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I stare at the screen for far too long. I wait for a notification, hell, any notification, to tell me that she’s received it or read it. Hell, I’d even take those dreaded three dots.
But nothing happens.
I focus on my breath, the trees, the pedestrian traffic. This is a nice neighborhood for kids. It has trees and sidewalks. I don’t know how the schools are, but I’ve heard people talk about great charter school options.
I guess my neighborhood has some of those things too. Not that I’ve researched it. There’s time. There’s no rush to put outlet covers on plugs or find baby gates. And I don’t want to get ahead of myself here. Who knows what will happen, much less whether the baby will be spending time at my loft.
The thought makes my stomach clench and I take a deep, shaky breath. I’m getting ahead of myself. We need to get to the halfway mark first. She needs to stay pregnant long enough for the baby to survive. She needs to stay healthy and happy and strong. I don’t want to think about what would happen if something goes wrong for her.
Which is a horrible, morbid thought. Because I don’t know where she is and it’s been fifteen minutes. I send another message.
ME:You up for dinner?
And again, I wait. A man jogs down the sidewalk next to his son, who is balancing on a small bike that has no pedals. The mail carrier arrives, tiptoeing around me, as if I’m just some vagrant.
That must be a hazard of the trade. But in this neighborhood? Maybe Hawthorne isn’t as safe as I thought?
I mean, what am I thinking? She’s going to have a baby and raise it with two roommates and a kooky upstairs neighbor and a weirdo in the basement who collects garbage and goes by Hot Sasquatch? Of course this isn’t the right place for a child.
Not that my place is any better. Kids need yards, don’t they? I don’t have that. I have industrial windows original to the building that will shatter and kill anyone who throws a baseball at them. Or a doll. I assume girls throw dolls?
My pulse is hammering, and when my phone buzzes, my heart nearly jumps into my throat.
FLUX:You get things worked out?
I exhale, the adrenaline and irritation surging higher than before.
ME:Not yet.
FLUX:I’m sure it’s fine. You know, she’s probably just on the bus or something. She doesn’t answer her phone on the bus.
A wave of relief passes over me.
Followed by a wave of anger. What is she doing taking the bus? The bus isn’t safe. Bad things happen on buses all the time. Terrible things. I gave her the number for my car service for a reason. I pace back and forth along the porch, full of nervous energy.
“Derek?” Her sweet voice surprises me. She’s walking up the sidewalk, carrying what looks like two heavy reusable grocery bags.
“Where have you been?” I ask, charging down the steps to help. I take the first bag, and she winces. It’s way too heavy, full of cans from the sound of it.
“What are you doing carrying this?” I ask, taking the other one from her. She winces again.
“I had to get them home,” she says. She tilts her head. “What are you doing here? I thought you had another day in Utah?”
“I got an early flight,” I say, taking her in.
She’s wearing a light blue sundress that hugs her swollen breasts. Her belly is visible—only just. That’s when I notice her knee. It’s wrapped up with what looks like plastic wrap and paper towels. And she’s definitely favoring it.
“What happened?” I crouch down to examine her leg, the bags I’m carrying hitting the sidewalk.
She reaches for my shoulders to stop me, but when I get closer, I can see that she’s bled through the paper towels.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I just need a bandage.”
“It looks like you need more than that,” I say. I quickly climb the steps and set the bags down and then go back down to the sidewalk and stop her from limping any further.
“Derek, I’m really fine. I tripped when I was getting off the bus. It’s really—”
“And this is the best the bus driver could do?”
