Page 5 of For Her
“I got to tell you, and okay, Matt. But we kind of told him together. And then I didn’t get to tell anyone else,” I mumble calmly.
“Maze, I’m so sorry.” And he is. I can see it in his expression and the set of his dark blue eyes.
“I know. And I forgive you - to the point where I’m done giving you shit,” I say, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and lacing my fingers together while keeping my head on his shoulder. “But as for the rest of the family, you’re on your own.” That’s partly bullshit. I’m only going to let them give him a tiny bit of a hard time, and then yeah, I’ll step in. What can I say? I love him, and I get where he was coming from. “Except for my ass-face brother. I’ll take him down a few pegs when it’s his turn up at bat.”
Jack chuckles before he lightly grunts and brings his hand to his stomach.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” but his face is scrunched in a grimace. “Just not feeling so good all of a sudden.”
“Huh,” I draw my eyebrows together. “You didn’t eat anything different at breakfast, so it shouldn’t be indigestion. I hope you haven’t caught a bug,” I say, passing my ginger ale over to him.
“Thanks,” he says taking a sip and then getting up off the stool. “Think I’m just going to go lie down until it passes.”
“Okay,” I say hesitantly, as I watch him wander over to our couch and lie down with an arm draped over his face. He’s seriously not feeling well, and it really came out of nowhere. I decide to leave him be and take my ginger ale, grab some saltines out of the cabinet, and head over to the breakfast nook to do some work on my next Rock Wife blog post.
For last week’s post, I wasn’t ready to address the whole spontaneous baby announcement, and so I just used one of my posts that I have sitting in my back pocket, but I know my readers and Jack’s fans are just dying to know about expecting a baby with the rock star, and what my take on him announcing it to the known universe is.
I type away for the next forty minutes about howno, I didn’t know he was going to do that, and find a lighthearted way to say how our close loved ones areso mad at us, but understand how impulsivity can accompany excitement. Oh andI’mfeeling just great, just a little tired. They don’t need to know I’m tossing my cookies at every drop of a hat.
Speaking of which, I grab my phone while I’m thinking about it and text my mother, to see if she can pick me up some anti-hurling supplies.
I’m about to put my phone down when a video chat alert comes through with my friend Erin’s name flashing on the screen. I smile and quickly swipe up to accept. Erin Stockwell is the wife of George, the lead singer of The Shock Wave. We met when Turn it Up opened for them on one of their tours, and became extremely fast friends. She’s like the big sister that I’d wished my parents had had instead of my brother, Ian.
“Hi!” I cheerfully greet her, but not too loudly, not wanting to disturb Jack.
“Hiii,” her lovely face trills through the phone. “I wanted to give you a few days to recover from the tour and the madness, but I just couldn’t wait any longer to say congratulations!”
“Aww, thank you,” I blush.
“Are you excited? I already know Jack is!” she says with a laugh, and I roll my eyes.
“Yes, obviously,” I confirm. “It’s sweet, actually.”
“It really is. How about you? Looking forward to being a mama?”
“Yeah, I really am,” I nod with a smile that I can feel lighting up my cheeks. It’s nice to be talking about it with someone, finally, after keeping it a secret those first couple weeks I knew. “We got the first ultrasound today, look.” I get up from the nook and walk over to the fridge to show her the print out. She takes a moment to squeal and gush over it before I turn the phone screen back on myself.
“So how are you feeling?” Erin asks, recovering from the black and white blurry cuteness.
“Like shit.” My smile drops and my eyes go deadpan.
“Ohhh, honey. I’m so sorry. Are you getting sick?”
“Yeah. I have hyperemesis,” I inform her, pouting.
“Ooh,” she responds, grimacing. “I’m so sorry. I had that too.” Erin and George have a little girl named Eloise who is almost two.
“How long does it last?” I ask, pleading with her to give me some kind of hope that I don’t have to deal with it much longer.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Erin,” I grumble.
“Mine lasted through the third trimester.”
“Ugghh… noo,” I groan as I lean down on the counter, ready to let her see me cry.