Pretty Little Mistake

I turn off the desktop computer, then slide back my chair to grab my purse. The workday is over, and while I should be tired, I feel surprisingly energized. That might be thanks to all the sex I’ve been having with Beckham the last few weeks. Is it a bad idea to sleep with him? Absolutely. Does it feel oh so good? Again, absolutely.

Besides, it’s just sex. There’s no chance I’ll let him break my heart a second time.

After slipping my purse onto my shoulder, I make my way through the open space toward Beckham’s private office. He sits behind his desk, shoulders hunched, his eyes squinted at the screen.

“See you later, Lennon,” Brendan says, passing by me. “Sulli, the day’s over!” he hollers before he rounds the corner.

Beckham lifts his head, finding me standing just outside the door. “I’m busy.” He’s gruff, dismissive.

Instantly, my hackles rise. I’m not some lost puppy who trails desperately after him. I don’t enjoy being treated as such.

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to go shopping for the baby. There’s a store a few blocks from here.”

He looks up at me, lips pursed like he’s sucked on something sour. “As I said, I’m busy. I don’t have time to go shopping for baby things.”

It shouldn’t offend me, his casual dismissiveness, but it does. If he’s like this with me, what will he be like with our child?

“All right.” I’m not going to argue with him or attempt to force him to go with me. I’m not so desperate for his attention that I feel the need to do that. I knew the minute that pregnancy test came back positive that I was doing this on my own. “Enjoy your evening.”

I don’t know how I manage to keep my tone diplomatic.

After taking the elevator down, I pause before I go outside to shrug my coat on. It’s a blustery November day, gray skies but no hint of rain, thankfully.

I’ve bought only a few things for the baby, which, as someone who loves to shop, has been a difficult feat, but there have been other things on my mind. This pregnancy was a surprise, and it has me thinking about a lot of things. Like what kind of parent I hope to be—it’s not like I had the greatest example. Or what the future might look like—will I stay in the city or eventually leave so my child has a house and a yard?

When I reach the store with all things baby, I step inside out of the cold air and take in all the soft color tones, blankets, furniture, and everything else one could possibly need for their little one.

“Hi!” An employee comes out of nowhere—I swear it’s like she pops up from behind a rocker, just waiting for some innocent expectant mom like myself to wander in. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

I stand there for a moment, flustered by her sudden magic-trick-like appearance. “Um . . . I don’t think so.”

“Anything specific you’re looking for?”

“Oh.” I scratch behind my ear nervously. “I was just going to browse.”

“Sure.” She smiles, nodding almost robotically. “If you need me, I’m Cindy.”

“Thanks, Cindy.”

Luckily, she disappears. Probably to hide behind more furniture to frighten someone else.

The store is three entire stories of all things children, which is both overwhelming and exciting.

I never knew babies needed so many things—clothes, blankets, pacifiers—and that’s only the tip of the iceberg, since apparently there are even baby-specific nail trimmers. It seems way too easy to mess up a child. I think of my own parents, their lack of maternal or paternal skills. I don’t want to be like them. No one is a perfect parent, but I want to be as good of a mom as I can be.

I reach the section with things like strollers and car seats. There are so many options I can’t help but wonder how you ever decide what the best choice is. I read the information on one of the car seats, baffled at what some of the things mean. Clearly, I’m going to have to spend the night googling stats on everything so I can make my decision on what to get.

I’m on the second level, looking through tiny clothes, when I feel a presence behind me. I nearly jump, expecting to find Cindy lurking, but it’s Beckham.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, taking him in like he’s some apparition. His hair is windswept, his cheeks a bright red from the biting cold.

“Looking at baby stuff,” he replies in a dry tone. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

My hands fly to my hips, a defensive gesture. “It looks like you’re creeping behind me.”

“Really? Because I was more interested in these . . . whatever these are, than you.” He snatches a zippered beige footie-pajama set from the rack, holding it up triumphantly in front of him.

“Whatever you say.” I’m annoyed with him. I shouldn’t be, I know that, but sometimes being rational is hard to do. I start down another aisle, fully intent on ignoring him, but I can’t. I whip back around and glower at his looming presence. “Why are you being such a jerk?” I blurt out, steeling my spine. “Do you get off on being so hot and cold with me? Need I remind you, I’ve never done anything to you.” I poke him in the chest, fully aware I’m literally poking the bear. “You’re the one who broke my heart. You took my virginity and fucking ran.” My voice is getting louder. I can’t bring myself to care that we’re gaining attention. “You don’t get to waltz back into my life, knock me up, and berate me like I hurt you, when we both know that isn’t true. I didn’t ask for this”—I point at my growing stomach—“but I’m taking it in stride. I refuse to let you make me feel bad for inviting you to look at baby stuff. Forgive me,” I say, my voice dripping with venom, “for thinking the father of my child might be interested in that.”

