Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
As soon as I see my mom, she comes over and hugs me, and then sets her hand on my non-existent bump. Noah says he can see a difference, but I don’t and I’m not sure I believe him.
“I bet you can’t wait to show off your bump,” Mom says.
Do I want that? Part of me thinks I do, but then, I’m not so sure.
Elle scoffs as she walks into the room. “We match,” she says as she points to her also non-existent bump. She’s going to be the one showing her bump to everyone and not have a single care in the world about it.
Sometimes, I want to be more like her. Elle’s confident in everything she does and doesn’t show any fear and never holds back. That’s not me. I’m not meek, but if something isn’t going my way, I let it slide and just fade into the background. I don’t like confrontation, and I definitely don’t want any attention drawn to me. Noah and I have kept our growing family a secret. We want to control the narrative when it comes to what photos of me are out there. We have the ones we’d taken the morning we found out we were pregnant, but he’s yet to post anything.
Our lives have always been so public, whether it be our dad’s career or Noah and his team winning the Super Bowl, no matter what, we’ve always somewhat been in the public eye. While I accept that—I’ve grown up with it—the early days of pregnancy are so intimate and special, and I want to savor those moments with my family. I don’t want to be the unwilling participant in Bump Watch in the showbiz columns just yet. Not when there’s a doubt at the back of my mind that the really tough days of this pregnancy are yet to come.
“I wonder how long I can continue to look like this?” Elle looks in my hallway mirror. “If I start showing before the ceremony everyone is going to think I’m having a shotgun wedding,” Elle says.
“You should wear a shirt that says, ‘I’m already married to my baby daddy’ to get attention,” I tell her.
“No, she shouldn’t,” Mom says, completely unenthused with my attempt at humor. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
Our mother keeps a tight schedule. It’s something she learned when she moonlighted as 4225 West’s manager or whatever the heck she was. She didn’t last long—something about fraternizing with one of the band members—that’s what we tease her about. The band doesn’t actually have a policy like that in place.
Elle and Ben want to get married at a vineyard. It doesn’t matter which one even though she has a list of requirements. The view being one of them. I can’t fault her there. No one wants to get married with a road behind you or some cow pasture next to the venue. We’ve already toured a few, none of which sparked any real interest from my sister. The guys appreciated it though. Each time we toured one of the vineyards, Ben and Noah helped themselves to the free wine offered. In the words of my loving husband, “Ben and I have to double up since you and Elle can’t drink.” I sure do love him.
“Shotgun,” Elle yells as soon as we get outside. As the oldest, I should be able to sit in the front. I look at our mom, who says nothing.
“Fine, but I get the front on the way back,” I say to Elle.
“Only if you’re fast enough to call it.”
“Then I’m not going or I’m driving myself. I’m not sitting in the back both ways.”
“Girls!”
We stare at our mother, both of us smirking. She sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of her nose. I’m not sure what her issue is, it’s not like we’re fighting or asking her to come in between us.
Well, maybe I am.
“Elle you’re in front for the first two stops, and then Peyton until we get home. If you don’t like it, I’ll stay home.”
Mom looks at Elle when she says the last part.
“I’m good with that,” I say as I make my way to Mom’s car. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
Elle likes to sit up front because she likes to control the radio or whatever streaming app she’s using. We’re halfway down the road when she plays a new song. I find myself bopping along to the beat and even pick up on the catchy chorus.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“Plum,” she says. “You remember the all-girl band?”
“I do. I have them on my playlist. I like them a lot.”
“This new single is going to drop next week,” Elle says.
Mom looks in her rearview mirror. “Ask her who is on back-up.”
I don’t ask or look at Elle but she answers anyway.