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I THINK WE SKIPPED A FEW STEPS

SHILOH

T HREE YEARS LATER

I hate Fulton Cazzarelli. I hate him and this gigantic baby that he put inside me.

Okay, that’s a lie, but still. I’m feeling extra homicidal today because I have two more months of peeing when I sneeze and vomiting at the sight of ranch dressing. Two months! I couldn’t even reach for the remote on the coffee table earlier without pulling something in my hip and groaning like I was twenty-seven going on seventy.

I love this baby, I do, but my God, I’ve never been this sleep-deprived in my entire life. Everything sets me off—Fulton’s obnoxiously loud snoring, the texture of the bedsheets, the weird whirring sound of the ceiling fan. Not to mention that this—albeit lovely—demon spawn jumps on my bladder like it’s a trampoline every five minutes.

Getting pregnant before marriage wasn’t really at the top of our to-do list, but it just sort of happened. Aeris was having a missed period emergency, and since there’s a convenience store on the same block as the shop, I offered to grab her a pregnancy test just to be safe. The box came with two tests—one of which she obviously wouldn’t need—so I took it because I knew how important the feeling of solidarity was to her in a time like this. Aeris’ came up with that single, pink line, and I was blindsided by two very stark ones instead.

I mean, it’s no secret that Fulton and I weren’t Trojan’s biggest advocates, but I was on birth control. The statistics for getting pregnant on the pill are low, alright? Less than five percent. I thought we were safe.

But even as mentally unprepared as I felt, I knew that deep down, my heart was ready to make room for another person. Fulton, of course, was ecstatic when he found out. Maybe this was fate, you know? Maybe we were destined to expand our family on some uneventful Saturday in March. Maybe I was destined for a greater purpose beyond espresso machines and overpriced scones.

Speaking of, the business has been booming. I’m now the sole owner of Deja Brew, and my parents are living out their retirement in a spacious, three-story house on endless acres of land. And not to toot my own horn, but aside from Fulton’s initial investment, it was all achieved without asking him for another loan or having him buy the business as a selfless act of love like he’s some black-tie billionaire in a romance novel.

My family and I earned every penny. The majority of it was through hard work, long hours, and the cost of a healthy sleep schedule, but a small portion of it was due to the fact that the Riverside Reapers started to hold free meet-and-greets here to boost business. The turnout was absolutely insane. Everyone benefited—the diehard fans, the team, Deja Brew. And once people gave our impeccable drinks and desserts a chance, they became customers for life.

Since the announcement of our little plus-one, my parents have come out of retirement to take over the shop while I’m on maternity leave. Which, no, wasn’t my first option. However, everyone was pretty adamant that I deserved a break .

Three seasons. Three seasons I’ve grown this little peanut, and now that autumn’s well on its way, I’m getting ready to nest.

Hunger grips my gut, and the grease-demanding creature that’s single-handedly responsible for me gaining thirty extra pounds is kicking its tiny feet in outrage. I wince, practice the breathing techniques that my doctor suggested, and palm the side of my rounded belly.

“Chill out, would you? Your father’s coming,” I coax, stroking the swell of my stomach.

Then, as if the internal abuse wasn’t enough, Fulton shreds the much-needed silence, bursting through the door with a leaning tower of takeout boxes. “I’m here! I’m sorry. I got everything on the menu. And then I got stuck in traffic. Oh my God, and they took forever to make everything. I was waiting in that overpacked sardine can for thirty minutes. Thirty! Can you believe that? Do people not understand the urgency of a pregnant woman craving French fries?!”

“You got everything on the menu?” I ask in shock.

Fulton carefully navigates his way over to me—making sure not to drop his hard-earned food—and then he begins to deposit everything onto the coffee table. “Of course I did; my girls were starving.”

“Starving is a bit melodramatic.”

“You’re eating for two now, Sunshine. I need to make sure you’re getting the proper nutrients,” he insists, his tone ripening with concern.

