Out On a Limb(68)

CHAPTER 24





Nineteen Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of a mango.





“If you could teleport right now, where would you go?” Bo asks me before filling his face with another spoonful of ice cream.

We ran out of questions from the deck a week ago, having fallen into the same routine for the past month of living together. Every evening, we eat dinner, tidy up to the sounds of another record, then ask a question. On the calmer days, when the music is jazz or soft-rock, Bo completes his sudoku puzzle on the couch. Other times, when the music calls for it, he plays air guitar or drums and throws his body around the kitchen for my amusement as I finish cleaning up.

Since we ran out, Bo’s just been making up the questions on the spot.

The twenty questions to fall in love certainly did what it says on the box.

I’m pretty hopelessly in love with Bo at this point. Platonically, of course. Mostly. The primal, baby daddy hormones sometimes disagree about the platonic part. Usually when he gives me foot rubs while we watch movies, or when his eyes dip down to my cleavage when they probably shouldn’t, or when he… you know… breathes near me.

Even still, we’ve been on our best behaviour.

“Ooh, good one,” I say, taking the communal spoon from him as he holds the carton out for me. “Somewhere warm and on a beach, for sure. But not somewhere cheap to fly to—since I could just do that myself. Maybe Greece? Yeah, Greece.”

“I was going to say Greece too,” Bo says, taking the spoon back from me. “I want to see the Temple of Poseidon.”

“Sure,” I laugh out. “We’ll go together.”

“Excellent,” he says, his mouth full of ice cream.

“Oh, Doctor Salim called, by the way. The ultrasound is in two weeks.”

“How are you feeling about it?” Bo asks.

“Uh, I’m a little nervous. Excited to see Gus, though.”

“What day?”

I tsk, trying to remember. “Uh, not sure. It was a Friday.” I lift up, moving to grab my phone. “I think the tenth?”

“My dad will be here then,” Bo says, swallowing another helping before handing me back the carton. “If that’s still okay?”

“Bo, I have sworn to you that it’s more than okay. Multiple times. I’m excited to meet your dad.”

“Just checking,” he says, raising his palms up defensively. “I’ll have that day off, though. So maybe we can drop Dad off somewhere and pick him up after the appointment.”

“No, don’t miss out on time with your dad.”

“Are you crazy? As if I’d miss an ultrasound. This is when they look like a baby, right? Not a little bean anymore?”

“Yeah, think so.” I take the final scoop of ice cream, finishing off the carton and setting it on the coffee table. “And how are you feeling about turning thirty, old man?” I say, draping my feet across his lap. He, rolling his eyes at both his new nickname and my silent demand, begins rubbing my feet.

“Honestly? Fine. I was thinking about it the other night, and I’m just grateful to still be here, and for all that’s to come. My birthday last year was pretty terrible. During the dark times.” He laughs dryly.

Bo has recently taken to referring to last year as the dark times. I’ve picked up little bits and pieces of information here and there without needing to pry all that much. After he was given the all-clear to live alone, three months post-surgery, his dad went back to France. And he was alone a lot, from what it sounds like. Other than DND with his friends once a month, he didn’t really see anyone.

“Another year older and wiser…” I say, rolling my neck as he presses his thumb into the centre of my foot.

“And more handsome,” he adds.

I snort. “Of course.”

Bo squeezes his hand around my heel, builds pressure, then releases. I let out a not-so-subtle moan, but I’m far too blissed out to care.

“There?” he asks teasingly.

“I need to get new shoes for work.”

“You need to tell them you’re pregnant,” Bo says.

“They’ll treat me differently…”

“You mean, like, give you a stool to sit on? Or maybe longer breaks? Heaven forbid.”

“Watch it. I could easily kick you right now.” I fall back against the couch, letting my eyes close as Bo wraps his giant hands around my swollen ankles and massages those too.

“Permission to bring down the mood?”

“Always,” I answer. And I mean it. I’m so desperate to know everything Bo’s got stored away that I’d let him say just about anything. I think he could unwrap the very worst parts of himself, and I’d still sit here, hanging on every word.

“I keep thinking that, as of my birthday, I’ll be older than my mom ever was. I hate that.”

I sit up slowly, peering up at him. His eyes are held absently on the mantel across the room, his hands busy working my ankles over. I consider whether I should move my feet off his lap, but it seems to me that this is keeping his hands occupied while his thoughts wander. Like he was throwing stones at the beach all those weeks ago.

Maybe Bo requires physical distractions in order to open up.