Sixteen Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of an avocado.
T
his past week, Bo and I have fallen into a familiar pattern. I’ve had morning shifts all week, so I get up early, brew a pot of coffee so Bo
has some when he wakes up, and head off to work. I go for a swim at the gym after work and arrive home just as Bo’s starting to prepare dinner. We eat together on the couch and tell each other about our days—not that I could explain to you in detail what Bo does for a living. He usually loses me once the word data is thrown around.
Still, I find that he’s so excited to tell me every part of his day that if I nod enthusiastically and smile along, it doesn’t matter if I truly understand. And I do like the way his face lights up when he talks about work. It inspires me to think of what I’d like to do after the baby. A camp might be the very big future dream, but maybe there’s a step between that might fulfil me more.
After dinner, I clean up, soundtracked by whichever record Bo selects from his mom’s collection. Yesterday we listened to “The Best of Etta James” and the night before was U2’s “Joshua Tree.” Joanna, like her son,
was a woman of eclectic taste. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Bo’s mom while listening and doing the dishes, actually.
I wonder whether she somehow knows about the baby, like I’m hoping Marcie does. I like to think that they’re both in heaven, the ether, the afterlife—whatever you want to call it—proudly watching us fumble our way into parenthood.
Then, once I’m done with my daydreaming and tidying-up, we pull a question from the deck. The questions are a great tool to take little peeks at the inside workings of Bo’s brilliant, albeit strange, mind. What I find most interesting, so far, is that Bo seems to be someone who’s entirely indifferent or extremely opinionated and rarely in between.
You bring forty-six houseplants into the guy’s home, and he barely bats an eye. But you defend orange juice with pulp in it, and he’s ready to go to war.
Yesterday’s question—what is your most controversial take?—turned a normally agreeable Bo argumentative in mere minutes. I was mostly joking when I suggested that juice with pulp was superior if not equal to juice without. I was not expecting the guy to fly off the handle, but, oh, was it entertaining to watch.
I genuinely loved watching him wildly push his hair out of his face and repeatedly fix his glasses as he paced the room. He was near hysterical, ranting about how disgusting pulp is and how, and I quote, any self- respecting human wouldn’t subject themselves to bits in their juice.
His controversial take was that movie theatre popcorn is overrated and doesn’t taste all that different from the microwavable kind when you consider costs.
We barely survived our first fight.
But as exciting as our new routine has been, it’s on hold tonight. Bo has friends coming over, and I’ve yet to decide if I’ll make an appearance or hide away in my room all evening.
He checked that having them here was fine with me at least a dozen times, and I assured him repeatedly that it was. Still, I’m nervous to meet them. If I should meet them. Maybe it would be best to just let them have their night and not get in the way. But equally, it could be rude to avoid them. How does one introduce oneself in this particular scenario?
Hi! I’m Win. I’m pregnant with your friend’s baby. He took pity on me, and now I’m also his roommate. Yes, we’ve seen each other naked. And no, I haven’t quite decided whether I want to again or if that could mess everything up. But also, it’s hard to know what to do because these fucking hormones are making me so horny that I have to recharge my vibrator every night, and he sometimes wears glasses that make me feel like I could chew rocks and spit out diamonds. Also, do you happen to know, is he still in love with his ex? Does he talk about her? I’m not getting a good read on that whole situation, and I’m not sure how to bring it up. Anyway, hope you guys have a fun night!
That could probably use some edits.
They’re coming over to play board games. Or a game, rather. Bo muttered the title under his breath while busying himself around the kitchen. His boyish smirk told me he was intentionally evasive each time I asked, so I gave up trying and decided to hide out in my room.
It was rather adorable watching him fret about preparing the house for his friends’ arrival. The bowls of snacks on the counter, the foldable table that he’s placed in the middle of the dining room, the black tablecloth overtop that he fixed several times.
The more I get to see Bo in his natural habitat, the more I realise that he cares a lot about other people’s comfort.
And it’s not only in big ways, like preparing his home for guests. It’s the way he speaks with his clients on the phone. He meets every concern they have with gentle assuredness, patience, and confidence. Never with an air of arrogance or superiority because he’s got a skill set not many people have. He truly wants the best for them.
Then, there’s all he does for me. Like knocking on my door every night before bed with a fresh glass of ice water and a new comic book to read. Or the giant body pillow I found in my room after work yesterday with a note that said for the world’s best baby mama.
When I asked him about it, he said his father-to-be book said that at around this stage of pregnancy, I’d start having trouble sleeping. The truth is, since being here, I’ve been sleeping like the dead every night. Still, it was a very sweet gesture.
