#1:
Amy

Ceramic tile is hard and very cold.

I find that out when my toes turn into icicles as I stand holding a plastic wand that says PREGNANT, like the world’s bossiest fortune cookie.

PREGNANT

The condo holds the aroma of last night’s roasted garlic pizza, which felt like a good option at nine p.m. Now? Not so much. A breath of ocean air wafts in through the cracked-open window.

Boston hums outside.

Inside, I am a statue with messy sex hair and a pee stick screaming my future and… oh, my God.

The word grandmonsters rings through my head like Quasimodo clanging the Notre Dame cathedral bell. Our mothers ruined our wedding, crashed our elopement, and now here we stand, five weeks later, married and⁠—

PREGNANT

I breathe in, out, forgetting the rhythm as my distracted brain tries to fill a whiteboard. An Airtable. Every Kanban board. All the Excel spreadsheets, every last one of them.

Hamish wraps around me from behind, lifting me before my feet realize it. He is warm and tall and smells like soap and sleep, and his forearms around my ribcage are so solid, so sure of where they belong, that my body gives up its panic and leans back into him before my brain can file an objection.

Beware the boundless optimism of a man who once insisted a vibrating bed should be on our wedding gift registry.

And that guests should throw quarters instead of rice.

“I canna believe it,” he says into my ear, voice hushed. “We’re havin’ a wee bairn.”

“Hi,” I say to my husband of five weeks, who hit the bullseye with the first married shot, dammit. “Yes. Apparently.”

Years ago, back when I hated him, I called Hamish “sex on a stick.”

Now I’m holding the sex stick, all right. I just never thought it would be white plastic and determine my fate.

Hamish lets go, walks away, and comes back into the bathroom carrying a chilled bottle of Champagne. It’s the bottle we brought back from our honeymoon in Love You, Maine, from the heart-shaped-everything suite. He holds it up, eyes shining.

“Breakfast o’ champions?”

“No, love.” I put my hand on his. “I can’t drink that now.”

A microsecond of confusion crosses his face, then he executes a pivot that would impress his old coach.

“Aye. Well then, coffee it is.” His auburn brows drop. “Unless ye canna have coffee?”

“I will always have coffee.”

 

#2: 
Hamish

Snow in Boston is like looking through a kaleidoscope. Cozy movie snowfall one minute, horizontal assault the next.

And speaking of assaults, our living room looks like a baby store exploded.

Boxes, packing paper, plastic, the new crib still in its box, and in the corner, a plush animal so huge, it should be paying rent. I think it’s a giraffe. Or a cow. Maybe a horse born with forceps?

Amy stands in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing my team hoodie and burgundy leggings, eyeing the chaos and the Godzilla-sized animal like she wishes it would animate and eat me.

“I’m going to Mike’s Pastry,” she announces. “I need cannoli and ten minutes where nothing in the room is trying to choke, stab, smother, or emotionally manipulate me.”

“I ken ye dinna mean me, and I dinna think the crib is emotionally manipulative,” I say. “The giraffe/cow demon, aye, but⁠—”

She points at the crib box: “When I come back in one hour, this will be assembled.”

Then the baby wrap on the couch: “You will figure out how to wear that.”

Then the giant giraffe/cow demon thing: “And that abomination will at least be turned around to face the wall. I swear its eyes follow me.”

I straighten up. I can’t magically fix my knee or guarantee a contract, but I can assemble furniture and tame beasts.

“Aye, pet. Consider it done. I’m verra good at managing equipment.”

“Hamish.” She is squinting at me. “When we moved in together, you thought my salad spinner was a helmet.”

“In ma defense, it fits ma head.”

She kisses me, warm and quick.

“One hour. Or I’m returning everything. Including you.”

“Stay warm! It’s balty out there.”

The door shuts. Snow whips past the window.

Right. Me versus the baby gear.

 

#3:
Amy

Then I sit in his lap, straddling him. He goes rigid.

“Hi.”

“Amy. Ye said ye’d give me two minutes.”

“I am! This is my compromise. You work. I’m just warming up my seat ahead of time.”

His laugh is half gasp.

“More than enough heat there already.” He nuzzles my neck. “And if ye’re warming up yer seat, it’s ma face ye should be heating up.”

“Start the timer,” I tell him, mouth at his ear.

He fumbles for his phone, taps to set the timer, and puts it on the desk where I can see it. Then he tries to read his notes again.

He tries.

Hamish is a professional athlete. He has faced hostile crowds. He has been heckled by grown men with painted faces, terrible hygiene, and pub tabs higher than their rent.

None of that trained him for his pregnant wife sitting on his lap, grinding away, needing him now, while he tries to work.

Now.

 

#4
Hamish

We wave. The call ends with an overlapping chorus of I love you, be careful, eat protein, and Da says a brief Gaelic blessing I suspect is actually a bawdy old sailor’s song about not getting the clap in port.

The laptop goes black. For half a second, there is a silence so profound, it rings.

Then both our phones begin to ding in a staggered cascade that turns the condo into a pinball arcade. The texts roll in:

Congratulations!!! from Marie, with seventeen gifs

A cowbell emoji orchestra from Mum

A picture of a soup pot

A kilt

A PDF contract for a reception venue with the file name DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT

A link to a baby academy with a logo that looks like a football wearing a graduation cap

Three calendar invitations

And a video from Da of a man taking a piss in the corner of the pub, the dartboard a pizza slice in the righthand corner.

Amy drops the test back on the coffee table and falls into me, laughing and crying into my shoulder. I gather her close and kiss her hair.

“We survived,” she says into my shirt.

“Aye. We’re very brave. Heroes.”

“I’m only five weeks along,” she moans. “This is them on their best behavior. Can—can you elope from giving birth? Because sign me up.”

“I think the only way out is through, pet,” I reply, and tilt her chin up to kiss her properly.