Page 47

Five weeks later

Amy

My boobs hurt.

Like… really hurt. Not a twinge. Not a dull ache. I’m talking hypersensitive, ultra-rude, don’t-even-think-about-it kind of pain. And unfortunately, I married a man whose love language is...

Touching my boobs.

“Mornin’, love,” Hamish mumbles, all warm and sleepy, curling around me like a human furnace.

And then?

The grab.

Right hand. Full cup. No warning.

I shriek, slap his arm, and flail my way out of bed, leaving a confused and slightly wounded Scottish husband behind. He’s lucky I didn’t bite him.

It’s not that I don’t love his hands on me. I do. Passionately. Frequently.

Just not when everything hurts.

I wrap myself in my bathrobe and pad barefoot into the bathroom, quietly closing the door.

The pregnancy test is still in the drawer, right where I shoved it under a pile of hair ties and expired lip balm. I bought it two days ago in a burst of “just in case” energy, a whisper of paranoia that I dismissed as leftover honeymoon hormone brain.

Because it’s not possible. I’m on the pill.

Every day.

7:30 a.m. on the dot, like clockwork. I even keep a backup alarm on my phone titled, “DON’T FORGET YOUR FUTURE.”

Who gets pregnant on their wedding night while on the pill?

This is just a glitch. I'm being silly. Paranoid. But I won't be able to let this go until I test, so...

I unwrap the test, pee on the stick, set it down on the counter like it’s made of plutonium, then sit on the closed toilet lid and open Instagram. Three minutes of distraction are all I need.

Thirty seconds later, I close it again.

Too many babies. Too many influencers holding up tiny onesies and crying over test results and talking about “divine timing.” I switch to Pinterest.

Muffin recipes.

Better.

Except my brain won’t stop doing that thing.

What if?

But you’re careful.

What if you weren’t careful enough?

That’s not how science works.

What if Hamish has supersperm?

That's not a thing.

But what if your uterus decided to rebel?

Stop it.

But also... maybe?

My hands feel cold. My boobs still ache. And I’m now a week late.

I glance at the test.

Still processing.

Because of course it is.

"Please be nothing," I whisper, but I don’t even know if I mean it.

I stare at the white plastic stick like it holds the fate of our entire future, even though I know, logically, it doesn’t. Not yet. Not unless there are two pink lines waiting to ambush me.

The little hourglass icon on the screen mocks me.

Three minutes. It takes three minutes to find out if your life is about to completely and irrevocably change.

I glance at the clock on the bathroom wall, then drop my head back against the cool tile behind me.

My breasts ache. And not in the usual way.

They feel like they’ve been personally offended by gravity.

Hamish keeps grabbing them like they’re two emotional support stress balls, and every time I yelp and smack his hand away, he laughs.

But I’m not laughing now.

Because this doesn’t fit into our plan. Our well-organized, color-coded, thoroughly discussed life blueprint.

Hamish starts the European football coverage circuit in July.

That’s nine months of airports and arenas, travel and time zones, interviews and tight deadlines.

He’ll be living out of a suitcase with a laptop and a mic, and I’ll be—what?

At home, figuring out how to take prenatal vitamins without throwing up?

We weren’t going to even think about kids until after his first contract renewal. That was the agreement. That was the future. Not now.

Definitely not now.

Except… my mind, the traitor, softens anyway.

I picture what it would be like. Growing a tiny human inside me. Watching Hamish’s face the first time he feels a kick. His giant hand spread wide across my belly like he’s guarding something sacred. Because he would.

He’d be so tender, so goofy. He’d read parenting books and research swaddling techniques and help Dad build some weird baby monitor system that would sync to Archie’s encrypted servers.

I can imagine the product endorsements. Hamish McCormick babywearing our child would not only make ovaries spontaneously drop millions of eggs worldwide, the demand for maternity clothes and baby wraps would trigger a worldwide fabric shortage.

Our families would lose their minds with joy. Mom would plan twelve baby showers. Fiona would start stitching baby kilts and compiling lists of Gaelic names. Fergus would try to teach the baby darts. Dad would just cry happy tears and prepare to carry more M&Ms in his pockets.

And maybe… maybe we’d get a head start on the dream.

The three kids we always talked about. If we want three before I turn forty, maybe starting now isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Maybe it’s the best.

So many maybes .

I look back down at the test.

Still processing.

Would I have to quit my job?

The question slams into me like a linebacker.

If I’m pregnant, am I just… Mom now?

Do I need to find a nanny? Can we afford one? (Yes, of course. Hamish could fund an entire Montessori preschool if he wanted.)

Would Mom and Dad help out? They’ve practically raised Carol’s kids and they see Shannon’s all the time. But they live in Massachusetts, and we’re not just going to be in Massachusetts. We’re going to be bi-continental.

Split between Europe and here, flying with suitcases and a stroller, baby wipes in three time zones.

How would our baby know both sets of grandparents?

How would they know their aunts and uncles?

Their cousins ? Half the time we'd be with one side or the other.

It doesn't feel fair. Would they see their family in blurry little Zoom squares and occasional holiday visits, their relationships based on birthday cards and awkward FaceTimes with bad wifi?

I burst into tears.

Real ones. Hot and wet and ridiculous.

Because it hasn’t even happened yet. This might be nothing. A false alarm. A hormonal blip. And yet I feel like the baby—the hypothetical one, the not-even-confirmed one—is already missing out on their whole extended family.

I sniff, wiping my face with the sleeve of my pajama shirt.

Then comes a knock on the bathroom door.

“Love? Ye in there? Can I come in an’ pee? I’m about ta start negotiatin’ wi’ ma bladder.”

Perfect timing. Of course.

