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And first thing on Monday morning, I get the call we’ve been waiting for.
The paternity results are finally in.
Eighteen
I slam the envelope down on his desk, trying to draw a reaction from him. Nothing but a sideways glance, then he refocuses on his computer screen. I’m irritated by his stubbornness and disregard for a clean and sanitary working environment—it drives me fucking nuts. Papers are stacked in no specific order, and pens are missing their lids, not to mention chewed at their ends. An empty coffee mug sits beside his desk phone, growing some green species inside it, unwashed and smeared with lipstick. Gross, it’s not even his.
“We need to talk,” I grit, barely able to contain my anger.
“I’m busy.”
“You’re drinking a can of Coke and playing solitaire.”
“Exactly. I’m in the middle of something.”
“Fine, I’ll do it here,” I bellow, crossing my arms in frustration. “Thanks for not showing up at the ultrasound. I had to fucking reschedule. Would it have hurt you to pick up the phone? Or even send a text? Since clearly, you have no balls whatsoever.”
The king lines up to his final card, and the screen shows his victory win. He shuts the page down, then turns to face me. He looks ghastly with deep, dark circles shadowing his dull eyes, not to mention his beard that has truly taken on a life of its own. He was obviously stoned and drunk all weekend.
Looking uninterested, he takes a drink, then throws the can into the trash. “Are you done now?”
I exhale at his insensitivity. “No, I’m not done. This is exactly why I don’t want you in my child’s life. Once again, you’ve proven you have no desire to be a father, and I’m really sorry that your name sits inside that envelope.”
His face falls, and he quickly opens it to read the answer he is undoubtedly hoping isn’t true. His expression turns to pity, fear, and most noticeably, regret. The quick stabbing pains in my heart make me wish he had reacted differently, that may be in some universe filled with rainbows and unicorns, he would have jumped for joy.
But he didn’t.
And sometimes, one look can say a thousand words.
What did I seriously expect? He is twenty-six. He rides a motorcycle and gets stoned on the weekends. I couldn’t have picked a less desirable sperm donor if I had plucked one from a hat.
Whatever part of me still clings to some sort of pathetic miracle should have read all the signs by now. I only rile myself up the more I dwell on it.
Where did smart, level-headed Presley run off to? Well, it is time for her to come back. Guns blazing.
“So, you have your proof now, but it doesn’t matter,” I tell him, trying to remain strong. “On top of all this, I don’t know why you hid the fact that Mr. Sadler is your stepfather. And, you know what?” My heated words and my irritable behavior should forewarn him of the storm that’s about to hit. “I don’t know you at all, Haden. Your mood swings are worse than a fifteen-year-old girl’s. I know you’re hiding something, but who knows what? And I have no clue why you’re getting married to someone you barely know. I’m really over all your immature games. I’ve got a child to raise, and frankly, I don’t care whether you’re a part of it or not.”
I storm off not waiting for an answer. This day’s just gone from bad to complete and utter hell. To add to it, I am pissed at myself for even mentioning the marriage thing. Yeah, in hindsight, what does it matter? What he does with his life is his business. Why do I want some an answer or insight into why he is marrying a woman he has known for such a short time?
Back at my desk, I struggle to get any tasks done. Everything in my life feels like a giant mess. When these moods appear, there is only one solution—clean. I grab some disinfectant and wipe my entire desk down including my keyboard, removing the keys one by one, wiping, replacing. I file away the two papers sitting on my desk and sharpen all my pencils to the same height. Then I reorganize my filing cabinet and archive some old paperwork.
That was too easy.
So, I sneak into the main kitchen and start cleaning out the fridge. I was wrong about the Jerk’s cup and the new species growing inside it because there is something ten times worse in this fridge. Someone has left a moldy apple, a rotten banana, and some cheese in a plastic container. It’s now green, furry, and I swear on my unborn child’s life, I see movement in the box. I shiver and pinch the sides of the container, throwing it in the trash.
Breathing a sigh of relief when I can practically see my reflection in the countertops, I head back to my desk, much calmer now. Sitting in my chair with a fresh cup of tea, I take in the peace and quiet for just a moment. It is short-lived as my phone starts to dance across my desk. I recognize the number and pick it up. The receptionist at the ultrasound place had a last-minute cancellation this afternoon, and I’m quick to accept her timeslot. This morning was bad enough, showing up and waiting like an idiot. I’ve learned my lesson and have no desire to tell him about this second appointment.
“Guess what?” Vicky is sitting on my freshly-disinfected desk with her God-knows-where-it’s- been ass.
Frowning, I eventually indulge her. “Let me guess, the Jerk came and saw you and is trying to worm his way back as Mr. Nice Guy?”
She stops mid-smile and grimaces. “Are you in love with him?”
“Wh… why would you say that?” I stutter, wanting to slap myself in the face for making her think I am. Because I’m not.
“Just asking… so, anyway, Patrick called me,” she says excitedly.
Welcoming the switch of topic and avoiding the awkward conversation about love, I am shocked and surprised to learn the weasel is contacting Vicky again. Here’s the thing about Patrick—he’s the ultimate jerk. The amount of pain and humiliation he’s caused Vicky is downright inexcusable. There is no logical reason for him to call Vicky apart from wanting to screw her one more time, then send her off on a shame parade down the highway to hell.