Bo is clearly the type of guy who takes people under his wing. A natural caretaker type. It makes me glad to know that my kid will have a dad who goes above and beyond for the people he cares about.
“Win?” Bo says from the other side of my door with a soft knock. “Yep?” I reply, dropping my crochet hook onto the bed beside me.
Bo slowly opens the door, steps inside, and closes it behind him. He looks like he’s about to ask me something when his attention falls to the bed next to me. “Wait. Do you knit?”
“Crochet,” I answer.
“What?” He elongates the word to several syllables. “That’s so cool… I didn’t know that!”
“I’m fairly certain crocheting isn’t considered a cool hobby by most,” I reply dryly.
“What are you making?” he asks, ignoring me.
“Oh, well, I thought I’d make a baby blanket. I’m doing a line of stitching every week of the pregnancy. I caught up with the weeks when I didn’t know about the baby with this nice mauve colour,” I say, holding up what I have so far. “Then, after that, I’m going to add a colour that sort of represents the week I’ve had.”
Bo nods, studying the blanket as I drop it back to the bed. “What was this week’s colour?”
“I chose grey,” I answer. His face falls.
“A nice grey,” I assure him. “Grey like the stones we threw at the beach.
I thought I’d remember our first day living together that way.”
Bo inhales, his shoulder rising back to a normal posture. “That’s going to be a very big blanket.”
“Yeah,” I huff. “I should probably do one of those normal pregnancy books that other people do instead,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders.
“No, the blanket is more original. I could do the typical baby book thing.
If you’d like?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I smile up at him. “Did, uh, did you need something?” “Oh, right.” He laughs just once, rubbing his forehead, his other hand
propped on his hip. “Yeah, actually. The guys are all here, and we haven’t started yet, but I thought maybe… Maybe I could introduce you? It’s okay if you’re not up for it. I just know they’d all love to put a face to the name.”
He talks about you! Of course he does—you’re having his baby and living in his house.
“Sure, yeah,” I say, standing.
Bo leads us out into the hall. We’re halfway through the kitchen when he turns around, bends down, and whispers, “And… try to go easy on him.”
“Easy on—” I stop, looking at the makeshift table set up in the dining room, the men around it I’ve yet to meet, and, most shockingly, one familiar face. “Caleb?”
Caleb, looking guilty as all hell and shrunken down to about two feet tall, has the nerve to wave at me. “Hey, Win,” he says, his voice dejected.
“Uh, hey? What… what are you doing here?”
Caleb looks around the table, to Bo, then back to me before jumping out of his seat. “Excuse us, gentlemen.” He charges toward me, grabbing hold of my elbow and using it to pull me back down the hall.
“Listen, Win, I—”
“Caleb.” I choke out his name through a budding laugh. “What are—”
“I will tell you everything, but you need to promise me first that you will not tell my wife.”
I cross my fingers behind my back and nod twice. Puh–lease, as if I’d
ever promise such a thing.
“I’m so serious right now. We have been friends for fifteen years, Winnifred McNulty. I have never asked you for anything, but I am now. Please, god, please, do not tell my wife I play Dungeons and Dragons. She will never drop it. I will be ridiculed until my dying day.”
“Caleb!” I shove his shoulder with my small hand. “Where does Sarah think you are right now?”
“The gym.”
“Oh my god! The lying! The deceit!” I gasp. “Did you pretend you’d never been to Bo’s house before when I moved in?” I ask in a breathy
whisper-yell. “What else have you lied about?”
“I technically didn’t say I hadn’t been here before. This is the only lie, I swear. I just want this one thing. Let me have peace, Win.”
“Caleb,” I scoff. “Do you seriously expect me to lie to my best friend about her husband’s whereabouts?”
“Not lie. Just… omit the truth.” “Caleb!”
“Look, I know, okay? I don’t want to lie to her either, but…” Caleb wipes a hand across his brow, then places it on his hip. “Remember when I brought home that Star Wars Lego set last summer? The Death Star one? Which is for adults, by the way…” He sighs, his head hanging between us. “Sarah only referred to me as Darth Loser for a month. A month.”
I snicker. “Okay, but I do think she meant that affectionately. Plus—”
“Or when I suggested we all go to the renaissance fair when we were, what… eighteen? She still sends me advertisements for those with laughing emojis. She’s subscribed me to several newsletters. It’s been ten years.”
Okay, one of those newsletter subscriptions was definitely me, but… “Or the time—”
“Yes, yes, I get it. I see your point.”
