Chapter 2: The Car Dealer's Invitation
The invitation came on a square of thick, cream-colored cardstock, slipped into her mailbox between a seed catalog and a utilities bill. “Backyard BBQ – Tanner Rodman – This Saturday, 6 PM.” Scrawled in blue ink at the bottom was, “Seriously, no lawnmowers allowed. Just come eat.” Tabitha held it between her fingers, feeling the texture of the paper, and a slow smile spread across her face. An audience. A curated, suburban audience.
Saturday arrived, heavy and warm. Tabitha dressed with deliberate care. She chose a simple empire-waist dress in a shade of moss green that made her eyes look like deep water. The fabric flowed from just beneath her breasts, skimming the pronounced curve of her belly without clinging. She left her hair down, a cascade of blonde that felt like another garment. Before the mirror, she turned sideways, placing her hands on the taut dome of her stomach. The baby was quiet now, a settled, heavy presence. She looked ripe. She looked magnificent.
The sounds of the barbecue reached her before she even opened her front door: the sizzle and pop of fat on flames, the low murmur of conversation punctuated by laughter, the tinny sweetness of classic rock from a portable speaker. She walked across the two lawns, the grass cool and dampening the hem of her dress. The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows, painting everything in gold and purple.
Tanner’s backyard was a stage of casual affluence. A sprawling stone patio held a mammoth grill where Tanner, wielding tongs like a conductor’s baton, held court. A dozen people stood in clusters, holding red plastic cups. They were his world: other dealership managers, a local dentist, couples with loud, easy laughs. Tabitha paused at the gate, letting them see her.
Tanner spotted her first. His face lit with a genuine, uncomplicated pleasure.“Hey! You made it!” He abandoned the grill, weaving through his guests to meet her. His eyes did the now-familiar dance: her face, a quick, appreciative drop to her form, back to her eyes. “You look great. Really. Come on, get something to drink. We’ve got lemonade, iced tea, the harder stuff if you want…”
“Lemonade would be perfect,” she said, her voice a soft counterpoint to the surrounding noise.
He led her to a drink table, his hand hovering near the small of her back without quite touching. He poured her a glass, his movements unnecessarily careful. “Everyone,” he announced, not loudly, but with a proprietor’s pride. “This is my neighbor, Tabitha.”
A dozen faces turned.Smiles were offered. The women’s eyes, sharper, scanned her—the dress, the hair, the undeniable bulge. The men’s glances were quicker, more politely averted after the initial confirmation. Introductions were a blur of names and handshakes. “So you’re the one with the incredible garden,” said a woman named Lisa, the dentist’s wife. “I see you out there all the time. Even now.” Her gaze was openly, hungrily curious.
“It’s my therapy,” Tabitha replied, taking a slow sip of the tart lemonade.
“And when are you due?” Lisa asked, the question landing like a gavel.
“October.” Tabitha rested her free hand on her stomach. A gentle, rolling pressure shifted inside, a limb tracing an arc. She idn’t react outwardly. She savored it privately, a secret twitch within the public spectacle.
“October! That’s a great month. Not too hot, not too cold for the newborn.” Lisa was an expert, it seemed. “Is it your first?”
“It is.”
“Oh, your life is about to change forever.” Lisa’s tone was a mix of warning and congratulations, a standard refrain. Tabitha simply smiled, a serene, knowing curve of her lips. If only they knew how little change this was for her, and how much it was a returning to a state she craved.
The evening drifted. Tanner was a attentive, if distracted, host. He brought her a plate heaped with grilled chicken, a corn cob, potato salad. “Protein,” he said, as if instructing her. He checked on her frequently, refilling her lemonade before it was half-empty, offering her the sole patio chair with a cushion. His attention was a visible thread in the fabric of the party. People noticed. A few exchanged glances.
As dusk deepened and fairy lights twinkled in the trees, the crowd thinned. The dentist and his wife left. A manager named Dave regaled a smaller group with a loud story about a trade-in gone wrong. Tabitha found herself standing near the fence line, away from the core of noise, looking at Tanner’s pristine, empty garden shed. It looked so ordinary.
He appeared beside her, holding two fresh glasses of iced tea. “Escaping the Dave saga?”
“Just enjoying the cool air,” she said. The baby gave a strong, sudden kick, a jolt that made her breath catch. Her hand flew to the spot instinctively.
Tanner saw it. “Whoa. Active tonight?”
“Very.” She took the tea from him. Their fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away immediately.
“Does that… hurt?”
