by Emma Chase
“That’s right.”
My hands squeeze together and I feel the tears coming back up, ready to gush like a weakened dam. “When is it going to . . . How long will it take before . . . I fully miscarry?”
He covers my clasped hands with one of his own. “Based on my examination, your hormone levels, and what you’ve told me, I see no reason why you should.”
My head snaps up. “Wait . . . what? But the doctor last night said—”
“It can be difficult, this early, to detect a fetal heartbeat with a traditional ultrasound. As for your bleeding, some spotting in the first trimester is quite common. Now, however, your cervix is closed, your blood work is unremarkable, and the fetal heart rate is normal. All of these factors indicate a routine pregnancy that should progress to full term.”
My mother’s arms wrap around my shoulders, relieved and excited. But I need more. “So you’re saying . . . I get to keep him? I’m going to have this baby?”
Dr. Witherspoon chuckles.
It’s a jolly sound.
“Yes, Kate. I believe you’re going to keep this baby. Your due date is October twentieth. Congratulations.”
I cover my mouth and the tears flow. I’m smiling so big, my face hurts. And I hug my mother back. “Mom . . .”
She laughs. “I know, honey. I’m so happy for you—I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
This is how it should have been the first time. No fear. No doubts. Only elation. Euphoria.
It’s the most wonderful moment of my life.
I throw my clothes on faster than a cheating wife caught in the act and burst into the waiting room. Delores and Billy stare at me in surprise. “I’m still pregnant! I’m not having a miscarriage!”
They stand up.
“Holy shit!”
“I knew Dr. Dickhead didn’t know his ass from his elbow!”
Smiles and hugs are passed around like acid at Woodstock. And my best friend asks me, “So I guess your mind’s made up? You’re keeping it?”
My hands drop to my stomach, already imagining the bump. “Until he turns eighteen and goes to college. And even then, I might make him live at home and commute.”
She nods, bestowing the coveted Delores Warren seal of approval.
Billy drops to his knees in front of me. “Hey in there. I’m Uncle Billy.” Then he looks up at me, worried. “I can be Uncle Billy, right? You gotta let me be Uncle Billy. The only other shot I’ve got is Delores—and who the hell knows what kind a freak of nature she’s gonna squeeze out.”
Delores smacks him on the head.
And I laugh. “Yes. You can be Uncle Billy.”
“Sweet.” His attention reverts to my stomach. “Hey, kid. Don’t worry about a thing—I’m gonna tell you everything you need to know. Say it with me: Strat-o-caster.”
Delores shakes her head. “It can’t understand you, Jackass. It’s like the size of a tadpole.”
“After last night, it’s probably a wasted tadpole. But that’s cool, right? It’ll build up its tolerance—put hair on its chest?”
Delores grins. “What if it’s a girl?”
Billy shrugs. “Some guys are into girls with hairy chests. You’d be surprised.”
I turn away from the Tweedledum-Tweedledee exchange and walk down the hall to Dr. Witherspoon. My words come out stunted. Guilty. “Excuse me? I’m sorry to bother you . . . but . . . last night . . . I was upset and I . . . drank alcohol and smoked cigarettes.” I lower my voice. “And marijuana. A lot.”
A montage of Special Report News flashes through my mind:
Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.
Super-preemies.
Low Birth Weight.
He puts his hand on my shoulder reassuringly. “You’re not the first woman to engage in some rather . . . unhealthy behaviors before learning she was pregnant, Kate. Babies in utero are hardier than you think. They have the ability to overcome momentary exposure to drugs and alcohol. So as long as you abstain from these substances from now on, there shouldn’t be any lasting effects.”
I throw my arms around his neck, almost knocking him over. “Thank you! Thank you, Dr. Santa—this is the best Christmas present ever!”
I run back to Delores and Billy. “He said it’s okay!” We jump up and down in a circle like three kids on the playground doing Ring Around the Rosie.
And it’s almost perfect. Almost. Because there’s something missing.
