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He appears offended, pulling back immediately. Straightening his tie and adjusting his glasses, he clears his throat. “You’re such a bitch sometimes, Malone.”
“Just like you are a jerk… all the time.”
Shutting down his laptop, he storms out of the room without a word while I breathe a sigh of relief.
This is too hard.
It isn’t worth forming a friendship when he will soon hate me and wish I never existed.
Ten
Avoiding Marcus is harder than I anticipated. The rational part of my brain knows it is best that I tell Haden before Marcus. It seems like the right thing to do, but Marcus is desperate, horny, and not afraid of letting me know that. I can’t pull the period card out because he gives me alternatives, and seriously what is it with young guys and their desire for anal activities? Nevertheless, I manage to avoid any physical activity with Marcus knowing it’s for the best.
My clothing has started to feel restrictive, and I am fairly certain I can see a small bump, still small enough to pass it off as bloating. I can’t button my pants, so I stick to wearing skirts and loose-fitting blouses. On top of the stress of telling Haden and Marcus, I have my parents to deal with.
To soften the blow, telling my sister, Gemma, gives me a taste of what is about to come. She is over the moon and wants all the juicy tidbits about baby daddy. Then came a whole speech about how much she was going to spoil her niece or nephew. We talked about the right way to tell Mom and Dad, and agree it is best over the phone followed by a visit.
My nerves are shot to hell about making that phone call, but I can’t hide it forever. Plus, I really need my mom and her parental advice right now.
As predicted, my parents were deeply disappointed, especially because they loved Jason so much and spent an hour telling me that I should have fallen pregnant with him. It isn’t a rewind-and-let’s-try-again situation. The damage is done. Mom, of course, is extra disappointed Haden is younger than me as it is frowned upon in her generation for a woman to marry a younger man. That lecture took another hour. By the end of the phone call, I am emotionally spent. As soon as we hang up, my mom calls me right back and starts panicking.
“Are you taking your prenatal vitamins?”
“Make sure you don’t eat blue cheese and cold meats.”
“Don’t sleep on your stomach. You might squash the baby.”
I could have listened all day to her. There is nothing more comforting at that moment than some motherly advice. I told her I will clear my schedule next month and fly to Virginia to spend a few days with them before I get too big. She seems more at ease by the end and even gloats about being a grandmother and knitting booties.
With that now ticked off my list, I know I have no choice but to tell Haden.
The perfect opportunity presents itself on Friday night, a week later. I suggested we work on finalizing some details on Fallen Baby and asked Haden to come to my apartment. Hoping he doesn’t get the wrong idea, I ordered a ton of takeout remembering the old the-way-to-a-man’s-heart-is-through-his-stomach saying. Not that I want to get to his heart, I just want to remain alive by the end of the conversation.
He turns up at seven on the dot, dressed in light jeans and a white tee. The Chucks on his feet make me think he will not be going out clubbing, especially since he is also wearing a baseball cap. I blame the hormones again for noticing how delicious he looks. I don’t bother to dress up. I’m wearing a loose-fitting tank top and drawstring shorts. It’s pretty much the only thing that fits right now, plus it is scorching hot outside. Being pregnant in the summer has not made me a happy camper.
Walking barefoot back to my sofa, I ask him to take a seat before offering him a drink.
“Nice place you got here. You moving?” he asks, spotting the bare walls and stacked boxes.
“Yeah, soon. This was ours, but we decided to sell. Had a few offers, and I think we’re closing soon.”
“Ours?”
“Jason’s and mine. We bought it two years ago.”
“Right. Have you found a place?”
“I’ve been to inspect a few. Not much in my price range. I wish I could afford to buy this place, but a part of me thinks it’ll be good to move on.”
That seems to be the extent of our forced conversation, so I grab my laptop and go through my bullet points, all the while finding the courage to start the inevitable. Throughout the conversation, my head is repeating what I’m about to say over and over again until the point when he waits for me to respond, and I have no idea what he’s just asked.
“I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“You seem distracted. I asked if the author plans a sequel.”
“Uh… not at this stage.”
“All right,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’ll bite. Why are you acting weird?”