“No.” She looked at him, her gaze steady, allowing a crack in the genteel facade. “It’s not pain. It’s just… presence. A reminder.”
He was staring at her stomach where her hand still lay. The desire to touch it, she could see, was a physical struggle in him. His knuckles were white on his own glass. “Can I… I mean, is it okay if…?”
She nodded, a slow, permission-granting dip of her chin.
He set his glass down on the fence post. His hand, slightly greasy from the grill, approached with an almost reverent hesitation. He paused an inch away, looking at her for final confirmation. She gave it with her eyes.
His palm settled against the curve of her belly. It was warm, slightly rough. He held his breath.
Inside her, the child seemed to respond to the new pressure. A slow, tectonic shift occurred, a turning. Then a firm, unmistakable kick landed directly against Tanner’s hand.
He jerked his hand back as if shocked, his eyes wide. “Oh my god.I felt that. That was…”
“A foot, probably,” she said softly, her voice thick with a pleasure she didn’t have to fake. His awe was a mirror reflecting her own glory back at her.
“That’s incredible.” He looked from her stomach to her face, his expression naked with wonder. In that moment, he wasn’t the friendly car dealer. He was just a man, humbled and heated by the raw fact of creation. “You’re incredible.”
She let the compliment hang in the fragrant air between them. She took a slow drink of her tea, watching him over the rim of the glass. The predator in her, the one that fed on sensation and possession, purred. This was a different kind of consumption. His attraction was no longer a vague background hum; it was a focused, resonant frequency tuned to the evidence of her fertility.
“It’s getting late,” she murmured, not moving.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He ran a hand through his hair, breaking the spell. “Let me walk you back.”
They said their goodbyes to the remaining guests. Dave chuckled and gave Tanner a thumbs-up that Tanner pretended not to see. The short walk across the two lawns was silent but charged. The air was cooler now, carrying the scent of her own night-blooming jasmine. At her front door, she turned.
“Thanks for the invitation, Tanner. And for the food.”
“Any time. Really.” He shifted his weight. “And remember, the offer stands. Crib assembly, heavy lifting… anything.”
“I’ll remember.” She smiled, then stepped inside, closing the door gently but firmly. She didn’t turn on the lights immediately. She stood in the dark foyer, her back against the cool wood.
Alone, she slid her hands over her belly, where his hand had been. The skin there felt alive, humming. Inside, the child was calm again, a contented weight. The warmth in her core, the magical residue of the transfer, seemed to flare in agreement with her satisfaction.
She walked through the dark house to the violet consultation room. The black candle was still there. She didn’t light it. She stood in the gloom, her magnificent body a pale outline in the moonlight filtering through the drapes.
The barbecue, the questions, the touching hands—it had all been a delightful garnish. The main course was here, inside her, growing, shifting, preparing for the brutal, beautiful finale. Tanner’s fascinated desire was just an appetizer. A testament to the power of the shape she wore.
She thought of Margot DuPont, probably at a boutique in Milan by now, her flat stomach clad in couture, utterly free of the consequence she’d paid to discard. A slow, secret smile spread in the darkness.
Tabitha’s hands cradled the heavy curve. Her hunger was patient. It was being fed. And it was already wondering, with a keen and greedy anticipation, what the next course would taste like.
And it was already wondering, with a keen and greedy anticipation, what the next course would taste like.
The summer thickened, the air turning to hot syrup. Tabitha’s body bloomed in the heat. Her belly was a perfect, taut globe beneath her clothes, a geography of stretched skin and shifting life. She moved through her routines with a heavy, deliberate grace, each step a conscious negotiation with the weight she carried.
One hot and sunny afternoon she laid out on her patio in a tight one piece swimsuit with low cleavage. The black fabric was a stark contrast against the pale teak of the lounger, straining over the monumental curve of her stomach and the full swell of her breasts. Her body was glistening with sunscreen oil, each application a slow, ritualistic rubbing that made her skin shimmer under the brutal sun. She was a spectacle, and she knew it.
She closed her eyes, letting the heat bake into her bones. Inside, the baby was a slow, liquid movement, a constant internal massage. Her hand drifted over the crest of her belly, feeling a foot or an elbow slide away from her touch. This was the peak. This ripeness. This unbearable fullness just before the fall.
Across the distance, in the cool dim of his upstairs home office, Tanner watched her with a telescope. The instrument was supposedly for birdwatching. He’d set it up that morning, his hands shaking slightly. The lens brought her into shocking, intimate detail. He could see the sheen of oil, the individual ties of the swimsuit at her shoulders, the deep shadow of her cleavage.