Someone.
The only other person on earth who’s supposed to be as happy as I am at this moment. He should be here. He should be picking me up, spinning me around, and kissing me until I pass out. And then he should be telling me that of course the baby’s fine—because his studly super-sperm is indestructible.
Can’t you just see it?
But he’s not here. That’s just the way it is. I’d like to tell you it doesn’t hurt—that I don’t miss him—that I don’t really care anymore. But that’d be a big fat lie. I love Drew. I can’t imagine ever not loving him. And I want to share this with him, more than anything.
But we don’t always get everything we want; sometimes we just have to be grateful for what we have. And I am. Grateful, I mean. Happy. Because I’m going to have this baby and take care of him. And I don’t have to do it alone. Between my mother and George, Delores and Billy, there won’t be any shortage of helping hands. He’s going to be loved enough for ten babies.
Forty-eight hours ago, I didn’t know what I was capable of, what kind of steel pumps in my veins. Now I do. And I guess that’s the moral of the story.
You have to fall down, scrape your palms and knees, before you know you have the ability to pick yourself back up.
So don’t worry about me. I’m going to be just fine. Eventually, I’ll be great. We’ll be great.
We pull into the rear parking lot of the diner and my mother rushes in through the back door. She left George manning the ship, and she’s a little eager to make sure he hasn’t single-handedly sunk it.
As Delores, Billy, and I walk less hurriedly, Delores asks me, “So what’s the plan, Stan?”
I breath deep and squint up at the sky. And it feels like a new day. A blank page. A fresh beginning. More clichés, I know.
But still—so true.
“I’m going to hang here another day or so. Just . . . recharge. Then I’m going back to New York. And Drew and I are going to have a long talk. I have some things to say, and he’s going to listen—whether he wants to or not.”
She taps my shoulder. “That’s my girl. Give the bastard hell.”
I grin. Billy opens the door for us but I don’t follow Dee Dee inside. He asks, “You coming, Katie?”
I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go take a ride. Clear my head, you know? Tell my mom for me?”
He nods. “Sure. Take your time. We’ll be here when you get back.”
The door swings closed behind them.
And I walk to my car.
So there it is. You’re all caught up now. That’s my story. It was a whopper, huh?
My father used to bring me to this playground when I was young. Even then, when it was newly built, it was never very crowded. I don’t know why the town chose this location to build; it’s an unusual place for a children’s park. There aren’t any housing developments or apartment complexes nearby. And you can’t see it from the main road—it’s off the beaten path.
Time hasn’t been kind to the metal swing set frames and wavy steel slide. They’re rusted, faded, and discolored from the lively primary colors they once were. Still . . . it’s kind of beautiful here—in an industrial modern art kind of way. It’s solitary. Peaceful.
And I need as much of that as I can get. Because thinking about what comes next, what’s ahead of me? I’m not going to lie—it’s scary. It feels like . . . moving into a new house. Exciting, but nerve-racking too. Because you don’t know where the closest gas station is, or the number of the local fire department. There’r
e so many things to learn.
I read somewhere that babies can actually hear what’s going on outside the womb. That they’re born knowing the sound of their mother’s voice. I like that idea.
I look down at my stomach. “Hey, Tadpole. Sorry about everything that’s been going on lately. My life usually isn’t this dramatic. Although Drew would probably disagree with me on that. He tends to think I’m quite the drama queen.”
Drew. That’s gonna be a tough one. Might as well start now—practice makes perfect.
My hand rests against my stomach, cradling it. “Yeah . . . your father. Your dad is like . . . a shooting star. When he’s around, every other light in the sky just . . . fades out. Because he’s that vibrant—you can’t take your eyes off him. At least I never could.”
I bite my lip. And watch as a hawk soars overhead.
Then I go on. “We loved each other. No matter what’s happened or what will happen from here on out, it’s important to me that you know we were in love. Your father made me feel like I was everything that mattered to him. The only thing. And I’ll always be grateful to him for that. I hope you get to know him one day. Because he’s actually a really . . . great guy.” I laugh softly. “When he’s not too busy being as ass.”
