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I walk him to the door, quietly wondering if he’ll still be this excited once he has time to process it all.
“You know,” I say, “my brothers are going to kill you when they find out, right?”
He sniffs a laugh.
“I know.” Then he turns away to open the door and the full weight of it must hit him at that moment, because he mutters under his breath, “Oh, shit.”
23
Alec
I should be freaking out about this.
I know I should.
But everything is status quo the following morning. I do everything just as I did every morning before this—starting with pouring a strong commuter mug of coffee. Heading outside, I cast a glance at Stassi’s place and wonder what she’s up to, how she slept last night after our talk. I thought I’d be tossing and turning, but instead I slept like a baby—no pun intended.
I’m going to be a father.
And the girl I’ve been in love with most of my life—is going to be the mother of said child.
Despite the looming threat of Stassi’s brothers murdering me, I imagine this is what it feels like to win the lottery, to know that you’re going to be set for life, albeit in non-financial ways. From this moment on, Stassi and I are a team. Once she finally realizes I’m not going anywhere, I’m certain she’ll let her guard down again.
I arrive at the Maine Medical Center with five minutes to change into my white coat and grab my things.
Everything is perfectly normal—the nurses at the front still flirt with me, the overnight doctors joke with me about needing caffeine, the break room donuts are still hard as rocks.
Despite knowing that everything has changed, everything else is remarkably the same.
The hard part hasn’t happened yet. In fact, I’ve yet to be able to picture myself as a father. Maybe it’s too abstract a concept to me, since I never had one of those fathers who called me “son” and shot hoops with me in the driveway. Not to mention, it’s something way off in the future. I guess I always knew eventually, someday, I’d have kids. And nine months, right now, seems just as far away as someday.
And then there’s Cooper and Aidan, who will, most definitely, murder me. Knowing them, it won’t be quick and painless either. Best case scenario, they’ll never talk to me again, which means kissing future lobstering jaunts goodbye.
Because I’m not Stassi’s husband. I’m not even her boyfriend. Her significant other. I’m her co-parent, this likely won’t go over well with the wholesome and traditional Hutton family. But Stassi doesn’t seem to care about that part. She didn’t care, either, when she showed up at their house looking like shit. I get the sense she’s tired of pretending, tired of keeping up appearances for her family.
And I get it. I don’t want to pretend, either. It’s not right. After all, too many parents stay together for the sake of their kids. We were never even together in the first place. It’s doomed from the start, so why even try?
Cherry comes out of triage while Dr. Burns is getting me up to speed on the overnight cases. She glances at me, but talks to the senior staff member. “Doctor, the dislocated shoulder in three is in a lot of pain.”
Burns looks at me, his face grim. “Little boy. Five. He’s been in before.”
I nod, understanding there’s possible abuse, neglect. I dealt with this a couple times in Winston-Salem. Doesn’t matter how many times I see it, though; the little kids break your heart. I can’t imagine it getting any easier.
“You’ll see to it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him. I pull up the boy’s chart on the tablet as I head to his exam room. His file is plenty thick, full of reports and x-rays and photographs of contusions. I know boys are usually rough-and-tumble, but this is beyond usual roughhousing. He doesn’t have any other siblings at home, save for a two-month-old sister.
Before I pull back the curtain, I already suspect a call to Child Protective Services will be in order.
The little boy is a skinny thing. He’s wearing Spiderman pajama bottoms and slippers, and his hair is sticking up with static, long enough to suggest he hasn’t had a haircut in forever. He’s lying on his back, clutching his arm, which is hanging loose at his side.
“Hey, pal,” I say brightly, sitting on the stool beside his cot. “I’m Doc Mansfield. What’s your name?”
He looks at me with sad eyes. “R-R-Rufus.”
I glance past him, at the woman sitting in the chair across the way. She’s hunched over with her head resting on one hand, scrolling through her phone. Her hair is harried-mom-style, in a messy loop on her head, and she’s wearing buffalo-checked pajama pants and snow boots. “Cool, nice to meet you, Rufus. And your mom is …”