His breath came in short, sharp pulls. He watched the glide of her own hand on her stomach, a circular, possessive motion. He imagined the heat of her skin, the resistance of that firm, round surface under his palm. A sick, dizzying wave of want crashed over him.
He unzipped his shorts. He jacked off into a sock, his eyes glued to the ocular lens, to the shimmering, pregnant woman sunning herself without a care. He imagined fucking her from behind with his hands on her belly. He pictured gripping that curve, holding her steady, his body pressing against the incredible reality of hers. The fantasy was crude, explicit, and utterly consuming. He finished with a stifled groan, collapsing back into his chair, sweat cooling on his forehead.
Shame followed, immediate and acidic. He stuffed the sock into his desk drawer, next to paperclips and old receipts. He hastily put the telescope away. What was wrong with him? She was his neighbor. She was pregnant. But the image was seared into him: the oil, the black suit, the awesome, fertile swell of her. It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It was a fixation.
On the patio, Tabitha stretched, a long, sinuous movement that arched her back. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. She could feel a particular quality of attention, a pressure as tangible as the sunlight. It wasn’t magical detection. It was the primal awareness of a predator sensing a watchful, hungry gaze. She slowly turned her head, her eyes sweeping across the blank windows of his house. They lingered on the one reflecting the sun.
She didn’t wave. She didn’t acknowledge. She simply looked, letting him wonder if she knew. Then she rolled onto her side, a maneuver that was now a project, presenting him with the profound silhouette of her profile. She picked up her novel, but she didn’t read a word. She basked. In the sun. In her own form. In the exquisite tension of being desired in this most extreme state.
The lemonade in her glass had grown warm. She took a sip anyway. The baby turned, a sprawling, sluggish revolution that made her catch her breath. Her free hand pressed against the side of her belly, feeling the hard ridge of a spine through the wall of her own flesh. Soon, she thought. Not yet. But soon. The inevitable climax was approaching, a storm gathering on the horizon of her body.
And this new element, this watching, wanting man? He was just another kind of weather. A humid, unsettled pressure. He might try to be useful. He might try to be kind. She could already feel the questions about prenatal appointments, about due dates, about birthing plans forming in the air between their houses. She would answer them with vague, gentle smiles. Her real plan was a secret written in blood and magic and pain.
She would let him watch. She would let him imagine. His fantasies were as unimportant and as nourishing as the sunlight. They were all just witnesses to her feast.
A cloud passed over the sun, offering a moment of cool relief. She closed her eyes again. Inside her, the storm quieted, settling into a watchful, waiting calm.
Inside her, the storm quieted, settling into a watchful, waiting calm. The heat of the afternoon had reached its peak, a solid, pressing weight against her skin. She opened her eyes, blinked slowly at the brilliant blue sky, and made a decision.
With a deliberate, careful series of movements, she shifted her body on the teak lounger. She turned onto her back, a slow pilgrimage that required bracing her arms and letting gravity guide the immense weight of her belly upwards. She planted her feet flat on the cushion, then let her knees fall apart. The black fabric of the swimsuit strained taut across the full, round expanse.This was the position.The ancient, vulnerable, powerful pose.
She let her head loll to the side, facing his house. Her eyes were half-lidded, unfocused.One hand lay draped over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun. The other began to move.Her fingers traced idle, slow circles around the circumference of her navel. She spiraled inward, then outward, a lazy, proprietorial mapping of her domain. The oil on her skin caught the light with every pass.
In his office, Tanner had just sat back down, the shameful sock hidden away.He glanced out, a habitual, hungry glance.His breath stopped. The telescope was packed, but he didn’t need it now. The image was devastatingly clear from his window.She was on her back, knees up, splayed open to the world.To him.
His mind short-circuited.It wasn’t an invitation. It was something else entirely, a display of such primal, unselfconscious magnitude it stripped every civilized thought from his head. He saw the sheer physical reality of it: the effort of that position, the vulnerable arch, the casual ownership in that rubbing hand.He imagined the pressure, the incredible internal weight bearing down. His earlier fantasy was a crude cartoon compared to this raw, silent tableau.
He stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the bookshelf.A mug rattled.He couldn’t look away. Was she uncomfortable?Was she in pain?Was this some kind of signal? His palms were slick against the window frame.
Tabitha felt a contraction begin, a deep, internal cinching that was more promise than pain.It was a Braxton Hicks, a mere rehearsal, but its timing was perfect. She let her breath hitch, just slightly. Her rubbing hand paused, pressing firmly into the side of her belly as the muscle tightened, making the hard curve even harder, distorting the smooth globe. She held that pose, a statue of impending force, for the long thirty-second duration.
