Huxley: No fucking idea.

I chuckle and text him back.

Lottie: How do you know it’s good?

Huxley: I don’t. But I know since we have no clue what the fuck we’re doing, it’ll be good enough.

Lottie: Isn’t it a little early for a pregnancy class for me?

Huxley: Hell if I know. If anyone asks, just say we love education.

Lottie: How eloquent.

Huxley: Ask me a question, we’ve been too quiet on this ride.

Lottie: Uh . . . what did you have for breakfast?

Huxley: Jesus Christ. Out loud. Ask me a question out loud.

“Oh,” I say quietly and then chuckle. Facing Huxley, I ask, “How’s your rash doing?”

His eyes narrow and I have to hold back the straight-up outburst of laughter that threatens to slip past my lips.

“Rash is fine,” he answers through clenched teeth. “But now that you bring it up, is your yeast infection improving?”

Ohhh, he plays dirty.

“Faring well,” I answer. “Doctor said no sex for a week, though, but don’t worry, I won’t back out on my promise. I know how much you want to try out my vibrators.” A smirk crosses my lips. I find this far too entertaining. I pat him on the cheek. “I can grind your gears tonight, when we get home. You can light that lovemaking candle you enjoy so much.”

His nostrils flare, and I cover my mouth, protecting myself from an outburst.

“Sounds good to me. I know watching me come turns you on, but if you could refrain from sounding like a barnyard animal while I come, that would be great. The mooing is a weird habit you’ve picked up.”

“That was one time,” I say in defense. “And it’s because I watched that documentary on animals reproducing.”

“One time is enough,” he says, turning back to his phone. His fingers fly across the screen.

My phone buzzes.

Huxley: You realize I’m going to have to find a new driver now.

A hiccup of laughter pops out of me. This is the Huxley from Chipotle, from the sidewalk. This is the side of him I appreciate. The side of him I wish he would show way more often, because if he did, I’m certain we’d be friends.

Lottie: I’m pretty sure this conversation made my year. Also, I can run by the pharmacy tomorrow if you need more cream for your rash.

Huxley: If that’s how you want to play this, it’s on, Lottie. And remember, I’m relentless.

Lottie: I think you’ve met your match, Huxley Cane.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirteen

HUXLEY

“Huxley, Lottie, over here,” Ellie says, waving her hand while she balances on an exercise ball.

I squeeze Lottie’s hand and guide her over to the jubilant pregnant woman.

I was worried I’d be encroaching on Lottie’s day with this request, I wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she didn’t seem to mind. She actually seems to be in good spirits today, which is throwing me off. Still has an edge to her, but it seems as though that edge has been smoothed out—slightly.

Lottie turns distinctively into my shoulder and whispers, “She looks as if she just busted out of the insane asylum.”

I chuckle and assess Ellie. Bouncing far too high on the ball, wearing leggings and a sports bra, her hair swishing back and forth, while a giant, unfaltering grin is plastered to her face. Lottie isn’t wrong.

Just then, Dave comes up behind Ellie and settles her down with his hands to her shoulders. He spots me and waves. “So glad you guys could make it.”

We walk up to them and Ellie immediately takes Lottie into a hug, while Dave gives me a firm handshake.

“You will absolutely love Heaven,” Ellie says. “She’s the best in the business.”

“Heaven?” Lottie asks, confused.

I place my hand on Lottie’s lower back and say, “The prenatal teacher. Remember I was telling you about her in the car?”

I told her nothing. Because her text, I think you’ve met your match, inspired me. Rather than discussing today’s outing, I went into great detail about how if she’d actually attend the pedicures I’d set up for her, her crusty feet wouldn’t scrape across our beautiful hardwood floors. And the murderous look on Lottie’s face when I said we had to get a contractor to come in and check out a spot on the floor where she’d left a gash was priceless.

“Oh, yes, sorry.” She taps her head. “Pregnancy brain.” Turning to Ellie, she asks, “You’re sure it’s not too early for us to do something like this?”

Ellie waves off Lottie’s concerns. “I think the more you can learn and practice the better.”

“That’s what I told her in the car,” I say.

Lottie adds, “We do love education, don’t we, Hux?”

I look down at her. “We do. We really love education.”

“Then you’re in the right spot,” Dave says. “Pull up a yoga mat, a ball, and one of those pillows. We should be getting started soon.”

“Great.”

I head toward the wall when Lottie takes my hand in hers, reminding me to be affectionate in the moment. Together we work our way to the wall where all of the “supplies” are. Out of earshot, she whispers, “What the hell are we supposed to do with an exercise ball, yoga mat, and pillows? I’m not very bendy, Huxley. I’m very stiff, and when I squat, my knees crack. I might be twenty-eight, but my body acts like a seventy-five-year-old arthritic woman.”

“I don’t think there’s a lot of bending in this class.”

“Have you been to one of these before?”

I give her a look. “Do you think I’ve been to one of these before?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know what you do in your spare time.”

“Not this,” I almost hiss. I really need to start thinking before I react to situations, aka, don’t say yes to everything Dave asks. “I don’t think we’re going to be required to be professionals. This is our first time.”

“What if we have to imitate sexual positions?” She glances behind her back.

“Why the fuck would we have to do that?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “We’re in LA and we’re in a birthing class. They like granola things here. Hip and trendy things. What if this class isn’t about breathing but more about the journey, the process? You know, we did this whole story on Angeloop where they talked about unique birthing classes and how you had to share your entire journey with the class. What if this is one of those?”

“We barely have a journey. You’re what, six weeks pregnant?”

Her eyes widen. “I don’t know, am I? I don’t remember what I said.”

“Jesus Christ.” I drag my hand over my face.

“Everything okay over there?” Dave asks. “Need help?”

“We’re good,” I say with a smile, while waving to him. I turn back to Lottie and say, “I think you said you were eight weeks pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” I answer. “But it feels familiar.”

“You’re the brains of this operation, you’re supposed to catalogue these things,” she hisses at me. “What kind of mom am I going to look like if I can’t even remember how many weeks this little cashew in my belly is?” She pats her flat stomach.

“Then you should’ve remembered what you said.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me for being put on the spot and not remembering. I’ll have you know, I often black out in stressful situations, so . . . good luck with that.”

“Great,” I mutter and then reach for a pillow. The easy camaraderie from the car is quickly evaporating between us. “Maybe avoid the question if asked.”

“You know the teacher is going to ask, everyone asks. Even when they’re not supposed to ask, they ask. It’s a common pregnancy small-talk specialty. ‘Oh, hey, Judy, you’re pregnant, look at that. How many weeks are you?’ ‘Thanks, Carolyn, yeah, this little banana in my belly is thirty-two weeks.’”