When I finish speaking the air settles, and all is quiet for several minutes. It’s so different from the parks in the city, with their honking cars, screaming children, and jogging footsteps. It’s serene.
So when a car door suddenly closes nearby, it startles me. My head whips toward the sound.
And standing there is the last person I ever thought I would see out here, in Greenville, at this moment.
It’s Drew.
Chapter 15
He looks awful. Stunningly, breathtakingly awful.
His eyes are bloodshot, his face is pale, there’s a few days of stubble on his chin—and despite all that, he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Looking anywhere else just isn’t possible.
Drew is staring too. His gaze is unwavering—drinking me in—burning me up.
We stand like that for a minute. And then he walks toward me. His steps are purposeful and focused, like he’s marching into a business meeting with his entire career on the line.
He stops just a few feet away.
But it feels like much farther.
And everything I’d planned on saying to him in New York flies right out of my head. So instead, I start off easy. “How did you know I was here?”
“I went to the diner first, saw your mom in the kitchen. She said she didn’t know where you were. And she was looking at me like she wanted to chop my dick off and put it on the Specials Menu. So I went out front—ran into Warren. He told me you’d probably be here.”
Of course Billy would know where I was. Just like he knew I would want him to send Drew to me.
“Did he do that to your face?” I’m talking about the fist-sized welt on his left cheek. It looks fresh—just starting to bruise.
He touches it gingerly. “No. Delores was with him.”
No surprise there. Although I don’t think her heart was really in it. If Dee Dee seriously wanted to do Drew damage? She wouldn’t have wasted her time with his face—it would have been straight to the crotch.
“What do you want, Drew?”
He lets out a short bark of laughter, but there’s no humor behind it. “There’s a loaded question.” Then he looks off into the horizon. “I didn’t think you’d leave New York.”
I lift a brow, questioning, “After your little show? What did you think I would do?”
“I thought you’d curse me out, maybe smack me. I thought you’d choose me . . . even if it was just to keep someone else from having me.”
Jealousy. Drew’s weapon of choice. He used it when he thought I wanted to win Billy back, remember?
“Well, you were wrong.”
He nods grimly. “So it seems.” His eyes meet mine for a long moment. And his brow wrinkles just a little. “Were you . . . happy . . . with me, Kate? Because I was really happy. And I thought you were too.”
I can’t help the small smile that comes to my lips. Because I remember. “Yes, I was happy.”
“Then tell me why? You owe me that much.”
My words come out slow, hushed sadness weighing down every syllable. “I didn’t plan it, Drew. You have to know that I didn’t mean for it to happen. But it did. And people change. The things we want . . . change. And right now, you and I want two very different things.”
He takes a step toward me. “Maybe not.”
I’m trying hard not to read into the fact that he’s here. I don’t want to hope. Because hope really does float, like a piece of wood on a wave. But if it turns out to be unfounded?
It smashes against the rocks—breaking you into a thousand pieces.
“What does that mean?”
His words are careful. Planned. “I’m here to renegotiate the terms of our relationship.”
“Renegotiate?”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought. You went right from Warren to me, jumped in with both feet. You’ve never just . . . screwed around. Played the field. So . . . if you want to hook up with other people”—his jaw tightens, like the words are trying to stay in, and he has to force them out—“I’m okay with that.”
My face pinches with confusion. “You came all this way, to tell me you want us to . . . see other people?”
He swallows hard. “Yeah. You know—as long as I still get to be in the rotation.”
Sex has always been a top priority for Drew. That’s what this is about, right? He doesn’t want the baby—but he doesn’t want to stop sleeping with me either? Having his cake and all that. No strings attached.
It’s like an episode of Jerry Springer.
“How would that work exactly, Drew? A quick fuck on our lunch break? A midnight booty call? No talking allowed—no questions asked?”
