I stub my toe on the way to the window the next morning, and curse under my breath so as not to wake Chuck.
Snow is swirling beyond the glass, and I’m not that committed to my training to brave the elements. Instead, I pull on a knit Chocolate Company Christmas sweater featuring a snowman and our bestselling knit slipper boots with a white faux-fur interior. No wonder we run out of inventory for the boots every single holiday season; my feet feel like they just entered a cozy, warm winter spa.
Most of the things I wear at home are merchandise from the chocolate factory, which expands well beyond ugly Christmas sweaters. Since we’ve started working with freelance designers, our apparel line has stepped up a notch. And I have to admit, Chuck is the mastermind behind that success. No matter how demanding grad school gets, he supervises all the new products and gives Abigail the final go-ahead. So far, everything he’s okayed has been a success.
Watching him sleep now, I remember how different our mornings used to be. Playful, caring, affectionate. Steamy, sometimes, especially when we first moved in together.
But those times are gone. Time to move on.
A subversive battalion of butterflies mounts a protest in my belly. Apparently, the love bugs don’t agree with my decision to break it off with Chuck. Our honest conversation last night has left me a little raw. Not to mention how confidently Chuck said he’d have sex with me in a heartbeat, like it was never in doubt. His eyes were practically eating me up as he said it, like I was a particularly delicious treat ready to be devoured.
It was enough to make me wonder if Chuck really didn’t see me that night. Is it possible to get so focused on something you don’t notice your girlfriend parading naked in front of you? It just seems so ridiculous, and yet… The way he was looking at me…
If not for Marco, I’m pretty sure Chuck and I would have had sex last night. But, thankfully, I have a boyfriend, which has saved me from the inevitably awkward morning after, and from having to kick myself for relapsing with my ex. I can’t get sloppy in this breakup. Leaving Chuck was the hardest thing I’ve ever done; I don’t know if I could summon the strength to do it twice.
Our lives are moving on divergent paths; I have to remember that. Chuck can’t wait to finish school and move back home. He’s looking forward to spending all his evenings at The Plough and Harrow with his friends, while all I can think about is London. At least getting over him will become easier once we’ve got an ocean separating us.
As I exit the bedroom, the wonderful fragrance of Mom’s cooking wraps around me like a warm blanket. Mmm, fresh baked goods. My stomach growls in response, and I hop down the stairs and join her in the kitchen.
“Morning, Mom,” I say, playfully bumping butts with her.
“Good morning, Honeybun,” she greets me with a radiant smile.
The bright welcome is a nice change of attitude from last night’s sulky side stares—she wasn’t happy with me after the scarce enthusiasm I showed for the Gownster. But I guess all the storeroom sex with my dad turned her mood around.
“What are you cooking?” I ask, sitting on a stool at the island. “Smells delicious.”
“Gingerbread cookies, with a little extra ginger.” She waltzes between the oven and the kitchen island, removing one tray of baked gingerbread men and putting a fresh tray in. Then she hands me a plate with a warm cookie. “Want to try one? Ginger is a fantastic natural remedy to settle a queasy stomach.”
I don’t have a queasy stomach, but I don’t need an excuse to eat my mom’s fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies.
I grab the little man and break off his legs, arms, and head to make them cool faster. One last blow, and I bite the head in half.
“Mmm, Mom,” I say with my mouth still full. “This is delicious.”
Mom stares at me eagerly. Perhaps too eagerly. “And how are you feeling this morning?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“No nausea?”
“No, Mom.” What’s with her and the nausea? Do I look exhausted or something? I didn’t exactly sleep well. Maybe I should have freshened up before coming downstairs.
“You don’t have to pretend around me, Honeybun. A mother can sense certain things.”
“What things?”
“That you and Chuck are having a baby!”
“What?” I half choke on the gingerbread man’s head, and sputter crumbs all over the island. “I’m not pregnant, Mom!”
“I know it’s considered bad luck to tell anyone before the end of the first trimester, but I’m not superstitious.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m not pregnant. And besides, it’s not about superstition—people wait until the first trimester is over because that’s when the majority of spontaneous miscarriages occur.”
“Look at you, already the expert. Come on, you can talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Where did she even get such a crazy idea?
“Deny it all you want.” She beats a wooden spoon over the batter bowl. “But I overheard you talking with Chuck last night. I didn’t mean to, of course, it just happened.”
I must go pale, because she runs to my side.
“Oh, Honeybun, don’t worry, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Mom, you must’ve heard wrong.”
“No, I didn’t. You were talking with Chuck about having a baby, that you felt sick, and that you didn’t know how to tell us after you did a test on campus. So really, Honeybun, you can quit the secrecy act.”
I’m starting to get desperate now. “Mom, there’s no secrecy act because there’s no secret.”
“If you’re not pregnant, then what else could you and Chuck possibly be keeping from us that’s making you sick to your stomach?”
My brain tries to speed-shuffle through possible answers to that question. Anything but the truth. But of course, I blank out, and words escape me.
Mom whoops, then grabs me in a bone-crushing hug. “I knew it! Oh, congratulations, Sweetheart!”
That’s when Chuck enters the kitchen, looking impossibly hot-geeky with his hair adorably disheveled and his Christmas elves sweats set on—another of his designs.
Mom doesn’t even try to play it cool; she rushes to him and hugs him, saying, “Ah, the father of my grandchild!”
Chuck looks taken aback, and stares at me over Mom’s shoulder with a confused expression while patting her on the back.
I wince. “Good news, Honey. Mom knows about the baby. That we’re having. Together.”
Chuck’s face drains of blood. He disentangles himself from my mom’s arms and, with an incredibly forced smile, says, “Lillian, do you mind if I talk in private with Kate for a second?”
“Oh, don’t be mad at her for spilling the beans,” Mom says. “I’d already found out on my own.”
“I’d still like to have a word.”
He walks over to me, grabs my hand, and all but drags me out of the kitchen.
Once more, we end up locked up in my room.
“A baby, Kate?” he demands. “As if things weren’t hard enough already! What were you thinking?”
“Shhhh,” I say. “Mom is probably eavesdropping again.”
“A baby?” Chuck repeats, shout-whispering.
“It’s not my fault!” I snap. “And as if you can talk after that stupid proposal and the mess you made in town last night.”
“But… why? How?”
“Because Mom is a great multitasker apparently, and she managed to have sex in the closet with my dad and spy on us at the same time. She heard us talking about babies, and a test we took on campus, and that we didn’t know how to tell them, and that I was sick, and she concluded a baby is on the way.”
Chuck digs both his hands into his hair. “This is a disaster.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. We’re already fake engaged. Why should a fake baby be any worse?”