Pretty Little Mistake

I was so worried about motherhood, and now I wonder why.

If I didn’t love my job so much, I would choose to be a stay-at-home mom. Spending time with Bee is my favorite thing in the world. I know when the time comes and I have to go back to work, I’ll miss all this time with her. Who knows, maybe I can work something out with Jaci where I work from home several days a week.

“Are you Mommy’s pretty girl?” I croon, changing her into a clean onesie. She might’ve just had a massive blowout that required giving her a bath in order to get her fully clean, but she’s still the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Bee kicks her legs excitedly. Scooping her into my arms, I inhale her clean-baby smell. It’s hard to believe she smelled like a sewer only ten minutes ago.

“Is she clean yet?”

I look over my shoulder to Laurel standing in the open doorway of the nursery, sniffing the air.

“She’s squeaky clean and smelling nice.”

Laurel grins, opening and closing her hands in the air. “Then gimme that baby.” With a laugh, I hand her over to my best friend. Bee immediately grabs on to Laurel’s finger when she holds it out. “Who’s the prettiest girl in all the land?” Bee coos in response. “That’s right, you.”

Laurel is the best auntie for my little girl.

“Do you mind keeping an eye on her while I clean up the bathroom?”

She scoffs in disbelief. “Do I mind?” That’s all she says before turning and heading toward the living area. Her soft hum carries behind her.

Shaking my head at her antics, I head back across the hall to the bathroom. It’ll never cease to amaze me how one tiny human can manage to make such a mess. I disinfect the bathtub and hang up her towel on the hook by the door. After grabbing her baby shampoo, I go to put it away but accidentally open the wrong drawer.

Beckham’s drawer.

On the very top, in plain view, is a ring box.

A million emotions flood me, but the most crippling and unexpected is fear.

I’ve joked about marriage, and there’s no denying my younger self definitely imagined marrying him once or twice—or a hundred times—but seeing that box sends me spiraling.

I know I shouldn’t do it, but I just need to confirm. My fingers close around it, my panic building second by second. I flip the lid up, and a ring sits comfortably in the velvet. It’s a small pear-shaped diamond. I stare down at it, confused, because it’s clearly an engagement ring but not at all what I would expect Beckham to choose for me.

I snap the lid closed and shove it back in the drawer, which I close a little too forcefully.

“Is everything okay?” Laurel calls out.

“Just fine,” I holler back.

My hands are shaking. I clasp them together in an effort to still the jitteriness. Why am I acting like this over a ring? Shouldn’t I feel excited? I love this man. I don’t see myself with anyone else. We have a daughter. A beautiful life we’re creating together.

“Lennon?” Laurel’s voice is closer this time, and I look up to find her approaching me. “Whoa, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

I don’t say anything. I open the drawer and pull out the ring box. She manages to open it while still rocking Bee in her arms. Her mouth opens, and she looks at me with shocked eyes.

“I know,” I reply to her unspoken question.

“Beckham’s proposing?”

I run my fingers through my hair. “I guess so.” I wave madly at the jewelry box. “I mean, that seems like pretty damning evidence.”

She wrinkles her nose, closing the box. “The ring doesn’t seem like you at all.”

“That’s the least of my concerns,” I admit. Sure, the ring seems off in some way, but normally I wouldn’t care. I don’t get as hung up on those kinds of things as, say, my mother would.

Laurel blinks at me, expression stunned. “Are you . . . mad?”

I try to assess how I feel, and I wouldn’t say anger is present. “No.” I bite my lip, thinking it over. “I feel scared.”

“Scared?” she repeats. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve always talked about getting married one day, so . . .” She hesitates, clearly unsure if she should say whatever is on her mind. “What’s different now?”

“I don’t know,” I say again. “Come on,” I plead, trying to step around her out of the bathroom. “I can’t think about this right now.”

She follows me to the kitchen, where I get started on making dinner. We have the ingredients for quesadillas, so that’s what I decide to make. Bee falls asleep in Laurel’s arms, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to put the baby down anytime soon.

“I can’t believe you’re cooking to avoid talking about this.”

I look back at her over my shoulder. “I’m not avoiding anything.”

“So then, let’s talk about this. Wouldn’t you rather talk about this to me than flat out refuse his proposal?”

I set my hands on the counter, desperately searching myself to understand my feelings. “Laurel, what’s there to talk about when I don’t understand it myself?”

She frowns, finally setting Bee down in her bassinet. “You love him, right?”

“Of course I do,” I scoff, focusing on my task. “But it feels too soon.”

But is that really the reason?

I don’t think it is. At least, timing doesn’t feel like the source of my panic and confusion.

“I think you need to talk to him.”

I whip my head in her direction, stunned. “And say what? ‘I found the ring and had a panic attack’?”

“I mean”—she almost smiles, no doubt amused—“I’d try to frame it more eloquently than that. Men have fragile egos.”

She’s not wrong there.

“I’ll talk to him,” I concede, biting my lip. At this rate I’m going to make it sore.

“Good.” She seems relieved by my easy agreement. She points at one of the quesadillas I’m preparing. “Can I have one of those to go, please?”

I stifle a laugh. “Sure. Now, tell me more about this Crew guy.”

She’s been on a few dates with him now, and I’d much rather hear about her dating adventures than think about the difficult conversation I need to have with Beckham.

Laurel lights up, excited to talk about him, and I let her words distract me for as long as they can.