Page 117 of The Doctors Will See You Now

I looked around my apartment, and it just didn’t feel like home.

I honestly didn’t know what was home anymore.

Will.

Ugh. One day, my heart would catch up with my brain and get the memo that it was time to move the fuck on from Will Cummings… Right?

It had been so fucking easy to move on from Eli.

Why in the hell was it so hard to move past Will?

Because you’re in love with him, and love never makes sense. And deep down, you think you might have made a mistake…

Sigh. Thanks for the update, Subconscious.

Love was a real motherfucker if you asked me. It was single-handedly the best and worst thing that could ever happen to a person. It was bliss when things were good, but if shit hit the fan and you weren’t with the one you loved, it left you pathetic, emotionally maimed, and wishing you could go back to a time in your life before that person stepped inside your world and made you realize how shitty everything was.

Once someone left their mark on your heart, it was permanent. It wasn’t something that would disappear. And only time would allow for the discomfort to lessen until it became tolerable.

There is no amount of time that will make not being with Will tolerable…

Ugh. Jesus. I couldn’t sit here and fixate on the past. I had to get out of this funk. I couldn’t walk around my new apartment all day moping and doing nothing productive.

Music. I need music. Loud, obnoxious, mind-numbing music.

Jumping to my feet, I fired up my laptop and opened up my iTunes. Once Drake started to serenade me with “Hotline Bling,” I worked toward finding my mojo and set my sights on unpacking my dishes and putting them in the kitchen cabinets.

Three Drake songs in and I was on a booty-shaking roll. Dishes were being stored, and the number of unpacked boxes was increasing at a slow but constant pace.

You’ve totally got this, Mel.

As I folded up a now empty cardboard box and set it near my garbage pile by the door, the sound of my phone ringing loudly reverberated off the empty walls and caught my attention. I snagged it off the counter and saw the name Georgia on my screen.

“Hey, Georgia,” I started to greet, but I was immediately cut off by her heavy breathing and panicked voice.

“Mel! Oh my God… I think I need your help.”

My eyes grew wide with concern. She didn’t sound like her usual perky self at all. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I think I’m in labor,” she said through panting breaths. “Jesus, these contractions won’t stop coming…”

Considering Georgia was still four weeks away from her due date, worry fell into my stomach like a bowling bowl.

“Holy hell… Where are you?”

“I’m actually downstairs,” she breathed.

“Downstairs?”

“At your apartment,” she explained in a tight voice. “I wanted to stop by and bring you a little housewarming gift, but holy hell, I think the extra blocks I walked to get your flowers pushed me into labor.”

“Shit,” I muttered. “Stay put. I’ll be right down.”

With lightning-quick speed, I tossed on shoes, grabbed my purse, and sped out of my apartment door, running down the two flights of stairs that led toward the main entrance. The second I stepped outside, I found Georgia sitting on the stoop with her hands clutching her stomach and her giant purse and a potted plant of daisies near her hip.

“How far apart are your contractions?”

“Like, four minutes, I think,” she said and then groaned. “Jesus Christ, these hurt worse than last time…”