My Rockstar's Secret Baby

I was embarrassed, though not for the reasons I had expected.

It wasn’t because I was being counseled. I was always open to good advice, no matter what the source. The true reason for my chagrin was rooted in the fact that I really should have known better.

I was no stranger to adversity, the alleged risk to reputation, but being with someone that clashed with my image and lifestyle was new to me. At least on the surface level— surfaces meaning so much, while counting for so little. Social conventions were basically like Santa Claus, only really existing for those who believed in them.

Just what the frilly hell was I doing?

Letting the potential disapproval and even ridicule of others dictate what I did or who I lived?

If I was, it was certainly a new development.

I would have to take a long, deep look into the corners of my soul to figure out exactly when I started giving a shit about what other people thought of me.

The venue had help, so we didn’t have to set up our own stage. That was one of the advantages to being the only band. It was good practice for the tour, when we would be the headliners.

I felt bad for our potential openers on tour. Our fans still showed a tendency to be dismissive, at the very best, to any bands that weren’t us. At least on the local scene.

It was possible, and we could only hope, that European fans weren’t quite as intense as those in Seattle. The pre-orders for the album filled up within hours. Not just in town but all up and down in the coast. From San Diego to Vancouver.

It was a lot of attention, as well as a lot of pressure.

None of which was nearly so daunting as really having it out with Stephanie.

A European tour? No problem.

Opening my mouth and saying the words “I love you” to Stephanie?

That was fucking intimidating.

Chapter Twelve - Stephanie

Five Months Later

It was the change in schedule that was most difficult. My life had always been planned. Not always fully, since emergencies would come up, like as they tended to, but I always tried to have some idea of what I was doing at all times.

I had to be regimented, reserved, always on task and knowing where I was going no matter what.

Even in the limbo of post-graduation, everything I’d ever known, my dorm, my food card, the rigor of classes, all stripped away in one fell swoop, I knew what I was doing.

Or, at least had the strong feeling I did. Anticipating the dark day of personal Armageddon long before it had actually arrived, I’d prepared.

Off-campus housing was at a premium, but with no job to speak of, I’d contacted the gray-market accommodations and gig economies, sleeping on couches and in spare bedrooms in exchange for domestic work. The latter ranging from cleaning, to cooking, to what amounted to unpaid babysitting. A lot like what I’d been doing in the years leading up to going to college, so no great adjustment was really needed.

But now, even without a plan, at least not one set in stone, I knew how to do things myself, and for myself. And distinct from my post-collegiate experience, I actually had help. Not quite the help I would have expected, but beggars couldn’t really be choosers.

Asgard was actually quite accepting of my intuition and offered me some quite generous maternity leave, with a promise to hold my job for me when I was ready to come back. Which only told me how vital I was to them as an employee. Or even if it was a decision driven entirely by their bottom line, at least I knew they were doing the right thing for the wrong reason.

I also happened to know they already had a good staff daycare, making me think it was at least a little altruism. There shouldn’t be any trouble on that front.

I also had all the support, of every flavor, from Jonna and Seth. It was kind of weird to think our babies would be cousins, but that was just how genetics worked.

Between it all, I would be okay being a single mom. It wouldn’t be easy of course, but parenthood never really was. No matter the situation, there were some things that never really changed.

I still missed Ragnar. Not just in the emotional sense, of wishing he were there, which was certainly a factor, but thinking he was.

Not often, but occasionally, I would walk into the bedroom and expect to see him there.

Or I would wait to talk and even pick up the phone before remembering I didn’t know his number anymore.

I’d tried it a couple of times only to be told by a recorded voice that it was no longer in service. I never knew his email, so that was out, as was Skype. Despite my instinct toward independence and going it alone as much as I reasonably could, there was so much I wanted to say to him.