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But Blaire wants me to make sure its not a real emergency, and I’m not so big of an asshole that I won’t show up when really needed. So I scroll to Veronica’s contact and hit the call button.
“Simon?” she answers on the first ring, voice syrupy with relief. “Are you here?”
“Yeah. Come outside.”
There’s a beat of silence. “You’re not coming in?”
“I’m not leaving the truck,” I say flatly. “If you need to go to the hospital, get your stuff and let’s go. I’m not playing house today.”
She hangs up without answering. A minute later the front door opens and she steps onto the porch.
If she were actually scared—really scared—she’d be pale, shaking, with a coat half on and her purse already slung over her shoulder. Instead she’s wearing a soft sweater dress I used to tell her looked good on her, hair curled, makeup flawless, heels clicking against the concrete as she walks toward the truck. She gives me that soft, wounded smile, like I’m just scared to meet her parents or some shit.
“You came,” she says, stopping at my open window.
I keep my voice even. “Where’s your purse? We need to go.”
She blinks, all wide-eyed innocence. “Go? Now?”
“You said you were cramping. Spotting. That’s not good, right? We should get you checked out.”
She hesitates, then offers a small shrug. “It stopped a little after I sat down. Maybe it was nothing.”
My jaw tightens. She’s making it obvious she just wants me here, on her terms, on Thanksgiving, while the rest of my life waits.
“Veronica,” I say slowly, “go get your purse.”
She leans in, reaching through the open window to skim her fingers over my arm. “You rushed over here. You still care. That has to mean something.”
“No,” I snap, sharper than I meant to. “It means if you’re carrying my child, I show up when you say something’s seriously wrong. That’s it.”
Her eyes flash—hurt first, then frustration. She yanks her hand back. “Why are you being an asshole? Just sit with me for a minute. We can go in a bit. The ER always takes forever anyway.”
“You called me,” I remind her. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is,” she insists, pouting. “I just… I’m not ready to go yet.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I drag a hand down my face, breathing through the anger simmering in my chest. “You’re either having an emergency,” I say, voice low, “or you’re not.”
“I am—”
“Great. Then we’re going to the hospital.”
“I don’t want to go alone!”
I meet her eyes, steady. “Then get your purse and let’s go.”
She hesitates, realizing I’m not folding. Something in her shifts—her face pinches, defensive and petulant. “If you’re going to be an ass, maybe you should just go.”
My voice drops, cold and final. “Fine.” I shift into reverse, fully planning to leave and turn my phone off for the rest of the day.
Her eyes widen. “Okay! I’m—I’m going,” she stammers. “Just—don’t leave. I’ll go grab my things.”
“Then move,” I tell her. “Because we’re not playing games with a pregnancy.”
She swallows, shoulders folding inward, and nods before heading back inside.
