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I should’ve gone.
I count to almost thirty before my stomach loosens. Gasping for air and reaching for the orange juice, I turn to the cupboard to get a glass.
Just drink the fucking juice and everything will be better.
Pouring a glass and tossing the almost empty carton back into the fridge, I turn and head back to the living room. I need to sit. I need to sleep. I need to cry a little bit, too.
I sit on the very edge of the cushion and lean back so my shoulder blades rest on the back cushions. Rubbing soothing circles into my belly, I drink the juice and wait for Bean to slow his rolls. Mama wants to say hey, but those full body rolls and belly tightening movements can go suck an eggplant.
In an attempt to relax, I reach for the remote and turn my television onto a reality dating show.
Awesome.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I’m so stupidly emotional, but not about any one thing in particular.
I’m alone. My stomach hurts. I want a damn hug.
Why couldn’t I have found a man that chooses me?
Ben chose me, for the three minutes it took the bastard to take my virginity and leave me with a baby.
Jim chose me, but only when he wasn’t out choosing someone else.
I hate that I let the rumors at school hurt me; the rumors that all the girls loved to spread. So what if he chose them? So what if he slept around? I did the same with Ben in the end.
At least Jim always chose me as his best friend. I should’ve been happy with that, I should’ve been content. Instead, I was like a hungry woman shopping for food. I was hungry for love and affection, so I picked up the worst possible snack. Ben.
My stomach tightens and sends the hot salty tears spilling over. I try to breathe through the pain. I try to watch the TV for distraction. Picking up my phone, I open the internet;‘when exactly should I go to hospital if I think I might be having contractions but I’m only 35 weeks pregnant?’
Longest run on sentence in the history of the world, and yet, articles pop up about early labor; it could last for days. Don’t go to the hospital too soon. Don’t panic.
“Ugh!”
I toss my phone aside when I get to the part that suggests I ‘nest’. Clean a closet, they said. You’ll enjoy the release and therapy of scrubbing something clean. I don’t want to clean!
I want to call Jim and beg him to choose me.
He swore he’d never let me down. He promised he’d never leave me. But here I am, in pain, crying, and he’s out banging Belle.
The other fucking Isabelle. Jerk.
Edging off the couch and grunting as I climb to my feet, I cry out when another contraction tightens my belly and sends me folding in half to lean against the coffee table. Head down, ass up, elbows smarting from being pinched under my weight, I breathe until I’m dizzy.
Standing tall as soon as the belt loosens, I swipe a sleeve under my eye and turn toward the hall. The smallest popping sensation fizzles in my belly, then a second, then my pants turn wet and the carpet darkens beneath my feet.
“Oh no.”
