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“Where’s the ice?”
“Are we out of ice again?”
“You don’t even own a proper ice pack? What the hell, Megan? How is it possible you don’t have an ice pack? It’s like you really don’t give a shit.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just sits on the counter, back straight. It’s infuriating. How could she be so calm when things could have gone so horribly wrong?
“What if you’d gotten concussed? Would you have come home and calmly waited for ice cubes to freeze? What the actual fuck, Megan?”
She just stares at me, her blue eyes round, as if she’s watching a movie.
The thing is, I hear it. I sound like an asshole. I showed up, unannounced, and she came home injured. It could have been worse, but she’s probably technically fine. And now she’s staring at me with something that looks an awful lot like pity. But it’s like shot gunning a beer—once you break the can, you can’t stop.
“And what are you wearing? You went grocery shopping in these stupid shoes? Of course you tripped.” I take the flimsy flip-flops off her feet and go into her bedroom. It’s an organized mess, but just as sparse as the last time I was here. I open her closet and look for another pair of shoes. There’s a pair of black boots covered in what looks like beer. And there’s an old pair of sneakers. And that’s it.
The sheer lack of contents in her closet does something to me, but instead of calming down, it only agitates me more.
A small noise catches my ear and I turn to find her standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing? You need to keep that elevated.” I wrap my arm beneath hers and in a quick maneuver, pick her up and place her on the bed. “And the next time you go shopping, you wear these.”
She holds the sneakers and looks up at me, not saying anything. It’s infuriating. Like she doesn’t even care enough to respond. My blood is boiling.
“And you need to pick up your goddamn phone. I don’t care what you’re doing. If someone’s trying to reach you, you need to answer. Your roommates, your friends—what if something happens and I can’t get a hold of you someday? Just be a damn adult and answer your damn phone!”
I’m pacing her room, and all I can see is red. All I hear is my own heartbeat hammering away in my ears. I’ve never lost it like this before and I can’t seem to stop it. A frame on her nightstand catches my eye and I realize the black-and-white picture inside is a sonogram.
This woman. She has next to nothing—not even a fucking ice pack or a second decent pair of shoes—and she’s going to have a baby. And now she has some dick wearing a rut into her floor, yelling about how unprepared she is. And yet the last thing she looks at before she goes to sleep at night is a picture of the baby growing inside her.
It’s too much. I can’t breathe.
“Fuck this,” I say, walking out her bedroom door. “I can’t be the only one who gives a shit.”
I turn on my heel and leave, grabbing my roller bag as I pass through the kitchen. I make it halfway up the block before I call a car, and then another half block before I realize how badly I just fucked up. I’m considering going back to try to fix the mess I’ve made when the car pulls up.
“Where to, Mr. Carroll?” the driver says.
My eyes flicker down the block and back. “Home.”
CHAPTER21
DEREK
I knewI’d fucked things up before we even crossed the Morrison Bridge. I’ve never spoken to any woman that way, much less the mother of my unborn child. Yes, I wish she hadn’t taken the bus, and yes, I wish she hadn’t fallen. But my aggravation had more to do with something I wasn’t ready to examine too closely: the fact that I wish I’d been there for her.
Part of me was ready to tell my driver to turn around and take me back. But I’m not sure she would want to see me. And if her roommate was any sort of a good friend, she wouldn’t let me back in the house to talk to her. So I called the one person who I knew would pick up no matter what.
“Hello, stranger.” Deanna’s voice has always been a balm. Even through the divorce and the fights and the scary nights. It feels strange to call her right now, but also not strange at all.
“I fucked up.”
“I’m doing great, thanks for asking. Julian just got promoted at work. And I painted the nursery. It’s gray.”
“Gray?”
“Neutral.”
“Isn’t gray a little depressing?”
