That Baby
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Synopsis
First comes love, then comes marriage . . . and then comes That Baby.
That Baby is the final book in the That Boy trilogy by USA Today bestselling author, Jillian Dodd.
It’s amazing how a few little words can change your life.
It starts with a simple I love you.
It’s made official with I do.
And becomes incredible with I’m pregnant.
Jadyn is the girl I love. The girl I’ve always loved.
Our lives are like single threads meticulously woven together—the result an exquisite tapestry of past, present, and future.
Then there are the words that will unravel me.
A few little words that will change my life.
Release date: August 10, 2015
Publisher: Swoonworthy Books
Print pages: 406
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That Baby
Jillian Dodd
January 22nd
Your MacDaddy
I am Mrs. Phillip Mackenzie.
Jadyn James Mackenzie.
Gosh, I love the way that sounds.
We came back from our amazing honeymoon, ready to move into our dream house.
Phillip unlocked the door and carried me over the threshold. Then, we started unpacking.
We’ve been unpacking all day, and we are tired, but I’m down in the basement, excitedly pulling the plastic off our gorgeous new sectional sofa. I’m practically in tears over how amazing it looks in the fabric I chose.
You know men.
They prefer function over form, and women typically will give up comfort for fashion. I mean, look at the way we contort our feet into fabulous shoes. Neither one of us had to compromise on this couch. It’s the perfect combination of style and comfort. I ordered it in the softest ultra suede, and it’s like lying on melted butter.
“I’m tired,” Phillip says, sliding down onto the new couch. “Moving is a lot of work.”
So, what is the very first thing Phillip decides to do on our couch?
Does he go over, lie down, look at me all sexy, and say, Baby, come see your Mac Daddy, so we can properly break this in?
No.
Does he run his hand across the gorgeous fabric and say, Wow, this is amazing?
No.
Does he comment on how cool it looks and what a statement it makes in the room?
No.
He flops on it with his shoes on, turns on the TV, and proceeds to fart on the new couch.
Yes, you heard me right.
He farted on my new suede sofa!
Seriously, who does that?
Who spends good money on something and then farts on it?
Who does that?
“PHILLIP! Why did you just do that?”
“It must have slipped out,” he tells me with a little giggle.
“Phillip Mackenzie, that is our brand-new couch!”
He dismisses my horror. “Chill, it’s not going to hurt it.”
“It’s a brand-new couch!” I say again.
“And it was one stupid fart.”
“Well, it’s the couch’s first day here. If it has feelings, it must be terribly offended.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
I change course because I can see I need to speak in terms he can understand. “Phillip, are you telling me, if a skunk sprayed your car, it wouldn’t hurt it?”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt it, no; it would just smell horrible.”
“Exactly my point! The fabrics in your car are permeable. They hold in scents. Just like our new couch. One of the reasons you liked it is it reminded you of a sports car, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“So, do you want people to come sit on our gorgeous, new couch in our brand-new house and have it smell like skunks live here?”
“Jadyn, it didn’t even smell; it was just air.”
“No farting on the furniture, Phillip.”
He stares at me.
So, I say, “I’m serious. I’m adding it to our vows.”
He rolls his eyes at me but says, “Fine. I won’t fart on the couch.”
“Good.”
As I turn around to start putting wineglasses in the bar, I hear him mumble, “In front of you.”
Okay, so I get farts.
I understand that our bodies were designed to do this as a way to let air escape when it needs to.
And I lived with two boys. I get that boys fart. I get that boys think farts are always hilariously funny.
But I thought maybe this was something they just did in a group. Like, when you fart alone, it’s not as funny. I seriously cannot think of a time that Phillip has ever farted in front of me when we’ve been alone.
And he chooses this as the way to start off in our new home?
Is this what happens after you get married? The magic is gone?
It’s stressful enough, trying to get everything unpacked.
And, to make matters worse, my pregnant best friend, Lori, decided—today of all days—that the baby in her belly can hear us, and she was encouraging—snarling/bitching at—us to watch our language all day.
