Page 77 of Made for Wilde

I beam up at her, feeling more accomplished than I have in weeks. Maybe pregnancy brain isn’t completely destroying my academic career after all.

I catch Sarah’s eye from across the room and mouth “B plus!” at her. Her face lights up and she gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up, grinning so wide I can’t help but smile back.

“Now then, class.” Professor Lowell returns to the front of the room. “I have an important announcement regarding your final evaluations.”

The room falls silent except for the nervous rustle of papers and the distant hum of blow dryers from the salon floor below.

“The Friends and Family Showcase will take place in four weeks.” She writes the date on the whiteboard in her precise handwriting. “This event will account for fifteen percent of your final semester grade. You’ll need to choose one partner from the class to work with. Each pair will be responsible for providing your own model for the demonstration.”

My stomach does a nervous flip. Fifteen percent of my grade riding on one demonstration, and I need to find someone willing to let me experiment on their hair in front of a room full of people.

“The showcase is also an opportunity for potential employers to observe your work,” Professor Lowell continues. “Several salon owners from the surrounding area will be in attendance, so consider this a working interview as much as an exam. Are there any questions?”

Melissa, the girl who always sits in the front row and takes notes like she’s transcribing the Bible, raises her hand. “What if our model cancels at the last minute?”

“Then you fail that portion of your grade.” Professor Lowell’s response is matter-of-fact and terrifying. “I suggest you choose someone reliable and have a backup plan.”

Great. No pressure at all.

The class ends with a flurry of nervous chatter and the scraping of chairs against linoleum. I gather my books slowly, still processing the B+ and the showcase announcement. Fourteen weeks pregnant, finally feeling human again after the worst morning sickness known to womankind, and now I have to pull off a flawless color transformation in front of potential employers.

“Holy shit, Charlotte!” Sarah appears at my elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. “A B+! That’s amazing!”

I can’t help but grin. “I know, right? I honestly thought I was going to fail after missing so many classes.”

“Those first few weeks were rough.” Sarah slings her bag over her shoulder as we head toward the exit. “But you look so much better now. You actually have color in your cheeks again instead of that green tinge.”

She’s not wrong. The past two weeks have been a revelation after the hellish month that followed my positive pregnancy test. The constant nausea has finally backed off to just occasional queasiness, and I can actually eat real food again instead of surviving on saltines and ginger ale.

“I’m just glad I can think straight again,” I say, pushing open the heavy glass door that leads to the parking lot. “There were days I couldn’t remember my own name, let alone the difference between a level 7 and level 8.”

Sarah laughs. “Pregnancy brain is real. My sister said she tried to put the milk in the cabinet and the cereal in the fridge for like three months straight.”

The mention of pregnancy makes me instinctively press a hand to my stomach.

At fourteen weeks, there’s finally a tiny bump starting to show, though it’s still easy to hide under loose shirts and Koda’s oversized flannels. Sometimes I catch myself just staring at it in the mirror, amazed that there’s actually a tiny person growing in there.

My phone buzzes again, and this time I don’t bother hiding my smile as I read Koda’s message: *How did the exam go, beautiful?*

“Let me guess,” Sarah says, noticing my expression. “That’s Koda, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” I try to play it cool, but the blush creeping up my neck gives me away.

Sarah bumps my shoulder with hers.

“Oh, please. You get that same dopey look every time he texts you. It’s actually kind of adorable how gone you are for him.”

“I am not gone for him,” I protest, even as I type back a quick response about the B+.

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Face it, Palmer. You’re head over heels for your mountain man.”

She’s not wrong, but hearing it said out loud still makes something flutter in my chest.

My phone buzzes with another message, and I glance down at the screen:

*Proud of you, baby. Can’t wait to celebrate tonight.*

The word ‘celebrate’ sends a little thrill through me, and I have to resist the urge to fan myself.