Page 72 of Babies for the Big Shot

I peel the pillow away to glare at her. “He’s been busy for two weeks straight. The man used to find excuses to ‘accidentally’ bump into me during coffee breaks. Now he’s basically a ghost with a calendar.”

“Okay, yeah. He’s pulling back.” Laura sighs, closing her laptop. “You think he suspects something?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, I’ve definitely caught him looking, but every time I get close enough to say anything, he practically moonwalks away.”

“Men are cowards,” she mutters.

“I’ma coward,” I counter.

“You’re growing an actual human. You get a pass.”

I glance down at my stomach. Still flatish, but my jeans are starting to rebel. “I don’t even look pregnant. I just look like I had a large bagel.”

Laura grins. “A bagel with a secret.”

I snort. Then sigh. Then hug a cushion to my chest because it’s that or cry into my popcorn again.

“It’s just… how am I supposed to tell him if he won’t even look me in the eye?” I mumble. “I can’t send a Slack message like, ‘Hey, FYI, remember that time we defiled a coat room? Or perhaps it was the elevator… Surprise baby!’”

Laura cackles. “I mean, you could. Very on brand.”

“I already wrote it in the Notes app, like, four times,” I admit. “But it always sounds too casual or too dramatic or too much like a cry for help.”

“Maybe because it is a cry for help.”

I groan and bury my face in the cushion. “And to make it worse, I keep having dreams about him. Like, emotional ones. One of them involved pancakes and a stroller and him wearing a soft sweater. A sweater, Laura.”

“Thatisdisturbing.”

“Right? Like my subconscious is trying to trick me into believing he’s some cozy dad type when in reality he’s more ‘emotionally constipated Bond villain.’”

“Hot, though,” she adds.

“Ugh,” I grumble. “I know.”

After Laura leaves for work, and Meatball starts aggressively snoring on my feet, I try to unwind. I fail spectacularly.

My boobs hurt. My stomach’s bloated. My brain’s running on a loop ofWhat IfandDon’t PanicandMaybe Just Move to Canada.

I’m halfway through drafting another mental monologue about letting it go, really letting it go this time, when my phone buzzes.

I glance over, assuming it’s Laura sending me another TikTok of a raccoon making pancakes or something equally chaotic.

It’s not.

Unknown Number:Green really is your color.

I freeze.

No name. No emoji. No punctuation.

Just those five words.

I stare at them as if they might spontaneously clarify themselves.

Green.

The green dress.