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And I couldn’t tell them why.
Instead, I held my chin high and returned to my desk outside his office.
The first week was the hardest.
After that, it got easier, day by day. He emailed me more often than I reached out to him, but when I did send him a message, he responded immediately and fully.
Then I got sick again. This time, it wasn’t a broken heart. It wasn’t a broken anything, actually.
I’m a smart little researcher, so it didn’t take long to figure out from my symptoms that I needed to take a pregnancy test. I stared at the positive result with dumbfounded confusion.
I’m still a virgin, really. Sort of. It was only the one time, and he didn’t even fully get inside me.
I feel like a cliche, especially when I immediately rule out all options for dealing with the pregnancy besides keeping it. I want this baby, I realize with shocking clarity.
One of the oddest moments in that week when I was making the decision was Mack’s sister popping by to see him. Apparently, she is a lawyer in the city, and on retainer to Emerson Industries as outside counsel—and he didn’t tell her he was leaving the country.
How do you feel about being an aunt?I want to ask her, but I can’t. Not yet. Not before I tell Mr. Emerson he’s going to be a father.
But that has to wait, because I can’t risk the very real possibility that he won’t be interested. Ironically, my motivation for not telling him comes from a parental leave program he has invested in.
Emerson Industries is an industry leader in this area, and they also offer paid daycare subsidies. As long as my boss doesn’t find out I’m pregnant with his baby before my probationary period is over, I’ll be fine.
So I invest in club packs of saltines and ginger tea, and I get back to work.
I outgrow the pencil skirt first. Then the smart dress pants are next, and finally my kilt stops fitting, too. I go to a second-hand shop and buy some flowing dresses that cover my secret bump well.
I’m wearing one of those today, a pretty white sleeveless A-line dress, and I’ve put blue silk flowers in my hair, because I’ve discovered that people don’t look at your midsection if you give them something else flamboyant to look at instead. A fun hair piece or really colourful shoes.
It’s not going to get me nine months of privacy, but it’s worked so far.
I’m carrying a stack of files and humming to myself as I push the outer door to Mr. Emerson’s office suite open. When I see the inner door open for the first time in three months, and he’s sitting behind his desk, the files slip from my arms and scatter across the floor in a loud thud.
We stare at each other. I can’t breathe. His gaze rakes over my face, then drops, and I don’t think flowers in my hair will distract him from the subtle change in my shape, so I fall to my knees and scramble to pick up the folders.
He’s around his desk and standing in the doorway when I glance up. I’m still on my knees, the folders firmly in front of my slightly swelling belly again.
“You’re back,” I say as flatly as I can manage. “Did I miss an email?”
His gaze flashes with heated frustration. “No,” he growls. “Something came up, though. And I thought…”
“Yes?”
“Maybe I wanted to surprise you.”
“Definitely a surprise.” I stand and go to my desk.
He follows. “You’ve done spectacular work these last three months.”
“Thank you. It’s been very rewarding to help you advance some projects faster than projected?—”
“Damn it, Isabelle,” he snaps, his hands coming down hard on my desk.
I jump.
He swears under his breath. “I don’t like this distance between us.”
“Whose fault is that?”
