The sizzle and smell of pancakes wakes me up. Mingling with that heady coffee aroma, and mixed with something else, something like…. Pickles. My mouth starts watering, and I climb shakily out of bed. I hobble sneakily to the kitchen doorway of the small flat, and lean against one wall, arms crossed against my chest.

The place is one floor, the walls are all a creamy rust color, the carpet is honey, and the windows are tall and half-cracked. The heat is on, and the rooms are too warm, but the cool November breeze that sifts in from the lake is gorgeous. Also gorgeous is the man holding the skillet and flipping a perfect golden pancake into the air.

He’s not excessively tall, but lengthy enough to be about average. He reaches up to brush a swatch of choppy brown hair from his face, and in doing so the sleek muscles of his arm stretch and contract. He’s still a little tan despite the season, wearing nothing but a pair of plaid pajama shorts that do wonderful things with his, er, rear. Not that it needs any help. More or less, this guy is a catch. And somehow, I’ve done something right in life, because he’s standing in my kitchen, cooking up something that only a mother-to-be could love: pancakes with pickles and maple syrup.

It’s quite possible I may be drooling. It’s too early to care. I smirk wholeheartedly, and he turns toward me. Black wire-rimmed glasses catch the early light, the sheen passing past a pair of bronze-brown eyes. He flashes a crooked smile I’ve seen a thousand times, and says, “’Morning, love.” Then he flips the pancake onto a plate where it can join its four brethren.

I wobble over to him, keeping my mouth shut so as not to pollute the moment. He just catches me halfway and presses his lips to mine, morning breath and all, trying to slip his arms around my inflated waist, and, I’ll give him credit, almost making it.

“God, you’re huge.” He says with a smirk, pulling back an inch or two.

“Well, gee, excuse me for being, you know, PREGNANT WITH YOUR CHILD.” I retort with emphasis, just making sure he knows whose fault it is.

“Is not.” he replies to my thought, “You’re the one who kept talking about your ‘eggs getting old’. Your mother didn’t help much either.”

“What are you talking about?” I spout, throwing him a glance.

”I believe her exact words were, ‘Thomas, if you don’t bring me a grandchild by Christmas, I am going to have to disown you both.”

Okay, okay, I know what you’re thinking- what kind of kidsitter falls in love with the kid she was sitting. But really, it’s not like that!

…Okay, it’s exactly like that. Five and a half years really isn’t that much though, if you think about it. And alright, Tommy did end up living with us after what happened to Sheryl… but he was never officially adopted, so it isn’t like we’re related or something. And it’s not like this whole thing was anything either of us had planned on.

I mean, it was less than two years after what happened that I left for college. I lived on campus for six years. And it isn’t my fault that Tommy graduated high school when he was sixteen, right? Or that we ended up in the same housing unit. Or that that awkward duckling grew up to be a big tan swan.

Right? Right. Not like I have to make excuses. I’m a thirty-year-old woman. I don’t have to answer to anybody.

“Becca?” he’s looking at me with his head tilted, the quiz-face that means I-know-you’re-over thinking-something.

I’d like to open my mouth to reply, at that moment, but coincidentally, I’m being drowned by an overwhelming wave of nausea. So instead of saying something profound, I just hold up one finger and make for the bathroom. Keeled over the toilet, knees aching and hands sweating, I’m living the same ritual I do every morning. Being one month from delivery is no joke. All that back pain, swollen ankles, morning sickness- that’s all true, and damn near horrible at first. After awhile, you get used to it though. It’s harder because you’re going it alone.

The first retch comes, and I brace myself for another. I groan, not really out of pain or anything- it’s just getting old by now. But then Tommy’s there, holding my hair back, muttering, “Hey, this is gonna be okay.”

So maybe not totally alone.

I smile and reach one hand back to twine with his, and then heave out another mouthful of slime.