10. Renee

My mother seems to have turned a new leaf. She’s all haughty and righteous as she demands “the right” to accompany her “only daughter” to the obstetrician’s office.

In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never been this invested in my life. But her attitude would make you think she’s gunning for Mom of the Year.

She glances over at me. “I think you need to speak to the doctor about a healthy diet plan that will make sure the baby gets enough nutrients but so you don’t blow up like a balloon. You have a lot of events coming and you don’t want to embarrass Deacon by coming in like a cow.”

You gotta hand it to her—she has a way with words. “For fuck’s sake, Mother.”

She wrinkles her nose with distaste. “You speak as if you were raised in the gutter.”

She’s not the only one wrinkling her nose. Her entire car is scented by her perfume and I can barely breathe without inhaling lungfuls of Chanel No. 5. But honestly, I’m glad she’s here today. Dealing with her is the perfect distraction from the other horrors in my life.

Lately, especially since I saw him at the fundraiser, Weston sneaks into my thoughts at the most random moments. I remember the feel of his lips on mine, the way he smiled at me, the way he let his hands roam along the lines of my body, my hips, my shoulders. Not sexual, just sensual.

Whether I like it or not, this baby is Weston’s. I’m never going to be able to forget that.

But for right now, I’m going to try like hell.

I look over at my mother. She’s chosen the best doctor in all of Los Angeles. Not because she’s worried about the delivery or the labor, but because he’s discreet. There will be no leaked details and nothing shameful or embarrassing will end up in any kind of gossip rag. He could be a hack for all she cares—so long as he and his staff keep their mouths shut.

We arrive and check in, then sit in the tastefully furnished lobby while we wait. Mom picks up a pamphlet on natural childbirth and hands me one on working out while pregnant. I pretend to flip through it while I giggle inwardly, picturing myself as a cow the size of a blimp floating around in Deacon’s pool.

I sigh. This is what I signed on for when I asked to come home, when I begged them to save me, when I had nowhere to go but to run to them.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

And just like that, I get mad at Weston all over again.

“Behave yourself,” Mom snaps.

That’s when I look down to realize that I’m fisting the pamphlet she gave me into a crumpled little ball. I wince and smooth it out, but the paper is ruined, and the picture of the pregnant woman smiling on the front is creased beyond repair.

“Later on, I’m going to call Bert Hinsher. He owns the hospital and he can arrange a private birthing suite.”

As sweet as that sentiment might sound on the surface, I’m not stupid enough to think it’s for my benefit. It’s the family name she’s trying to protect.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

She nods, satisfied. “I just don’t want the papers getting snaps of you with a hideous look of pain on your face.”

I just nod again. A nurse stepping out of the hallway and calling my name saves me from having to muster up additional gratitude I don’t feel in any way, shape, or form.

“Right this way, ladies,” she directs us with a bright, professional smile.

Mother follows me and clucks her tongue at me when I step onto the scale and the digital number appears. I keep ignoring her as I step into the exam room and go behind a screen to undress and change into the gown.

The doctor comes in as I’m getting settled on the exam table. “How are we doing today, Miss…” He glances at the iPad in his hand. “DuBois?” He holds out his free hand to shake mine. “I’m Dr. Wellingham.”

My mother stands and inserts herself. “Susanna DuBois. I’m Renee’s mother.”

“Pleasure to meet you both. Let’s get started, shall we?” The doctor asks the usual questions—last period, number of sexual partners, do I know who the father is—and then he gets to the hands-on part of our appointment.

As soon as he pulls out the latex gloves, my mother stands, announces, “I’m going to make that call now,” then troops out of the room.

That’s gratitude I’m feeling now, finally. This is a big moment for me—for any new mom, really, but especially for one in desperate need of a ray of sunshine as I am. I’m about to see my baby on the ultrasound screen, possibly even hear a heartbeat. Having my mother in the room would ruin that for me.

Almost as much as being here alone is ruining it in its own way.

I push the thought away and blink at the doctor as he prepares the ultrasound wand. He touches it to my belly and we both watch the screen, my breath caught in my throat.

“It’s gonna look a little messy at first,” he warns, “until I can… Ah. There we go.” He points one gloved finger at the screen.

And there it is.

I can see my baby.

I can hear the heartbeat pumping through the scanner speakers.

Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. Some are happy; some are sad. There’s a space next to me where Weston should be, but that space is so, so empty.

My mother can’t fill it.

Deacon can’t fill it.

Neither can Sutton or Danni or Michelle or anyone I’ve ever known. Weston came barging into my life and made room for himself, so now that he’s gone, there’s just a huge, sucking vacuum that consumes any of that ray of light I’ve managed to find in this shitty, never-ending darkness.

“Yeah,” I whisper aloud. “There we go.”

By the time the appointment is over, I feel lower than ever. It’s a struggle just to get dressed again, to walk back out to the car. I don’t hear anything the doctor or nurse or my mother has to say. The only time I come alive again for even a moment is when the woman at the front desk presses a take-home copy of the ultrasound picture into my hand.

When I get back to the Carrington residence, I tape the picture to the refrigerator in my guest house.

Then I stagger to the sofa, drop my bag onto the table and fall onto the cushions. I sigh and click the television on, then stare at the screen. It’s nothing more than a game show but it’s mindless and exactly what I need at the moment.

I lose myself in it, the bright lights and annoying sounds—right up the second my phone vibrates in my bag.

It’s probably my mother reminding me not to forget the exercises the doctor recommended. I consider ignoring it, but if she doesn’t get an answer, she’ll persist. I open my bag and pull it out, then freeze.

Because it isn’t my mother.

It’s Weston. A text from him, specifically.

I made a mistake. I’m never going to give you up.

I shouldn’t feel hopeful. Shouldn’t care one bit about his empty promises. But what my head knows and my heart wants are two very, very different things.