Scarlett
“H ow in the world are these shorts tight?” I mutter as I attempt to get dressed in the suite bathroom
after taking a long bath. A bath Morgan insisted I take when I refused to nap. I’m not tired. I’m not
thirsty. God knows I’m not hungry. But as a man who has no idea how to take care of a “sick” woman,
it made the most sense in his mind. As I look in the mirror, giving up on the d epressing fact that my
favorite shorts no longer button, I let out a defeated sigh. I know why they don’t fit. I also know why
I’m bloated. And why I got sick in the hotel lobby. After Morgan left me and the EMT alone and he
proceeded to take my vitals, it was one of the many questions he asked. “Is there any chance you are
pregnant?” When I didn’t respond, his eyes flashed up from the stethoscope to my face. I swallowed, bit
my lip, and he removed the earpieces. “How long?” he asked. “How long?” I echoed because I’m still
not used to talking about it. Obviously. I’m pretty sure he’s the only one who knows. “How far along
are you?” he r ephrased gently.
“I’m not sure... maybe eight weeks?” I couldn’t really figure out the math in my head. My period was
late... about a month after that night. And it’s been a couple more weeks so... “You are right at the
beginning of it all. Even if you haven’t noticed much. It’s very normal at this milestone to feel more
fatigued, a few body changes, and even morning sickness.” “Body changes,” I huff as I stare in the
mirror. My body is already a hot mess in the shorts d epartment. Hourglass figures have time and time
again proved to be difficult to find shorts for. And these are my favorites. They’ve always fit
beautifully, despite looking like they’d never work out when I spotted them on the rack at the thrift
store. It was some cosmic Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants shit. But looking at them now, unzipped
and unbuttoned and straining to hold me in, I think they’ve traveled their last mile. I grunt and groan and
throw them across the bathroom before covering my face with my hands. Until now, I’ve kind of
ignored the reality of my situation. Because I’ve had to. Other than the small reminders that there is a
little someone growing inside of me. There are mental reminders that wildly come to mind at times, just
like the woman in the lobby said. It’s been on the back burner of my thoughts. Yeah, until Morgan’s
comments about the photo of you feeding the baby. Where did he get off saying that? It looked natural
or good, or whatever he said. It almost implied that he enjoyed seeing me with a baby. That he could get
used to seeing me with a baby. That he could love me with a baby. Or you know, that he could love
YOUR baby. As in YOURS and HIS. “Shut up,” I literally snap at my internal monologue out loud. I
find that both she and my facial expressions are too opinionated. And I can’t really afford to think about
that right now. We have one more resort in NYC, and then we are done. In whatever way that means. Is
it all the way done, or is it done with all the traveling, or is it that it’s done for now? All I have to do is
survive the Keys and NYC, and then I can figure out my life and our
relationship. Assuming that I can survive my sister and he can survive the lawsuit with his brother.
Family. Can’t live with them, but certainly could do without them. Meddling anyhow. After giving my
all-time favorite shorts the proper burial (AKA throwing them in the bathroom trashcan with a hint of a
tear in the corner of one eye), I move on. I opt for a dress that is fitted around the chest and flowy
everywhere else with a strappy back. It’s a Halara knockoff that I found at a discount store. It’s one of
my favorite purchases. I mean, it has pockets, for Pete’s sake. And built-in shorts. Because when they
say shapely girls have asses that don’t quit... they really don’t quit. Getting in the way and making
public appearances. All of it. After pulling my hair into a knot on my head, I spritz on some light
perfume. It’s a coconut lime spray I found at one of the shops at the last resort. I make my way out of
the bathroom. “Are you feeling any better?” Morgan asks, looking up from the couch as he works on his
laptop. “Much better, thank you,” I answer before heading into the kitchen for a snack. I haven’t had
much of an appetite since the fountain incident, but right now, I feel like I could eat a whole cow. I open
the fridge to see what’s been stocked. The hotel provided us with an array of meals and snacks, and I
couldn’t be more thankful. I pull out the ingredients to make a turkey sandwich and smile. “Well, I’m
glad to see you have an appetite again,” Morgan says. “I was starting to worry.” “Yeah, I really do think
it was just stress,” I say as I unscrew the lid on the mayo. “Not that I’m stressed. But it has been a
minute since I’ve traveled back to back like this.” “Oh, trust me, I know,” he says and I giggle. But then
