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Zayn
I am not a huge fan of hospitals.
Staring at the dour gray ceiling, I try to imagine my neck in imaginary nooses. Philip swore that I wouldn’t have to visit the hospital.
I mean it wasn’t as if the baby couldn’t be born without me here.
“Scowl harder, Zayn. You’re not looking quite miserable enough there,” Agatha tells me pleasantly without even looking up from the magazine she ripped from my hands a few seconds earlier.
I don’t spare her a glance, instead raising my middle finger at her.
She looks up and raises a brow. “No, thank you. I have a fiancé for that now.”
The man in question pops around the corner. “I heard my title. Is Zayn still sulking?”
Ian is a redhead. He swears that his color is all-natural, and once I forced him into an armlock just so that the boys could confirm.
I still have my suspicions about it though.
He is engaged to Agatha, the stunning blonde who is Philip’s younger sister and a pain in my ass. She is also three months pregnant.
“Where’s Fergus? Why isn’t he here?” I demand, dangling my denim-clad legs over the arm of the waiting room chair.
“They’re on their way,” Ian tells me; his long frame now stretches out besides Agatha as he takes a lock of her perfectly curled hair and wraps it around his finger. He sips on the cup of coffee in hand. “This shit is crap.”
“What did you expect? Starbucks?” I say, snidely.
Ian gives me a look, and I roll my eyes. “Whatever. When will the baby come?”
“Why do you hate hospitals so much?” Agatha finally asks, tossing the magazine at me.
I let it hit my chest and give her a dark look. “I just do. They reek of death.”
Just then, another couple rounds the corner.
Compared to Fergus’ tall, lanky frame, his wife Sarah is tiny. Usually, cheerful people annoy me, but she has grown on me. I often hang out at their apartment on Sundays, butting in on their personal time till Fergus physically throws me out.
“I didn’t think you were coming, Zayn.” Sarah daintily removes my legs, forcing me to sit up, and she takes the seat beside me.
“I wasn’t,” I tell her. “But I was at Philip’s place when Charlotte went into labor. Things just happened. When I said I’d go home, she threw a vase at me. And screamed.”
I feel incredibly insulted by that.
I bought her that vase.
Fergus grins. “I wonder if Agatha will have mood swings.”
Ian bumps fists with him in greeting. “She’s already looking forward to breaking things over my head and giving me panic attacks with random crying jags.”
Agatha smiles, amiably. “It looked fun when Charlotte did it.” Then she sighs, rubbing her hands over her belly, a mournful expression on her face. “The doctor said that mood swings happen in the first trimester. But at this rate, I’m starting to think I’ll have to fake them.”
I look over at Ian. “If you want me to object at your wedding, just give me one of these.” I rub the edge of my nose.
When Agatha flips me off at remark, I ask, “When are you two tying the knot anyways? I need one of those STDs.”
“Do what?” Three pairs of eyes turn towards me.
“He means ‘save the date,’” Agatha explains, idly. “STDs aren’t a joke. God, Zayn. Go learn to be normal or something. Maybe while we’re here they can do exploratory surgery to find your sense of humor.”
