Walker bounces in place, gently stroking the baby girl's chest. It’s ironic describing a big, burly, grumpy farmer as adorable but that’s exactly what he is right now. Adorable and fascinated and awestruck by the child in his arms.
While our friends debate about whose features the little girl inherited, the handsome farmer’s eyes again lift to mine from across the room. Something grave and reverent reflects in his honey-toned irises.
Our eye contact holds for a long moment. I get a vision of him holding my—our?—baby. The image overwhelms me with an emotion I can't seem to control. I swallow, trying to push it down, trying to remind myself of the deal he and I struck weeks ago.
All he promised me was his sperm, not a family, not a life together. A wave of emotion rises up my esophagus and I quietly mutter something about morning sickness.
But the reminder of the things I’ll never have with Walker is what has me feeling nauseous. That reminder pounds in my temples like a migraine. I move toward the door and excuse myself from the room.
In the bathroom, I brace my hands on the edge of the wet sink. I stare myself in my watery eyes and I give myself a harsh, but much-needed reality check. My child deserves a mother who is dedicated to him, not a strung-out fool who’s obsessed with a man who never was and will never be hers.
The chapter of my life where I continuously lost my head, my heart and my body to Walker Kingston is over. It’s time to turn the page.
It’s time to grow the hell up.
31
Penny
I usually look forward to my day off. A morning to sleep in and do absolutely nothing productive. Now that I'm pregnant and working two jobs, lord knows I could use a break.
But not having to work at Walker’s cabin today just leaves me feeling restless. I like spending my mornings on the front lawn, reupholstering lampshades and couch cushions and bossing the contractors around. Occasionally spotting Walker stalking across the fields in his tight Wrangler jeans, through the cabin's tiny windows. Hearing him curse when a tractor doesn't start or when a chicken flies loose of the coop. It all keeps me quite entertained.
I've missed him.
True, he drops by when I'm working on his cabin remodel but we haven't really hung out since we went to dinner last week. I don't know if it's all these pregnancy hormones coursing through me but my body and heart feel like they're going through withdrawals without his touch. I'm back to craving the feeling of his hands on me every night.
To keep myself from doing anything dumb, like showing up at the barn today to ogle Walker at work, I give myself a long list for the day. One look at my messy apartment, and I know I have plenty to do to keep me busy on my day off.
Over breakfast, I sip my tea while catching up on my monthly bills. In between kissing goodbye to a chunk of my bank account and nibbling on toast to keep the morning nausea away, I also manage to get ahead on laundry for the week.
By the end of the morning, I’m feeling good and accomplished. I reward myself by heading into town. I spend the afternoon window-shopping for baby items. Although I’ve already started gathering my baby store coupons, I suppose there’s not much I should be buying so early on in my pregnancy. At this point, I don't even know whether I should be going for pinks or blues.
Regardless, I’ve been dying to go indulge in all things 'baby'. To walk up and down those pastel-colored aisles, gushing over the itsy bitsy shoes, the tiny clothes with the tiny buttons and tiny bows, and the adorable baby animal-themed crib bedding. There's no harm in day-dreaming a little.
It's an hour or so before dinnertime when I finally get back home. I'm overtaken by the urge to call my mother. Iris and Aunt Lucille already know about my pregnancy, so it’s probably only a matter of time before my mom catches wind of it. I’d rather her hear it from me, and to be honest, I’m kind of excited to tell her.
It’s hard to fight the grin on my face as I curl into the corner of my couch and dial up her phone number. She picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“Penelope, dear,” she drones. “I’m doing wonderfully, but can I call you back in a bit? I'm in D.C., walking into a meeting at the Mauritian embassy.” I hear the steady drum of stilettos and voices chattering animatedly in the background.
My eyes roll back. Of course. Of course my mother is too busy for her only daughter. I rise to my feet, unsure why I thought I’d need to get cozy for this conversation. My calls with my mother never last more than a few seconds.
Normally, I’d just let her hang up. But if I don’t get these words out now, I don't know when I'll get another chance to share my good news with her.
Pacing my living room, I blurt out. “I’m pregnant, Mom. I’m having a baby...” My heart flutters with excitement just hearing the words leave my mouth. A baby. I’m going to have my own family.
But I don't get excitement from my mother in return. The stiletto-drumming stops. She falls silent. And after a long pause, "What do you plan on doing, Penelope?"
The words swipe like sharp claws tearing through my happy bubble. For real, Mom?
"I plan on having my baby," I tell her forcefully. "I plan on loving it. I plan on being a mother." My vision is now blurry from tears.
I get another long bout of silence from the woman. "If it's money you need, just send an email to my personal assistant, Eduardo, and he'll be sure to—"
"I'm not asking you for money.