my smile slips as my stomach shifts from starving to sour. Something about the mayo, whether it’s the
smell or the texture or the
literal sound it’s making as I dig the butter knife into the jar, has me wondering if I am going to throw
up. Scratch that. Not wondering. I am going to throw up. Right here, right now. I turn to the sink just in
time to get sick. And I don’t know what’s worse: the frustration that I can apparently no longer stomach
my favorite condiment, or the mortification that Morgan is literally watching me for the second time in
twelve hours lose my lunch. Or the lack thereof. “Scarlett,” he says, and I can hear him padding towards
me, much to my dismay. Immediately, I turn on the faucet and the garbage disposal and flush everything
down before he reaches my side. “I’m fine,” I tell him. But, like last time, all the insisting in the world
isn’t working. Morgan is thoroughly convinced I am dying, or at the very least that I have the plague,
and he insists on me laying back down. “I don’t need to lay down, Morgan,” I grumble. “I probably just
ate something that upset my stomach.” “Before, you said it was just stress,” he says, literally ushering
me to the bed again. If any of you have ever had morning sickness before, I am sure you can understand
my frustration. It’s not like normal nausea. It comes and goes in literal waves. And right now, the wave
is low, and I am craving that turkey sandwich. Though I think it might be wise to eighty-six the mayo
this time. “And stress causes stomach acid. And too much acid makes you nauseous. Which is why I
need to eat something, not lay down. In fact, I am pretty sure laying down will only make it worse,” I
argue with as much sass as I can muster. I want him to know just how annoyed I am right now. “So sit,
at least,” he says, but with a much nicer tone than mine, which almost makes me feel bad. Emphasis on
almost. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll sit on the balcony, but I’m tired of being cooped up.” “Fine,” he says, hot on
my heels.
“You know you don’t have to follow me, right?” I tell him. “I’m not a seventy-year-old woman. I’m not
a fall risk.” “Listen, considering how unpredictable your stomach’s mood is right now, I’m not sure
what kind of risk you are,” he says, and I’m not sure if he is trying to be funny but if he is, it’s not
working. Even after I sit down, he just continues to hover. “Morgan. I swear. I’m f–” “Do you need
anything?” he asks. “Yeah. A sandwich. Hold the mayo,” I tell him. “Yeah, I’m not so sure about that,”
he says and I deadpan him. “Okay. Crackers then? Can I have some crackers?” “Now that I can do,” he
says. “I think there’s ginger ale on the bar cart too.” “Actually, that sounds perfect,” I sigh, and when he
comes back with a sleeve of saltines and a glass with ginger ale and ice, I devour it. My stomach
immediately settles and I am able to chill out a little, hangry mood and all. Note to self? Never allow my
stomach to be completely empty. I feel like I knew that back when Claire was pregnant. Pretty sure she
read the entirety of that What To Expect book out loud to me when I was chauffeuring her to different
baby boutiques. Claire pregnant is a whole thing by the way. Suddenly, I feel the urge to text her. But
immediately, I tell myself to wait. I also worry about how she’ll react. I was in happy tears when she
told me she was pregnant the first time. But she also had the lifestyle for it. Husband. Three - bedroom,
two-bath home. A car with airbags from nose to tail. I’m not even sure my car has one in the driver’s
seat. It’s also a 1980 s hunk of metal, so I don’t know how much it needs airbags. “Alright, I made an
appointment,” Morgan says, shoving his phone in his pocket. It isn’t until now that I realize he was even
on his phone. “For what?” I ask, popping another cracker into my mouth.
“For you,” he states, and my chewing slows. “Again, for what?” I ask. “You’re going to the doctor,” he
states, and I stop chewing altogether. “The doctor? Morgan, I don’t need–” “Exc ept I think you do,” he
cuts me off. “Okay. Let me r ephrase that. I don’t want to go to the doctor,” I say stubbornly. “Well, if I
am being honest right now, I don’t really care what you want,” he says with just as much salt. I huff. He
puffs. I glare. He stares. God, this man! “No. Actually, I can’t go to the doctor,” I say. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. Really.” “And why is that?” he asks. “Because. I don’t have health insurance,” I say. “Sure you
do,” he says. “Donovan is adding a benefits package to your employment agreement as we speak.” “I
don’t think it works that way. Or that quickly,” I snort. “And yet, it’s amazing how differently things
work when you have all the money in the world. Which I do. Now get in the car. We’re going to get you
checked out.”