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Something crossed his eyes as I mentioned him putting it on, but I couldn’t stop to decipher it, for if I stopped, I was going to break down. Instead, I acted like any rational man would—I stormed out. I was halfway down the hall when I remembered the invitation and went to fish it out from my jacket pocket. I could leave it with his secretary and let Porter decide what he wanted to do. He wouldn’t come, but I needed to offer.
It wasn’t there. If that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Porter
I knew I was being a jackass, but when I realized what those papers meant, how long Michael had been keeping this from me, well, saying I lost my cool was a bit of an understatement. My brain had whited out. I never thought I would have kids. I didn’t want to replicate my biological parents’ mistakes, and I knew I wasn’t good enough to emulate Ms. Betsy. I could barely figure out how to manage a healthy relationship with Michael, and suddenly I had to consider a child?
But Michael, Michael was everything right in the world.
Now that the thought was planted in my brain, I could picture a future with Michael and our child. Michael swinging a little man around in the air on a warm summer day, both of them in matching T-shirts. Michael kissing a little boy’s boo-boo before sending him off to keep playing. I tried to picture myself in more of an active role, but every image I saw was of Michael, with me hovering in the background. But if I was to be a father, I wanted more than that. I didn’t have an example of what a dad should look like, but I had many examples of what one shouldn’t. That was a starting point, right?
But had I lost that chance? I could barely remember the words I had said to Michael, but I knew I had fucked up. And I had let him go. Night after night, I had sworn to myself that I would never do that. Especially after the mess I’d been those two months without him, before I even really knew who he was. And then the first hard crunch hit our relationship, and what did I do? I let him go.
I wished I had someone to turn to, to talk to. But since Ms. Betsy died, Michael was the only one I trusted. And yes, I was hurt, and yes, I felt betrayed. But it didn’t change the fact that I wanted him. That I wanted whatever future I could have with him. If that meant me and Michael against the world, okay. But if it meant me and Michael and a baseball team’s worth of kids? Well, I wanted that. Whatever made him happy.
Damn my temper.
Damn my inability to notice his filling out for what it was.
Now that I had a minute to cool down, regret and fear really started to seep in. I had thought that my fear of losing him had faded after the first week of clutching him tightly to me every night, afraid he would ghost away in the dark and I would never see him again. But this was worse. I’d seen him leave. I made him leave. I knew exactly why he left, and I was the cause. He’d walked out of my office and possibly my life in broad daylight, and that was worse.
I picked up my phone and called him. I called seven times, each call going straight to voice mail, before I gave up.
“Cheryl?” I called on the intercom. “Can you ask Francine to send Michael up again? It’s urgent.”
“Right away, Mr. Dahl.”
I bowed my head and studied the floor while I waited. I’d never noticed there were spots of green in the taupe carpet fibers. Finally, the intercom buzzed, and I answered it. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dahl, but it appears Mr. Martin has had a family emergency, and he’s taken the rest of the day off. His department head said she’s not certain how long he’ll be out of work.”
I contained the curses driven by my absolute inability to act. Wait, no... “Thank you, Cheryl.” I cut the intercom. I would go to his apartment. I would beg him to take me back. No, I would beg him to forgive me. I’d been such an ass. I wasn’t thinking. My fears, fears I thought I had long conquered, had risen up and bitten me in the ass. But no more. I circled to my chair to grab my coat and noticed an envelope on the floor. I snatched it up, a nervous energy rattling my bones.
It was an invitation with details for an ultrasound, Monday morning at ten. He had been going to tell me. Just in his own way, and I fucked it all up. I was man enough to know it was my mess to clean up, even if I wasn’t the catalyst.
I desperately wanted to go to him, to make things right. Beg him to forgive me for even implying I might consider something so horrible. But he was ignoring my calls. He’d left work, he was so upset. And as determined as I was, I was in no frame of mind to actually make a coherent apology. A new plan began to form in my head, and I sat down to plot it out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Michael
“Mr. Martin, I need you to verify all of the information is current and sign here and here. I will also need to make a copy of your insurance card and driver’s license.” I nodded and took the clipboard, knowing the drill. Every flipping time I came, they did the same thing. Something about a new policy. I tried to argue that being pregnant I would be here a lot over the next few months, but they never budged. Probably for the best I had the busywork because it might keep my mind off my insanely full bladder. Might being the operative word.
I sat in the waiting area, pretending to make sure the information was correct and initialing everywhere required before scanning the room. There were people of all ages, but the pregnant ones were easiest to pick out. Not only were they the only ones smiling, because let’s be honest, the only time you want a doctor up in your business is because you’re pregnant, but they also came in pairs. All of them except me.
I was alone. I deserved it. I more than deserved it. Didn’t make me feel any better.
I brought the clipboard up to the desk, where the receptionist pointed to a line on page four. The one I had intentionally left blank every time. This receptionist, unlike the others, wasn’t kind enough to let the transgression slide.
“You need to fill in all of the information. Father’s name?” I’d seen on Pinterest where new moms sent gifts to their OB’s office as a thank-you. It was always something cute and practical. I swore right then and there if I succumbed to the fad, the receptionist in front of me, Barb, according to her tag, was not going to be included.
“Montgomery Dahl.”
I turned to the voice that I’d missed more than the coffee I gave up for my baby. He was here, right where I wanted him to be.
Throwing all sense of decorum to the side, I flung myself into his arms, whispering over and over again that I was sorry, and he did the same. Weren’t we a pair?