My lips twitch into a frown, a malaise of guilt sinking into my bones. “You didn’t need to order fifteen pounds of food.”

“I wanted you to have options. Plus, I even got you those miniature churros you like with the caramel drizzle. The restaurant swore they didn’t make the drizzle anymore, but I was quite the persuasive negotiator.”

“Ful, that’s so sweet, but…”

“At least eat a bite right now. Please. ”

He rummages around for the aforementioned churro, flourishing it like it’s the magic cinnamon stick that’s going to solve all my problems, and the orgasmic bit of caramel drizzle that drips down the doughy groove nearly turns me feral. Unresistingly, I open my lips so he can feed it to me, and once the sustenance hits my taste buds, I practically melt into the couch with a quiet moan.

“Good girl,” Fulton praises, taking his thumb and wiping up the tiny patch of crumbs by the corner of my mouth.

“You’re ridiculous,” I sigh, though I couldn’t be more grateful for Fulton’s affinity for grand gestures and his rather alarming lack of obedience.

“Ridiculously in love with you.”

Maybe it’s the hormones, but the tears are fast acting this time, and I’m sobbing like a complete mess in a matter of seconds, using my well-loved sweater as a tissue.

He immediately sets the churro down, then squats by my side so he can be eye-level with me. “Whoa, whoa. Hey, Sunshine. It’s okay. You’re okay,” he coos, grabbing my hand and rubbing my knuckles. “What’s wrong? Did I forget something? Did you want me to get you something else? I can run back outside and?—”

“Why”—sniff—“are”—sniff—“you”—sniff—“such”—sniff—“a”—sniff—“good”—sniff—“boyfriend?”

Fulton’s stygian eyes assess me, his tone ambered with rich, sweet love. “That’s what you’re upset about? That I’m too good of a boyfriend?”

“Exactly! Thank you for understanding,” I murmur nasally, doing my absolute best to wipe the tears as they come—which is exceedingly difficult when my heart feels like it’s too big for my body.

“You make it easy for me to be good to you, Shi. And you deserve nothing less. I don’t think you understand how incredible you are. You’re growing our child. You’re sitting on this couch and putting our little girl first, even though you’d rather be on your feet working. You’re suffering through heightened emotions, hormonal imbalances, cramps, and constant muscle pain. You’re sacrificing everything for her, and that’s more commendable than you can possibly imagine.”

I throw my arm out in exasperation. “See! That’s what I’m talking about! You recite all this lovey-dovey crap, and then you swear you aren’t even that good! But you are!”

When Fulton chases away a wandering drop of moisture with his thumb, it only dignifies my previous claim and resurrects the guilt wrenching my chest—which is already two cup sizes larger and prone to heartburn.

“Can I show you something?” he inquires out of nowhere, his lips softening into a warm smile.

Since my legs are about as unsteady as a newborn deer’s, I have the stamina of an out-of-shape old person, and now that my vision’s been compromised by tears, I rely on Fulton to lead me to this mysterious “something.”

“You’ve stayed out of the baby’s room like I asked you to, right?”

“Yes, Daddy ,” I quip in mock-annoyance, feeling Fulton’s body go as stiff as an obelisk beside me. He’s got one hand braced protectively against my bump, and the other is resting on the small of my back while he pilots me with sickeningly sweet wariness.

A groan localizes in his throat. “Jesus, Shi. You can’t joke like that when you look like…”

“Like a humongous, inflated beach ball?”

“Like the sexiest woman on the fucking planet.”

Whew. One thing I’ve discovered about Fulton is that his sweet-talking is both a blessing and a curse. The first time we had sex after the pregnancy reveal, he refused to fuck me until he completed in-depth research about the potential of hurting the baby with his penis—which is as preposterous as it is sweet .

