Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Chapter 27
Ryan
“Hey, Martine. It’s just me . . . again. I’m sure we’ll catch up at some point! Or maybe not,” I mutter as I hang up, trying not to feel despondent.
Twenty weeks, I think, catching a glance at myself in the darkening window. That’s more than halfway. I look like I’m majorly bloated. The garden beyond is still barren and gray as I rub my hand over my little bump, kind of like when I have a stomachache. But this is no fart, I think to myself as I turn away from the window.
My professional life, however? That seems to be nothing but stale air. I can’t even get Martine to return my calls, which might be less to do with work and more that, outside the office, we’ve found we have nothing in common.
I knew looking for a job while pregnant and here in the UK and on the wrong visa would be difficult, but I didn’t think it would be impossible. I assumed I’d make it work, that I’d dabble in freelance. Maybe make some independent trades on behalf of some old clients I’d kept in contact with, those I’d made money for in the past. I’d built a pretty solid network in the States. So why the hell can’t I get anyone to take my calls?
I heft myself onto a stool and scroll through my sad call log. Could Pete have had a hand in this? The asshole was pretty pissed when I handed in my resignation. I like to imagine he pisses green every time he thinks of me being in London. In hindsight, he did seem to think my success came at a cost to him. Fucking men.
“Sorry, bean.” I press my hand over my stomach in apology. I know Matt and I both joke about the sex (of our child, not the sex that got us here), but I’m aware there might be a boy growing in here. It’s a distant possibility, I feel. But it warrants consideration.
“I don’t really care what you are, as long as you’re healthy,” I find myself saying. “And I’m doing my best to make it so, taking all the advice, vitamins, and shit. And when you get here, I’ll do all I can to make you happy. And keep you safe.” I feel a sense of ease and contentment as I run my hand over my bump. A kind of warmth that gladdens my heart.
And contentment is better than all that other stuff. The fear and the worry. The stress from thinking about what might happen if I can’t get a job later, when the baby is here. When I overtax my brain imagining how things might be if I’m forced to go back to the States, knowing Matt won’t ever be a real dad if I do. The weight of responsibility and pressure feels immense.
I mean, how would it even work if I went back?
I know I’d get something, even if my contacts aren’t answering my calls right now. Put me in a room with one or two of them, face to face, and I’ll work it out. Win them over. Make them remember. But what then? A nanny and a job that means I’m not there to feed her breakfast or tuck her into bed. A weekend mom, at best. Or maybe I’d have to fight to be in her life at all. Would Matt contest my leaving—take me to court to prevent that reality? And who would blame him for putting the needs of his child first? Not me, because he’s a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known.
So much for doing my best—I realize my thoughts are a mess and I’m gripping my phone so hard that my wrist hurts. I set it down and press my fingers and palms to the cool marble to ground myself. I breathe in, expanding my lungs to capacity, before letting the air out slowly. “In . . . out . . . in . . . out.”
“Name five things you can see.”
I glance out at the garden. Gray skies and ripples in the surface of the pond. A crow sitting in an oak and a willow’s branches sweeping the ground in a low lament. I look down at my feet. Can’t see them, so that doesn’t count. My bump. New life. I rest my hand there.
Four things I can hear. The low hum of the fridge and the pad of my feet across the kitchen. The sound of water hitting the sink as I turn on the faucet, and the distant rumble of pipes. The sweet symphony of a home.
Three things I can touch. The cool porcelain of the Belfast sink and the sensation of cold water running across my skin. The squish of a natural sponge.