It’s a kick.
It’s such a little thump of movement that it takes me by surprise. I’d been expecting something bigger, stronger, but this is somehow even more significant. This little human being only has so much strength and energy, and she’s using it right now to press against my hand.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, fanning my fingers out.
Story lets out this excited little laugh. “Think she just prefers poetry?” she asks.
I’m still gob smacked by the movement under my hand, but I tear my eyes away long enough to shoot Story a grin. “Poetry? Wait until she hears music.”
38
Story
“I don’t see why I can’t just wear leggings and Killian’s jersey.” I slouch through the store, doing my best to look invisible. “I’m pregnant. No one gives a fuck how I look.” Tristian and I stare at one another over a stack of high-end maternity clothes. We’re at a fancy place that has hippie music flowing out of the speakers and flickering candles in soothing scents all over the place.
I think I want to stab something.
Tristian isn’t having it. He raises a hand, beckoning a salesperson from across the store. “Because you’re getting honored for the incredible work you’ve been doing down at the community center, and although I have no problem with you wearing,” his eyebrow quirks up, “or not wearing whatever you want, you’re going to have to dress up.”
I cross my arms, feeling out of sorts among the sleek, designer clothing. For the past month, I’ve been hard pressed to make much more effort than some light makeup and curled hair. Part of that is the fact I’m the size of a planet, but another factor is the end of term. Even with the help of three distinguished alumni, I still struggled my way through finals.
“What can I do for you today?” the saleswoman asks, but even before I turn to peer over my shoulder at her, I realize I recognize the voice. Autumn. The second she notices me, her face pinches into a scowl. “Oh, it’s you.”
Placing my hand on my belly, I turn, fully enjoying the flash of shock in her eyes when they fall to my very pregnant form. “The one and only.” I give her a sharp, barbed smile.
She blinks at my stomach before her gaze jerks up to Tristian. “You’re still…？”
He rests his elbow on the rack, giving her a chilly stare down. “You were the Princess, weren’t you?”
“For, like, a blink,” I clarify. There was a time I might have made a show of rubbing this in her face, but now the thought seems vaguely exhausting. I won. I settled down with my Royals, became Queen of South Side, and now I’m building a family.
Now, I just feel sorry for her.
“I need a dress,” I say, rubbing my whale-like baby bump. “Something I can cram all of this awesomeness into.”
Okay.
Maybe a little face-rubbing.
Tristian tosses me a little smirk, like he knows. “She looks great in green.”
I spin to argue, “I’ll look like a bipedal watermelon!”
“Gold, then.” He fingers something shiny, holding up a finger. “No, you will not look like a foil-covered candy truffle.”
“I’ll just go pull a few options,” Autumn says, talking through her teeth as she smiles. Minutes later, we’re headed to the back, where she hangs various dresses onto a rack. I can’t help but notice all of them are black. She doesn’t miss the question in my eyes, nor the opportunity to throw me a nasty look. “Black is slimming,” she sneers before flouncing away.
“Rude,” Tristian mutters, glaring daggers at her back, but she’s not wrong. It’s going to take a lot more than a hundred yards of black fabric to slim down my figure.
Frowning, I pick through them. The dressing room is lush, with a comfortable seating area and soft lights that attempt to wash away the puffiness and exhaustion. I pick up a dress and look at the tag, my jaw dropping. “Almost six-hundred-dollars for a dress that will only fit me for three more months? Tristian, this is stupid!”
“Sweetheart,” he says, taking the hanger from my grip, “you know money isn’t an object, and you deserve some nice clothes for a special event.”
I know I’m being irrational. The reception for my work at the community center is a big deal, something I worked hard for. I just wish I didn’t look like a beached whale for it. I tried talking Clara, the director, into pushing it back a couple months, but no dice.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing the dress and stepping behind the curtain to the smaller stall. It’s fancy, too, with a soft armchair and carpeted floor. I listen to the other women going in and out of the other stalls as I peel off my clothes, trying to avoid the mirror, but it’s one of those three-sided monstrosities, so it’s impossible not to get a big, ugly view of my massive tits and protruding belly. My hips are bigger, curvier, and there are purplish stretch marks streaking up the sides. Blinking back tears, I struggle into the dress. It’s black—‘slimming’， my ass—with a low-plunging V that barely contains my cleavage. Suddenly, I want to go literally anywhere else. She probably picked these out intentionally to make me feel like a fucking cow.