I survived living with two boys without developing a farting habit, but when you hang out with people a lot, you tend to talk in a similar fashion. I think it’s kind of like picking up an accent when you move down South.
You can’t really help it.
So, I happen to have a pretty colorful repertoire of curse words in my vocabulary. The F-word being the tip of the iceberg really. I have to be very mindful of what I say at work, but around the boys, I let loose and talk like them. Lori has been my best friend since college. She knows that I cuss. And, even though she swears like a sailor, she’s officially joined the F-Bomb Patrol.
She told me I couldn’t say the F-word in front of the baby.
And I was about ready to buy her a fucking badge.
Oh shit. See? It just comes out.
And, to make it worse, I said shit.
Damn.
Oh my. See my point?
So, I realize that, if my swearing comes out naturally, maybe Phillip’s fart did in fact accidentally slip out. But I can’t let him get away with it.
I dive-bomb on top of him and say, “Mac Daddy is a bad boy.”
He gets a grin on his face, that naughty gleam in his eye, and says, “But, Princess, on the brand-new couch?”
I reconsider that. “Uh, maybe not.”
He rolls us off the couch, causing me to let out a scream and then laugh. Phillip smothers my laughter with his lips, and then, well, I let him be a little naughtier.
Thank goodness the F-Bomb Patrol is gone because I’m pretty sure we would have gotten arrested for this.
January 23rd
Tiny little F-bomb.
Lori and Danny, our best friends and neighbors, are over this morning to help us finish unpacking.
I’m pretty sure Lori must have completed some covert training last night because she seems to be off basic patrol and is now on the F-Bomb Special Forces.
I accidentally move the coffee table on my toe while trying to roll a rug out under it, and, well, it really hurts. So, maybe I let a tiny little F-bomb fly.
Quietly.
Lori glares at me. “Jade, really?”
“Fine. I hurt my freaking toe.”
She smiles at me.
But, later, when I hammer my finger—rather than a nail—into the wall, I might say the F-word again.
Because, ouch, it hurts.
Apparently, I am not skilled at home improvement.
Lori scowls at me and covers her stomach with her hand. “Seriously? Did we not just talk about this?”
“Lori, I just hammered my, uh, fricking finger into the wall, and it fricking hurts. Shouldn’t you be offering me some fricking sympathy?”
“Um,” she says, “I really don’t think fricking is appropriate either. Can you picture sending a child who says fricking to preschool?”
No, I can’t really picture that, so I come up with a better idea. “Okay then, how about, I hammered my effing finger into the wall?”
She scowls at me. “Do you really think that’s better? Effing? Are you kidding me? You can’t say that either.”
So, I do what any sane person with a hammered finger and a sore toe would do at this point. I become extremely frustrated and throw my hands in the air. “What the freak am I supposed to say then?”
She glares at me.
“What? I can’t change the way I talk overnight. I also find it very hard to believe that you’ve stopped Danny from swearing. He’s the freaking king of the F-bomb!”
“Well, I’m working on that,” she says with a slightly maniacal grin. “See the rubber band?”
I glance over and notice a skinny blue rubber band around Danny’s wrist. “Uh, yeah?”
“Every time he cusses, I snap him, and it hurts.”
“Isn’t that like husband abuse?”
She laughs at me.
“Where’s your rubber band?”
“I don’t need it. I can control myself.” She digs a rubber band out of her pocket and dangles it in front of me.
And I’m like, “No.”
And she’s like, “Yes.”
“This is bullshit, Lori. Sorry, but it is.” I’m gearing up for a big fight, but Danny stands behind her, begging me with his eyes to let her put the rubber band on.
And I’ll be damned, but I do it. I must be a really good friend.
Later, he’s like, “Jay, come help me figure out where you want this … blah, blah.”
I don’t even hear what he says.
He might have said blah, blah, but when we are both upstairs, he goes, “Thank you for not arguing with her. After the whole bleeding thing, seriously, Jay, no stress for her, okay? I think she gets some wicked little pleasure out of snapping me with the band. Like I’m in the pregnancy boat with her or something. She has had a time with it. Constantly sick and then the spotting that scared us to death. So, just try.”