I stare at the test stick, the screen still ticking away its little hourglass like it has all the time in the world.

My voice cracks a little. “Just a minute.”

One minute.

One minute decides our fate.

"Okay," he says. "but if it's more than that, I'll have ta pee in the ficus plant again."

I know he's joking, but it makes me sob a little.

And also– again? What does he mean by again?

I stare at the wall. If I don’t look at the test, don’t breathe too hard, don’t want anything too much, it’ll stay neutral.

Superstition and my hormones are old friends this morning.

Negative, I think. Let it be negative. Please.

Except—

The word echoes in my head, then lands with a soft thud in the middle of my chest.

Negative.

Why does that make me feel…

Sad?

Oh, my God.

Do I want to be pregnant?

The hourglass vanishes.

My heart trips over itself.

One word.

One small, pixelated word.

PREGNANT

Tap tap tap

I gasp.

“Love? Everythin’ all right?”

I swallow hard, my hand shaking as I reach for the doorknob. I don’t say anything. I just open it.

Hamish is standing there in all his rumpled, half-awake glory, massive morning erection poking out at me, concern written across his face. His mouth is open like he’s about to make another pee joke.

I hand him the stick.

His brow furrows as he looks down.

Then he goes perfectly still.

"Ye're no' jokin' me, hen?" He looks around the bathroom. "Where's the camera filmin' me? This isna one o' those TikTok challenges?"

"No!" I gasp. "It's real. I'm a week late and I took all my pills and did everything right and OH MY GOD HAMISH I AM PREGNANT!"

Hamish stares at the test stick like it just proposed marriage to him.

Then his face splits into the kind of grin that makes my knees weak. His entire body lights up, and before I can brace myself, he scoops me up in a full-body hug and twirls me. “We’re havin’ a baby! ” he shouts. "A BABY!"

“No, we’re having a panic attack! ” I squeak, trying not to fall apart.

He stops spinning and cradles me like I’m made of spun sugar and fragile silk.

“Right. Sorry. Gotta be gentle now. Delicate condition and all that. Do ye want pickles? Anchovies? A bacon and marshmallow smoothie? Andrew told me Amanda craved Cheeto smoothies. What d'ye need? I’ll run ta the store. What can I do?”

“Get a time machine and go back to whatever moment we managed to break science! I was so careful. We used foolproof birth control! This isn't in the plan. Not now–it's too soon! And I’m on the pill!”

“Ye’re on the pill,” he says gently, like he’s reminding me the sky is blue. “Aye. But it’s only 98 percent effective, love.”

“I know that, but I didn’t think we’d be in the unlucky two percent!”

“Sweetheart, we have sex... a lot." He starts counting on his fingers.

"What are you doing?"

"Multiplyin'. We shag about three–no, four–times a day now. That's, well, average it out and it's 3.5 times a day, divide that into 100 and ye ge– "

"Pregnant on the pill math, apparently! My uterus is an SAT math question!”

"When ye do anythin’ a hundred times, ye beat the odds. We hit our hundred reps before the wedding night.”

“A hundred times before our wedding night? You have such an overinflated sense of your sexual abilities.”

He squeezes me. “Ye didna say that during the hunnerd times. I just heard lots o’ moanin.”

I groan and push my face into his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin and whatever this new phase of our life smells like. “We just eloped. You’re about to start a job that involves a transcontinental commute.”

“Exactly,” he says, rocking me side to side. “Perfect time ta add a baby.”

I yank my head back and stare up at him.

He grins wider. “That was sarcasm. Mostly. It might no’ be the perfect time, but there could never be a wrong time for us. Babies are a blessing. Ye're giving me the greatest treasure. Wi' yer body and ma sperm, we get to raise a human. That's some magic right there.”

I blink, heart pounding, thoughts spinning.

We’re having a baby.

We’re having a baby.

“Oh, God,” I whisper, and I don’t know if it’s fear or joy, but I feel it all, like a freight train full of pickles and baby clothes crashing into my uterus. “This was never part of the plan.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs, holding me close. “Whatever this is, panic or party, we’ll do it together.”

“Together,” I echo, as my eyes sting again.

Because there’s no one I’d rather fall into chaos with than this man who celebrates impossible odds with me.

“Oh, no. No no no.”

The words fall out of me like a prayer, or maybe a curse. I press both hands to my stomach, not because I feel anything, but because something is happening. Inside me. To me.

Hamish tenses. “Ye... don’t want the baby?”

I look up at him, eyes wide, heart skittering like a squirrel on espresso. “No! I mean—yes! I do! I do want the baby! I want this baby! I just—oh, God, I just realized what this means .”

His brow furrows. “That we’re gonna be knackered for the next two decades?”

“No,” I say, voice dropping to a whisper. “That we’ve just unleashed the mothers.”

He tilts his head. “The mums?”

“Yes. Think about it.” I grab his arms like I’m grounding myself.

“They’re already emotionally volatile and mildly terrifying without grandchildren.

But now? Now we’ve accidentally evolved them.

Like Pokemon, or spilling water on gremlins.

You’ve seen what happens when Marie and Fiona feel left out of something.

Multiply that by bibs, booties, and hormonal legacy guilt and we’re doomed. ”

He blinks once. Then slowly exhales. “Ah. Shite.”

“Yeah. This is how it starts. They’ll knit matching onesies and argue about godparents and try to register us for parenting classes in two different countries. Your mom’s going to want to raise the baby in Edinburgh. My mom’s going to want to co-sleep with the baby in our guest room.”

"Aye," he says softly. "We've gone and done it. We've made them even worse than mothers."

"Monsters?"

"No." He shudders. " Grandmonsters ."