When it passed, she released a long, audible sigh.Her hand resumed its lazy circles. She knew, with absolute certainty, that he was still watching. That his imagination was now a runaway engine, picturing pain, picturing release, picturing things he had no right to picture. A fly buzzed near her ankle.She ignored it.Tanner’s phone rang, shattering the silence of his office. He jumped, fumbled for it, sent the call to voicemail without looking. His mouth was dry.He needed water.He needed to do something.He couldn’t just stand here. This wasn’t watching anymore; it was witnessing, and it felt violently intrusive yet utterly compelling.
He turned from the window, his heart hammering a strange rhythm against his ribs. He had to go over there.He needed a pretext.The sprinkler timer?A misdelivered package?Anything. He couldn’t let her lie there like that, alone. The thought was a flood of frantic, chivalrous concern, completely entangled with the image seared behind his eyes.
He practically ran downstairs, his footsteps too loud in the empty house. He burst out his back door into his own yard, then stopped, trying to slow his breathing.He was being an idiot. She was just sunbathing.But that position… that was not just sunbathing. He walked to the fence, pretending to check a loose board.
From her lounger, Tabitha saw his figure appear in his yard.A small, victorious smile touched her lips, unseen. She gave a low, soft moan, just loud enough to carry across the quiet lawns. She arched her back slightly, lifting her hips a fraction off the cushion before settling back down. Her rubbing hand slid lower, cupping the undeniable, heavy underside of her belly.Tanner froze, his hand on the fence post. The sound, the movement—they were unmistakable.Concern instantly overrode his earlier shame.This was real. Something was happening.“Tabitha?” he called out, his voice tighter than he intended. He didn’t wait for an answer. He unlatched the gate and walked into her yard, his approach hesitant but urgent. “Tabitha, are you okay?”
She turned her head slowly towards his voice, her expression a mask of serene, drowsy bemusement.“Tanner? Hi.” She made a slight effort to pull her knees together, a gesture that was both modest and utterly futile in her state.“Just a little cramp. It’s normal.”
He stood over her, a silhouette blocking the sun.From this angle, the view was even more profound. The topography of her body was a landscape of strain and softness.“You’re sure? It looked… intense.”
“They are intense,” she said, her hand still cradling the base of her stomach.She looked up at him, her eyes clear and knowing. “It’s just the body practicing. Getting ready for the main event.” She let the words hang between them, loaded and simple.“Would you mind handing me my water? It’s just there on the table.”
He moved quickly, grabbing the glass.He handed it to her, his fingers avoiding hers this time. She took a slow sip, her throat working. She was completely at ease, lying there in that impossibly open pose, while he stood beside her like a nervous attendant.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone if those are happening,” he said, the words tumbling out.
“I’m never really alone,” she said softly, placing the glass back on her belly. She gave the firm curve a gentle pat. Then she looked back at him, and her voice shifted, became lighter, almost teasing.“But it’s nice to have a neighbor who worries.Really, Tanner. I’m fine. This is all part of it.”
She shifted again, beginning the slow, arduous process of sitting up.He instinctively reached out a hand. She took it, her grip surprisingly strong, and he pulled, feeling the anchor-weight of her as she rose. Once upright, she smoothed the swimsuit over her stomach, a gesture that was both practical and strangely intimate.
“Thank you,” she said, not letting go of his hand immediately. “You’re always coming to my rescue.”
He couldn’t formulate a word. He just shook his head, a dumb, helpless motion.Her other phone, the one she kept for clients, began to ring from inside the house. The sound was a sharp, clinical intrusion.She dropped his hand. “I have to take that,” she said, her tone shifting back to one of polite, genteel normalcy. “It might be the midwife.”
She walked towards the house, each step a slow, swaying procession. He watched her go, the powerful play of her back muscles, the dark suit stark against her skin, the sheer monumental scale of her. She paused at the patio door and looked back at him, smiling that same, gentle, secretive smile.
“See you soon, Tanner,” she said, and slipped inside.He stood in her empty backyard, the sun beating down on him. The imprint of her hand was warm in his. The image of her, splayed and rubbing that impossible belly, was burned permanently into his mind.The midwife, she’d said.The word echoed. It made it all sound so ordinary, so medical. But what he’d seen felt like anything but. It felt like a glimpse into something raw and elemental, and he was now hopelessly, dangerously caught in its gravity.