He looks ill. “If that’s what you want.”
And I’m so . . . disappointed. Disgusted.
With him.
“Go home, Drew. You’re wasting your time. I have no desire to play the field at this particular point in my life.”
That takes him by surprise. “But . . . why not? I thought . . .” He trails off. And then his eyes harden. “Is this about him? Are you seriously fucking telling me he means that much to you?”
I don’t appreciate his tone. It’s derogatory, mocking. Did I say I was a butterfly before? Nope. I’m a fucking lioness.
“He means everything to me.” I point my finger. “And I won’t let you make me feel bad about it.”
He flinches, like I’ve Tasered him with a stun gun. Five thousand volts straight to the chest. But then he recovers. And he folds his arms obstinately. Completely unapologetic. “I don’t care. It doesn’t frigging matter.”
If you fill a tire with too much air, push it past its limit, do you know happens?
It explodes.
“How can you say that! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He comes right back at me. “Are you serious? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you on drugs? Do you have some split-fucking-personality disorder that I haven’t picked up on? Two years, Kate! For two goddamn years I’ve given you everything . . . and you . . . you’re just so fucking eager to throw it away!”
“Don’t you dare say that! The last two years have meant everything to me!”
“Then act like it! Fucking Christ Almighty!”
“How am I supposed to act, Drew? What do you want from me?”
He yells, “I want any part of you that you’re willing to give me!”
We both fall quiet.
Breathing hard.
Staring each other down.
And his voice drops low. Defeated. “I’ll take anything, Kate. Just . . . don’t tell me it’s over. I won’t accept that.”
I fold my arms across my chest, and sarcasm crackles in the air like static. “You didn’t s
eem to have a problem accepting it when your tongue was down that stripper’s throat.”
“Hypocrisy really isn’t a good look for you, Kate. You gutted me. I think you deserved a taste of your own fucked-up medicine.”
You see it all the time. In celebrity magazines, on TV. One minute, couples are all soul mates, never felt this way before, jump up and down on Oprah’s couch in love. And the next, they’re at each other’s throats—dragging out the lawyers to battle over money, or houses . . . or children. I always wondered how that happens.
Take a good look. This is how.
“Well, pat yourself on the back, Drew. You wanted to hurt me? You did. Feel better now?”
“Yeah, I’m thrilled. A regular happy camper. Can’t you tell?”
“Can you stop acting like a child for five minutes?”
“Depends. Can you stop acting like a heartless bitch?”
If he was close enough, I’d slap him. “I hate you!”
He smirks coldly. “Consider yourself lucky. I wish I could hate you—I prayed for it. To get you out of my system. But you’re still there, under my skin, like some fatal fucking disease.”
Have you ever worked on one of those crossword puzzles in the newspaper? And you’re determined to finish it—you start off so sure that you can? But then it just gets too hard. Too exhausting. So you give up. You’re just . . . done.
I press a hand to my forehead. And even though I try to put up a strong front, my voice comes out small. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Drew. I don’t want to fight. We can go around and around like this all day, but it’s not gonna change a thing. I won’t have half a relationship with you. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“Bullshit! Everything is negotiable. It just depends on how far the parties are willing to bend.” And then he’s begging. “And I will, Kate—I’ll bend. Hate me all you fucking want, but . . . don’t . . . leave me.”
And he sounds so despondent. Desperate. I have to stop myself from comforting him. From giving in, from saying yes. A few days ago, I would have. I would have jumped at the chance to eat his crumbs. To keep him in my life—any way I could.
But not today.
Because this isn’t just about me anymore. “I’m a package deal now. You have to want both of us.”
His fists flail in the air, searching for something to hit. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he roars. “It’s like I’m stuck in some screwed-up Tim Burton movie, where nothing makes sense! None of this makes any fucking sense!”
“I’m talking about the baby! I won’t bring a baby into a relationship where he’s not wanted! It’s not fair. It’s not right.”