“Fine,” I say, hanging my head in defeat.
He gets his Devil Danny grin. “Call her every dirty name in the book if you have to, just do it all in your head.”
“Is that how you’re surviving this?”
“Well, that, and I’m being trained.”
“Danny, I’m sorry. I love her, but this is bullshit.”
He leans over and snaps the rubber band on my wrist—hard.
“Oww! That hurts!”
He grins at me. “Yeah, I know.”
“Then, why did you do it?”
“’Cause you said bullshit.”
“Oh, really? So did you.” I snap him back.
Pretty soon, Danny and I have our rubber bands off and are shooting them at each other, having a rubber-band war. I manage to nail his arm just as he’s trying to duck behind the kitchen island.
But then the Fun Nazi comes upstairs. “What the hell are you two doing?”
Danny and I share a smirk.
“Um, Lori, do you need a rubber band, too?” I giggle.
“No,” she says. “What I need is for you two to grow up.”
Then, we all just laugh. This is sort of ridiculous.
After she goes back downstairs, Danny gets the sneaky look again and pulls a little flask from his hoodie pocket.
“Oh, you’re bad,” I say.
“How do you think I’m surviving this?”
We do a shot together.
Lori is downstairs, fluffing—whatever that means—my bookshelves.
Phillip ran to get us some pizza since we have zero food in the house.
So, instead of Danny helping me maneuver the mattress pad and sheets onto our big, new bed, we are back to our rubber-band war.
Every time he hits me, he makes me do a shot. I’ve gotten hit a couple of times, but he’s a good friend, and he has been drinking with me.
But no food and a few shots is not a good idea.
When Phillip gets home with the pizza, I quickly scarf some down.
It tasted great, but now, I’m feeling a bit nauseous.
Next thing I know, I’m throwing it all up, and I don’t feel well.
At first, I thought it was from the alcohol, but I’m feeling achy and feverish. I must have the flu.
January 24th
And you’re puking?
Next morning, I eat some cereal and toast, and it’s the same deal. I’m in the bathroom, throwing up. While I’m brushing my teeth, I see my birth control pills lying on the counter. I took one before breakfast.
Crap, I probably just threw it up.
Then, I look closer at the pills, and two things come to mind.
One, I should have gotten my period a few days ago.
And two, WTF?
Where the heck is my period?
But I try not to freak.
I know Lori would chew my ass if she heard me thinking this because, yes, I know there are a lot of people who want to get pregnant but can’t. I know they try everything, and here I am, complaining because I am not thrilled with this combination of lateness and puking.
And, of course, this is the exact moment that Phillip chooses to walk into the bathroom to check on me.
“Are you okay? I thought I heard you throwing up again.”
“Yeah, I’m not feeling so great.”
He studies the pill package in my hand and stands frozen for a good thirty seconds.
I’m telling you, I can see the wheels turning in his brain.
And I don’t think I will like the question that he’s going to ask next.
“Oh my God, are you late? And you’re puking?”
“Just a couple of days late, and that’s not unusual.”
Actually, it is unusual. But come on! I’m stressed. I’ve just gone through some major life changes. Planned a wedding. Designed a building. Packed. Got married. Traveled. It’s happy stress, but it’s still stress. So, it’s natural that my body would freak out like my mind did. I mean, they do work in tandem most of the time.
Phillip gets a big grin on his face and pulls me into his arms. “It would be so awesome if you were pregnant. Do you think you could be?”
“Phillip, no! It would not be. We’re not ready. We just got back from our honeymoon. What would your parents think?”
He laughs. “My parents got married in August, and Ashley was born in February. Do the math.”
So, I do.
I count it out on my fingers. “September, October, November, December, January, February—Phillip, that’s only six months!”
He laughs.
“Your mom was pregnant when they got married?”
“Ya think?”
“Did she trap your dad into marrying her?”
“I don’t think so. They dated for over two years before they got married.”
I get hit with another wave of nausea.
