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“Explain something to me,” I said. “I wanna know how the hell you were gonna take care of this child on your own.”
“I have health insurance now and a salaried job. I don’t rake in millions like you do, but I don’t need millions to take care of a baby.”
“Were you gonna raise our baby in some studio apartment?” I asked.
“No, of course not, and quit being a snob. There is nothing wrong with my apartment. I have a financial plan on track to rent a two-bedroom apartment closer to where I work. I can save gas money by walking, and my yearly bonuses can go toward saving for childcare. I have it all laid out.”
“So you really had no plans to tell me, about any of this. Despite the fact that I helped you make this child,” I said.
I was still simmering with anger. Even though I was worried about her condition physically, I couldn’t believe she would keep something like this from me. I had my downfalls, sure, but I had the capacity to provide for my child.
“Do you know what that phone call did to me, Delia?” I asked.
“No,” she said, looking away.
“The moment told me you were pregnant with my baby, my world stopped.”
“I didn’t want you drinking again,” she said, breathlessly.
“Why the fuck would a kid make me drink? If anything, you make me wanna drink! With your stubborn-as-hell ways and wanting to always buck up against me.”
“I don’t want to make you drink,” she said with a whisper. “I don’t want your sobriety to be derailed because of me.”
I watched her face scrunch up as her gaze fell to her lap. I watched as a tear dripped into her water and I knew I’d done it. I’d made this woman cry, and if my momma was alive right now she’d slap the back of my head. I had better ways of communicating my anger to her than this, all I had to do was take the time to find them.
“Come here. I’m sorry. It’s okay,” I said.
I took the water from her hands and situated myself on the couch next to her. She was curling into herself, weakening in a way I’d never seen from her. Even though I’d only known her a short amount of time, I’d known her to be a spitfire. Strong and steadfast. And there she was, curling up onto my couch and crying into her knees because I was being an asshole.
Fuck.
I wiped her tears and cradled her against me as I thought about the child growing inside her.
Our child.
“I’m sorry, I just need you to explain to me what the hell you were thinking,” I said. “Because I don’t understand it.”
“Please don’t be mad,” she said.
“I can try my best. You waited until you thought you were losing this child to reach out to me. You shouldn’t have waited until catastrophe struck before you told me.”
“Look Drake, when I found out I was pregnant, you were still in rehab. What the hell was I supposed to do? Come tell you over lunch while you were in the midst of that struggle?” she asked.
“What about when I got out of rehab?” I asked. “You could’ve told me then. Delia, you only live like three fucking miles up the road.”
“I tried to read up on what you were going through in rehab without reaching out to you. Hank fired me so quickly, I figured the reason he did was because you asked him to. But I did want to know what you were going thro
ugh. What you were experiencing. And one of the things I read up on was triggers. I’ve studied this, Drake.”
“Delia, you’re not a trigger. You tried to keep me from drinking. My band is a trigger. Stress is a trigger. You're not, you never could be.”
“But that’s exactly what I mean. Stress is a trigger. I knew how stressed I was and could only imagine what it would be for you.”
“I’m not stressed. Pissed, yeah. Confused, hell yeah. But stressed? Nah.”
“How are you not stressed by this? I am!” she said.
“Wanna know why I’m not stressed?” I asked.