I think I know why he exiled me from the baby’s room. He’s been spending a lot of time in there after hockey, and it always sounds like a goddamn construction site. I’m glad at least someone’s been showing the nursery some love. I never even had an idea of what I wanted it to look like. I think I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I’m going to be pushing a who-knows-how-heavy baby out of my vagina in two months.

“Be honest with me, Sunshine. If you hate it, we can change it first thing tomorrow. I promise,” he says as a prelude.

“I could never hate it, Fulton. Because whatever you did was done with love.”

Without further ado, he opens the door to reveal a sea-themed room, complete with a lamp that emits pale-blue light to imitate a feeling of being underwater. On the wall, there’s a mural of hand-painted beach motifs, oscillating between crashing waves, a sandy shore, palm trees, marine life, and a gorgeous sunset. There’s also a quilted blanket draped over the side of the crib—a thoughtful gift from Fulton’s mother—and he’s filled the space with a rocking chair, a cubby for the baby’s toys, a dresser embellished with ocean decals, and a giant monstera in the corner.

My eyes skate over the hyper-realistic waves, and if I wasn’t so stunned by the dedication and care that he put into this, I would be resuming my meltdown from earlier. My thoughts are scrambled like eggs. I can’t believe Fulton did all of this. It’s breathtaking . I didn’t even know he was this artistic. This looks like something that was done by a professional.

I don’t know what to say. My speechlessness must be glaringly obvious because Fulton ushers me over to the crib, sparing me from a response. “This is my favorite part! Look! Little black ridley turtles!”

He points to the baby mobile hanging overhead, which does, in fact, include miniature-sized sea turtles just like the ones we saw hatch in Cabo. Each turtle is a perfect replica of its real counterpart, and little ribbons of cerulean and ivory dangle between each one to break up the symmetry.

As determined as I’ve been to tread this uncharted territory, having a slice of Cabo here provides me with a boundless comfort that could never be explained through words. “Fulton, I…this is amazing .”

Forcing myself to suck in tears, I reach out to gently touch one of the turtles, feeling the raised texture of its scales and the detailed carapace of its shell. Something as intricate as this wasn’t bought off Amazon. No, every single piece was sculpted and painted individually.

Fulton forfeits a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I wanted it to be perfect for our little girl. And I know you gave me a lot of examples of the nursery themes you liked, but when this came to my mind, I just…I couldn’t help myself. Now she’ll be a part of the most special time in my life.”

With emotion ensconced in the chamber of my heart, my sense of calm is disassembled through another round of bawling. Droplets of water branch from my stinging eyes and into individual rivers, which leave behind their evanescence like grave markers buried beneath a heavy snowfall. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with crying, I’d probably be embarrassed that it takes me a full ten seconds to sit on my butt.

“Shit, no, I didn’t mean—was it something I said? I’m so sorry, Sunshine. I’m fucking this up,” Fulton whispers under his breath, kneeling beside me so I don’t have to suffer on the floor alone.

“N-no. This is…oh, Fulton. This is everything I-I could’ve ever wanted. The fact that you love this baby so much and she isn’t even born yet just makes me…emotional.”

“You know why I love her so much? ”

I shake my head, trembling as violently as the withered leaves clinging to the bare trees outside.

“It’s because she’s a part of you,” he says, shifting his attention to my engorged belly so he can cradle it with his large hands. He then carefully raises the hem of my sweater, pressing a kiss to the area of skin that he’s bared.

“She’s made up of all my favorite qualities about you—your ambition, your kindness, your selflessness, your understanding. Being by your side throughout this entire pregnancy is the best thing I’ll ever accomplish, and I’ll spend forever making sure that our child knows how loved she is.”

Always the perpetuator of self-doubt, I ask, “What if she gets my bad qualities too?”

Fulton’s lips skim to another part of my stomach, a little to the left of my protruding navel. “Not possible. You don’t have any bad qualities.”

“Fulton…”

He abandons his affectionate doting to brush his mouth against mine, parting it just slightly so he can silence my overactive worries—this time for good.

“Then I’ll love her all the more.”