And I can’t decide what’s making me feel sicker—the thought of being pregnant, the flu, or an actual pregnancy.
It’s got to be the flu.
Please, please, let it be the flu.
And, um, excuse me, while I go puke again.
Phillip is a sweetie, of course, and tells me I should lie back down and try to sleep.
But HA! You really think I’m going to be able to sleep? Now? At a time like this?
My body might be shaking and tired, but my mind is on freaking overdrive.
So, let’s be rational and think this through.
I’m on the pill.
I take it every day.
I never miss a day.
I take it at the same exact time every single day just to be extra cautious.
But then I remember that I was on antibiotics for a sinus infection, and I very specifically told that boy we should use a condom.
What did he do?
He laughed at me and proceeded anyway.
And I stupidly didn’t stop him.
I have that thing my parents used to say young people have. That stupid thing in the back of their mind that says, It could never happen to me. It’s just this one time.
But, uh, well, it wasn’t exactly just once, was it?
All month, we were not careful like we should’ve been.
Why did I listen to him?
Where was my willpower?
I’m really, really not ready for a baby.
Sure, I want to have kids.
I really do, but they are still a someday in my mind.
Not the far-off someday that they used to be, but in the foreseeable future someday.
I can’t wait to have kids with Phillip, but I want it to be the right time. We need to be married for a little while. I have so much on my plate. Phillip’s temporary office space is complete, but construction on the new building will start soon. And we need to get settled in our new house and our new city.
Truth be told, if I couldn’t drink, I might not be able to get through it all.
And no.
No need to give me the whole alcoholic speech. It’s not like that.
But I admit, there have been days recently where the only thing that has gotten me through is the thought of being able to come home and soak in a hot bubble bath with a glass of wine and some chocolate.
I seriously cannot be pregnant right now.
Please, God, please, don’t let me be pregnant. And please don’t hold it against me, like, in a few years from now when I want it to happen.
Apparently, I exhaust my brain with all this thinking, so it shuts up and goes to sleep.
I wake up, feeling chilled and feverish.
Not good.
I shuffle into the kitchen and find Phillip unloading a grocery store’s worth of bags. Lori is neatly organizing his purchases in my pantry. She waves at me over the bags piled on the island.
“Jade, how are you feeling?” she asks with a singsong, happy-bird-in-the-park quality to her voice as she scurries around, getting me crackers and 7Up and placing them in front of me with a flourish.
I sit at the bar with my blankie still wrapped around me and bite into a cracker. I’m delighted to discover that it tastes wonderfully salty and good.
“So, how is it?” she asks, pointing to my snack.
“It tastes good, thanks.”
“Normal people don’t really like saltines; only pregnant women do.”
Oh, great. She now seems to think I just passed some litmus test for pregnant women.
“I lived on them during my first few months.” Now, she’s acting like we’re in some secret saltines club together.
And it hits me. Her ultra-cheerful voice. Her being so nice.
“Phillip! You told her?”
He grins and holds up his hands. “I’m sorry. She wanted to know what was wrong with you, and I’m just so excited about what it could be that I let it slip that you’re a few days late.”
“I am not pregnant!”
And I am willing both them and the fertility gods to believe me.
Or, wait, would it be the non-fertility gods?
Is there such a thing?
“Please stop this ridiculousness. You’re upsetting me.”
“See, Phillip? I told you. Mood swings,” Lori says, acting like she is some kind of pregnancy expert.
“This is not a mood swing,” I counter. “This is an I have the flu, feel like crap, and you keep going on with all this you’re pregnant bullshit mood.”
“Rubber band,” she tells me.
I take the rubber band off my wrist and fling it at her. “Fuck that.”
Yes, I know.
She’s my friend, and she’s being very helpful and organizing my pantry, but I don’t feel good!
I can’t handle this harassment.
She gives me a glare. I pathetically look at her. She huffs and goes back to organizing my pantry.
This is why we’re friends. We both know when to back down.
Phillip takes pity on me. He picks me up, carries me over to the couch, and snuggles up with me.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I just had to tell someone. I felt like I could burst.”