“I love my wife more than anyone. You know that. I also know that mocking is her way of showing love. It’s one of my favourite things about her when I’m not on the receiving end of it. But I’d like to avoid it if I can. I’d like to maintain some level of cool.”
I nod, my lips quivering as I resist a laugh. This is just too much. “Win.” Caleb says my name like a plea.
A small laugh breaks through. “Win!”
“Okay, I’m sorry! I just, I don’t think she’d be mean about this. When you put on the knight’s armour in Bo’s closet, she seemed kind of into it, actually.”
Caleb mutters something under his breath. “Come again?”
He repeats himself, still not enunciating clearly. I roll my eyes. “Dude, what?”
“I’m not a knight, okay? I’m the… I’m the bard.” “Bard? Like a poet-musician guy?”
Caleb blinks, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead. “Yes, actually. I’m surprised you know that.”
“So what? You—you sing? What is this game?”
“Sort of. I have magical powers that I harness with… song.” I cover my mouth, but not in time.
“Win!”
“I’m sorry! It’s funny! You have to hear how fucking funny that sounds.” “See? This is why—”
“Yeah, okay! I understand. I won’t make fun of you. But I do have to go meet the other guys now, okay? It’s bad enough that you’re keeping them waiting. They—they,” my laughter interrupts me, “they might need your magical singing powers.”
Caleb, resigned and exhausted, throws his arms up in the air and stomps down the hall. I follow shortly behind, already pulling out my phone to text Sarah.
ME: Come to Bo’s now! Caleb is here. Lying NERDS.
It’s not my best text, but it’ll have to do, because I ran out of hallway between me and the group of guys in the dining room. Their conversation comes to an abrupt end when I walk in. Bo looks between Caleb and me, shaking his head and wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Hi, everyone,” I say, approaching the edge of the table cautiously, admiring the map laid out in the middle and the men around it.
Next to a sulking Caleb is an older gentleman who reminds me of a sturdy English bulldog in his stout posture, jowled face, and keenness in his expression. At the head of the table is Bo, who’s lining up game pieces with a concentrated expression, and to my left, across from Caleb and the older man, are three more guys.
The one closest to Bo has dark brown skin, a kind but apprehensive smile, short black hair, and a lean frame. The other two seem to be a couple
—based on the proximity of their chairs and the hand the man closest to me has placed on the other man’s thigh. They’re both broad and muscular. One of them has golden tanned skin and long brown hair, and the other has a pale complexion and a clean-shaven head.
“I’m Win,” I say, raising my left hand to wave. “I won’t get in your way, but I just wanted to say—”
“Well, aren’t you stunning?” the older man says in a thick Scottish accent. He stands, wearing a beaming grin, then makes his way around the
back of Caleb’s chair toward me. “Bo said you were, lass, but I dinna believe him.”
I giggle, putting out a hand to shake as he extends his own. “I’m Hamish, but you can call—”
“All right, that’s enough,” Bo says, standing straighter and crossing his arms, towering over the table. “C’mon, man…” He chuckles breathlessly. “I distinctly remember telling you to be cool.”
The stout man presses his lips together in a cheeky, mischievous grin. “Sorry,” he says in a not-Scottish but entirely Canadian accent. “I like to test out my characters on new people. Did I have you fooled?”
“Totally,” I laugh out, my face briefly turning toward Bo with a bemused grin.
“Walter,” he says, reaching out for my hand, dragging my attention back to him.
I shake his hand. “Lovely to meet you, Walter.”
“You too.” He winks at me, his face adorably jolly. “And you seem to know the man who returned to the table looking like you kneed him in the crown jewels, but have you met…” Walter gestures to the opposite side of the table with an open palm.
“Adamir,” the shyer one next to Bo says, extending his hand across the table and knocking down a few game pieces in his path. Bo immediately begins fixing them.
“Hi, Adamir,” I say in a reassuring tone. “Great to meet you.”
“Jeremiah, but you can call me Jer,” the buff one next to Adamir says, extending his hand. “And this is my husband, Kevin.”
“Good to meet you both,” I say, shaking both of their hands. A small apology in my eyes each time, knowing they most likely feel the sensation
of curled fingers tickling their palms as our hands part. At least handshakes are typically a one-time thing.
“I do have to say that you are glowing,” Kevin says, his hand curled under his chin. “Let me ask you—we have a bet going. When you met Bo, were you in a particularly dark room? Or are you just a very kind, charitable soul?”
Bo laughs from the end of the table, crossing his hands over his chest, a tilt of pride to his chin.