He stands there, looking properly chagrined. “I’m sorry.” Begrudgingly, I have to admit to myself that his apology sounds entirely sincere. He ducks his head, but not before I see a range of emotions swirling over his face. The one that stands out the most is vulnerability. “My problem is entirely mine.” His jaw tics with the admission. “It’s wrong of me to keep taking it out on you.”

I blink in astonishment at him. This might be the most honesty he’s ever given me. “And what is it . . . your problem, I mean?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not good enough for you.” It’s barely a whisper. In fact, it’s so quiet I’m not sure he meant for me to hear him.

Even still, I say, “That’s not true, but I know I can’t convince you of that. You’re the one who has to realize it.”

I turn my back on him and return to browsing. Beckham trails me through the store, not saying a word. I pick up a few gender-neutral outfits, looking them over before deciding to get them. There’s still a chance that I’ll change my mind and find out the gender regardless of what he says, but for now I’m surprisingly content to wait.

He continues to hold on to the one outfit he chose. It has tiny bees on it. I know I shouldn’t read into that, since it seemed like an accidental choice, but I can’t help it.

Back downstairs, I look at the furniture, pointing out things I like and don’t. I mean, if he’s going to tag along, he might as well listen to me ramble.

Cindy ends up cornering me to try out some strollers. The one I fall in love with has a million different pieces you can switch out and is able to be used from baby to toddler to even a small child.

Beckham watches me walk past him, pushing the stroller with the bassinet attachment.

There’s something in his eyes, a hunger almost, but not of the sexual variety.

I park the stroller back, and Cindy beams. “Would you like to take it home today?”

I shake my head. “No, not today. I’m so sorry. I want to do some more research before I decide.” Especially considering the cost of these things. I swear the stroller alone practically requires a down payment. I might’ve grown up with money not being an issue, and even I can admit that I was spoiled, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned to be careful with my own money.

“No problem. When you’re ready, just ask for me.” She passes along a business card. Who knew people made commissions on baby products? I’m learning so much just from getting pregnant.

Beckham holds the door open to the street, letting me exit first. I’m not used to him actually being a gentleman. I almost expect him to smack my ass to remind me that he’s not.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched as he falls into step at my side. “You wanted that stroller.”

“I liked it, yes.”

“You wanted it,” he corrects.

I shoot him a glare. “It was nice, and I liked it. But it’s pricey. I want to research it and see reviews from other moms first.”

“Reviews? Really? It’s a stroller.”

“You’re giving me a migraine,” I gripe, trying to speed-walk away from him.

What a silly notion, considering his long legs. “Am I wrong?”

“I’m new at this,” I snap, dodging out of the way of a man who refuses to move aside. Beckham shoots a glare at him over his shoulder. “Just because I like how something looks, or that it’s expensive, doesn’t make it a good choice for the baby. I don’t want to be a bad mom before the baby is even here.” It feels like a big confession I just handed him, but I don’t know if he sees it that way.

He scoffs. “You could never be a bad mom.”

“How do you know?” I counter. “Huh?” Tears prick my eyes. I’m blaming it on the wind burning my eyes. It’s definitely not because I’m upset. “My mom treated my brother and me like accessories. I don’t know what I’m doing with any of this.”

“And you think I do?” he counters, gesturing wildly.

I’m thankful we’re in the city and that to these seasoned pros, our behavior is normal. When walking these streets, you get used to seeing people in any kind of state, from annoyed to carefree, to sobbing to raging, or even just flat out looking like they’ve crash-landed from another planet.

“Lots of people have kids all the time with little to no experience, and they do just fine,” he continues, slapping the top of his hand against the palm of his other to drive home his point. “Not that we won’t struggle or make mistakes, but this kid is always going to know it has two parents who love them. Got it?” Oh Jesus, I’m a puddle of tears, and why? Because of a stroller? Anxiety? “We’re doing this thing together,” he reminds me. “You’re not alone. And if you ask me, a lot of this is coming from you being scared to tell your parents. Well, I’ve got news for you—fuck them. If they’re mad about this, that’s on them. I know my parents are going to be ecstatic to be grandparents. Regardless of them being your family, nothing says you have to keep shitty people in your life. Remember that.”

“You have a weird way of giving pep talks.”

“At least I try.” I guess I do have to give him credit there. In the middle of the busy street, he grabs me and tucks me against his solid chest, where he rests his chin on top of my head. “We’re going to get through next week just fine.”

Next week, when we go home for the holidays.

When my time is up, and I’ll have to tell my parents about the baby.

I don’t tell him, but it’s a promise I’m not sure he can keep.