“Please tell me you haven’t told anyone else.”
“Um, I, uh …”
“Phillip!”
“So, my mom called this morning and asked how the move was going, and I told her you were sick yesterday and then again this morning. You know she has baby on the brain, and she asked if you could be pregnant. I told her no. That I thought it was just the flu. But she sorta acted like she didn’t believe me.”
“Phillip, I have a fever. I don’t think that’s a pregnancy sign.”
Lori, who apparently has been listening, butts in, “I had a slight fever and thought I was coming down with the flu when I found out.”
I shake my head at her. I’m pretty sure I could tell her that my toenails hurt and the trees outside swayed in the breeze, and she would tell me it’s a pregnancy symptom.
“Phillip, please pray that we’re not. We aren’t ready for this. We need to be a couple first. Have some fun together. Babies are hard on marriages.”
“I don’t think I can do that. I can’t lie. I would be pretty excited if you were. I can’t wait to have an adorable, spunky daughter with a cute, curly ponytail and little freckles across her nose, just like her mommy.” His finger grazes my freckles. “I’ll give her piggyback rides and teach her how to ride a bike, climb a tree, and punch any boy who tries to kiss her. I can’t wait to start a family with you.”
Okay, so I don’t want a baby right now, but the way he talks about his future daughter is really sweet. And it must be contagious because it makes me think that maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.
But I am still on Team Not Pregnant.
Please, not yet.
“Just in case you want to find out for sure, he bought you a home pregnancy test,” Lori butts in again.
“I’m not taking that. I’ll get my period. I just have the flu.”
As the day goes on, my nausea subsides, but it might be because all I’ve eaten is crackers and 7Up.
I get nothing moving-related done because Phillip makes me lie on the couch and relax while he organizes our home.
That means, I’ll never be able to find anything.
January 25th
I hate you right now.
I get up, feel a little better, and am hungry—well, starved—so I splurge on a muffin and a glass of chocolate milk.
Thirty minutes later, I’m puking it back up, and Phillip is looking like he found the end of a rainbow.
“Phillip, you aren’t supposed to smile about someone being sick. It’s annoying.”
“Princess, why don’t you just take the pregnancy test? Then, if it says no, you will know it’s just the flu, and if it says yes, well, you can freak, and I can celebrate.”
“I hate you right now.” I hide my head under the blanket.
Of course, he can’t leave me alone, so he snuggles up to me and starts talking through the blanket.
“Tell me why you wouldn’t be excited about this? It would be kind of like a surprise gift.”
“No, it would not. Having a child is a big responsibility. It’s time-consuming, and it takes lots of energy. I don’t have the time or the energy right now. Plus, I want to spend time with you. I want us to be a couple before we become a family. Why can’t you get that?”
“Princess, sometimes, things happen for a reason. If you’re pregnant, it’s because God thinks we’re ready for this.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” I whip the covers off my head and point at him. “Don’t you go blaming God for this. If there’s a reason this happened, it would be because I was stupid to believe you when you said, Don’t worry about the antibiotics. This would be God laughing at me for my stupidity.”
I throw the covers back over my head.
“Jadyn …”
Oh. He’s mad at me.
“Don’t use that tone of voice with me. I’m sick.”
He uncovers me. Kisses my face, my neck, and my forehead. Sweet kisses that make me love him even more.
“All I’m saying is that, if you are, I would be thrilled. I love you. I want to have a family with you, and I don’t care when it happens. If you want to wait—I mean, if you aren’t already—then we’ll wait. But you have to admit, it would be fun to be pregnant the same time as Lori. To have our kids close in age, like you and I were. Just think, we could take naked pictures of them together as babies to torture them with when they were older.”
I can’t help it. I laugh at that.
“See, whatever it is, you and I love each other. You will be an amazing mom, and I plan on being the best dad ever, but the reason I want a baby is just because I am so in love with you.”
He kisses me on the lips.
And I am thinking this boy must really love me because I just puked and did not brush my teeth, and he didn’t even cringe.
I still hope I’m not pregnant, but I guess, if I was, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
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