“It was a very well-lit room,” I say with a quick wink to Bo. “Too bad I didn’t get to know him first, though.”
They all get a kick out of that one.
“I like her,” Walter says, jabbing his elbow into Bo as he returns to his seat.
“Me too, oddly enough,” Bo says, his eyes tracing me from head to toe. The way he says it is so sincere and raw, you’d think that he’d choose to have me here rather than be forced by our circumstance. I feel the sentiment lock itself away in the hollow of my chest, like kindling being placed into a wood-burning stove.
Preparing to say my farewell, I take another glance around the room. I can’t help but notice how odd of a group this is and long to know what brought them all together. What pieces of Bo they know of, and whether they’d be willing to share them with me. “So, how did you all meet?” I ask no one in particular.
“I met Bo in a support group. Matching cancers, I’m afraid,” Walter tuts. “But both of us are still kicking—though some kick better than others these days. I’ve still got both legs.” Walter barely gets the joke out before he begins laughing—a wheezing, happy one that I really enjoy.
Bo bites his lip, shaking his head with a slowly unfurling smile.
“He’s been waiting to tell that joke,” Bo says, watching me with an attentive focus as he bends across the table and places dice in front of Caleb. He’s enjoying me meeting his people, I realise. He’s deciding whether I fit. Do I fit?
“Bo and I met at Waterloo,” Adamir says, putting up two fingers to signal his turn to speak like he’s currently in class. “Bo was the TA in my freshman year economics course.”
Professor Bo? I could be into it. Yep—I checked with downstairs management. I am.
“Bo and I work together,” Jeremiah says simply.
“Jer is my boss,” Bo adds, placing a token on the table. “He’s trying to be humble, but he’s the head guy in charge.”
“Right, well, sure. But here I’m just your coworker, friend, and,” he picks up an imaginary sword from his belt, “warrior,” he says dramatically, slashing his sword down.
“Damn, I want on his team!” I say, laughing.
“Aw, she sounds like me when we started,” Kevin chimes from next to me. “I’m here because Bo needed another member and my husband voluntold me to come. No complaints, though. I like to be dramatic when given the chance.”
“When did this start?” I ask, my eyebrow raised at Caleb.
“I believe the text was…” Jer interjects before Caleb gets the chance to answer. “Hey, Jer, I have cancer—shrug emoji. Going to need some time off. Maybe forever—question mark emoji. Before you ask, because everyone keeps asking, if you want to help, you can play DND with me. I’ve always wanted to play. Need at least five guys, and I already have three.
Maybe Kev could be in too? Anyway—fingers crossed emoji—I’ll hopefully be back to work soon.”
I, slack jawed and only slightly amused, gape at Bo.
He looks at me, smug, and shrugs. “I did what I had to.”
“You cancer-guilted your friends into playing Dungeons and Dragons?” “He definitely did,” Walter says. “And I had cancer.”
“I just wanted to play,” Adamir says quietly. “And you?” I ask Caleb.
“I only joined in September,” he mumbles. “I told you. I didn’t know anything else… Not before you told Sarah everything about Bo,” he says pointedly. I may have deserved that, but I still glare back at him.
“We had another friend from our support group who had been playing with us,” Bo explains, his expression holding as he scratches his cheek. “He passed in June.”
I look between Walter and Bo, who share a sad but gentle look of reassurance. “I’m sorry,” I offer around the table.
Walter pats Bo’s back with a gentle series of slaps. “We’re getting through it. And,” he says, turning his attention to Caleb, “we’re lucky to have Caleb to fill his shoes.”
I nod, looking around at the men once again, unsure of when to step away. Adamir is stacking his dice in front of him as Kevin and Jer make lovey-eyes at each other, whispering. Bo sets one final piece down and nods to himself, as if the table is complete. Caleb mouths did you tell her? and I sharply turn away from him.
“Well, it was good to meet you all. I’m going to—” The doorbell rings, cutting me off.
“Pizza must be early,” Bo says, then circles around the table and passes by me, toward the front room.
“It’s not the pizza, is it?” Kevin whispers to me, a giddy smile overtaking his face. He does love the drama. I like Kevin, I decide.
I shake my head—wearing a thinly veiled smile of my own.
“Caleb?” Sarah calls out from behind me, storming in. “Caleb Andrew Linwell, this is not a kickboxing class.”
“That’s my cue,” I say to Kevin, pointing over my shoulder toward my bedroom. “Lovely to meet you all! Kick dragon ass! Escape the dungeons and whatnot!” I shout, jogging to my bedroom before Caleb’s death glare strikes me down.
You know, with his musical magic and all.
