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“I think it would help,” I toss back with a bite in my tone.
She crosses her arms over her chest and braces. “Get out.” My shirt slips from my fingertips and flutters limply to the floor.
“You’re going to kick me out rather than talk about this rationally?” I hate my choked voice, but if I’m being honest, it fucking hurts.
“What is there to talk about? You want to treat me like a damsel in distress? Well, I have news for you. I can do this without you. Cami and Law are more than willing to step up in your absence. You know how I know that? Because they’ve already had to. But you don’t see them demanding I move in with them so they can take care of me.”
Fuck, but that slices deep. If only she knew where those absences came from, she wouldn’t throw them in my face.
“Who’s demanding? I made a suggestion and gave you one of maybe a hundred reasons I think we should at least consider becoming a single household for a while.”
She snorts derisively. “If you were trying to be convincing with that suggestion, you failed.”
Fuck this.
“I’m not going to stand here while you mock me.” I retrieve my shirt and roughly tug it on while she simply watches, completely unaware of the pain coursing through my veins like an oily poison. If only she knew how powerful grief could be. Even when I think I’m past the worst of it, it slithers out of the deep recesses of my being and wraps itself around whatever it can to pull me back into the darkness.
I avoid looking at her, but as I tug on my boots, I can see she hasn’t moved an inch in my peripheral. Silence erects between us like a wall. I wish she’d reconsider and ask me to stay and talk, but I know it won’t happen. With the defeat I feel inside right now, space is probably best for both of us.
The avoidance keeps rolling as I stalk to her door and head outside without so much as a goodbye. The blame can’t rest entirely on me.
She didn’t say it either.
20
Kiersten
Five thirty in the morning is obnoxiously early to be up after a night without sleep. Don’t even get me started on the uncomfortable fact that I’m seven and a half months pregnant and the size of a butcher’s prized hog awaiting slaughter. The miracle of life and all that. I’m not ungrateful for the little boy growing inside me. In fact, I already love him more than anything I’ve loved in my entire life. I just refuse to delude myself into thinking I have to enjoy every single second. Sometimes good experiences have sucky parts too, and it’s equally as normal to embrace the bad along with them.
In my totally necessary opinion, my friends are lucky that I keep most of my misery inside instead of spreading it around like the pixie dust of a freaking fairy.
Last night is a total exception.
It’s safe to say Nathan and I hit our limit in this whole strictly friends argument. One of us has to back down, and I swear on my life it won’t be me. Adult me may not have ever laid out a life plan, and getting pregnant before even falling in love is ass-b
ackward to most, but I have a plan in this. One I intend to stick with.
All that runs through my head as I crankily wait in my kitchen for my car to finish warming up so I can make the drive to work and start my twelve-hour shift.
Twelve. Hours.
One thing I look forward to on maternity leave is the break from these early morning shifts. Never mind that I’ll replace them with overnight feedings and early morning baby snuggles. It’s a no-brainer which one will be more enjoyable.
After a good ten minutes of stewing and staring out my window, I slide on my coat and gloves and tuck my purse under my arm, as ready as I’ll ever be to take on another day.
Chilly air whips my cheeks the moment I step outside. I lock my front door and tread over icy concrete to my car, reminding me to add sidewalk salt to my mental shopping list. I feel as if I needed to do something else today, but the lack of sleep and early morning hinder my recall.
The five-mile drive into the station progresses a little slower on account of some snowdrifts on the road. Lost in the lyrics to some song crooning about the dangers of loneliness, desperately trying not to think about the fight last night, I’m pulled to at the sound of my car releasing an odd little belch and shudder. Right after that awful noise, the speed reduces even though my foot still depresses the gas.
Fu-crap.
No, no, no. A car repair is the last thing I need.
I direct my car to the shoulder and tap the emergency flashers, then glance in my rearview at the dark empty stretch of county road behind me. At this hour, it could be a while before someone travels in this direction.
“Gah!” I screech into the lonely darkness, giving my steering wheel an open palm smack for good measure. Is this some form of karma for the argument last night? Is the universe trying to convince me I’m wrong? Because if so, fuck you, universe.
What makes matters worse is the one person I want to call, I can’t. I’m still too angry, and I’m not ready to be convinced otherwise. What’s the purpose of a grudge if I can’t hold onto it as long as my bitchy, hormonal self wants?
