that Sabrina is probably right.
Unless she isn’t.
