by Kat T. Masen
“Can I please speak to you? Out here in the hall?”
I walk out of the apartment, but not before Marcus jumps up and pushes the girl off him. “Presley, baby, I still love you.” His pathetic attempt at speaking to me deserves no response.
Haden stumbles out of the room and I realize this isn’t the best time, but stupid me asks anyway.
“Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Sadler was your stepdad?” Annoyed and keeping my distance, I stand against the wall.
“You know what?” He points his index finger at me. “You’re beautiful.”
It’s followed by a delirious laugh and I throw my hands up in the air, frustrated that I’m wasting my time. I turn away and walk towards the stairwell, and just when I think I’ve escaped, he grips my shoulder and swiftly turns me around.
His eyes are wild, seriously dark, and the laughter he showcased only moments ago has disappeared. My eyes are drawn to his stained shirt and ripped jeans. It’s very unlike him to be so unkempt, especially with a rugged beard and scruffy hair.
“Why don’t you answer me when I tell you, you’re beautiful?” he grits, pinning me closer to the wall.
“Because you’re a jerk that is clearly stoned right now.”
“It’s not an answer!” he raises his voice.
Startled, but refusing to show it, I bite back. “Fine. Thank you. Now let me go.”
His hands trail across my collarbone and directly down my chest, and I don’t stop him, only because I’m gearing up to kick him in the nuts if Kitty can stop drooling long enough.
“Why do you make life so hard for me? What is it about you, Malone?” He refuses to look me in the eye, talking to himself rather than to me.
“Haden, I need to go. This is pointless.”
“Where are you going? Let me come with you,” he pleads.
Underneath his strong and arrogant persona lies desperation and turmoil. I can’t tell whether he has a hidden agenda or just needs a friend right now. Then I remember that men don’t like to talk, so I’m guessing the hidden agenda may be sex for all the wrong reasons.
I stand tall and lean forward to kiss him on the cheek, a gesture of goodwill before walking away, but he swiftly locks his lips onto mine.
He forces his tongue into my mouth, but the intensity and longing is torn away as my protective instinct for the baby fogs any passion towards him. Pushing him back, I catch some air before telling him no.
“We can’t do that, and you’ve been smoking. That can’t be good for my baby.”
He smashes his fist against the wall, screaming in agony.
“OUR! Why won’t you fucking get it through your head that it’s our baby?!”
“Because you haven’t stepped up and proven to me you are responsible. If you can turn up on Monday morning without being stoned or acting like a jerk, maybe then I can take you seriously.”
I push him out of the way and walk down the stairs, praying that he won’t follow.
He doesn’t.
And first thing on Monday morning, I get the call we’ve been waiting for.
The paternity results are finally in.
Chapter Eighteen
I slam the envelope down on his desk, trying to draw some sort of a reaction from him. Nothing but a sideways glance, then he refocuses on his computer screen. I’m irritated by his stubbornness and his 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 am not done. This is exactly why I don’t want you in my child’s life. You’ve proven once again 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 maybe 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 motorbike 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 just went from bad to complete and utter hell. To top it off, I am pissed at myself for even mentioning the marriage thing. Yeah, in hindsight, what did it matter? What he did with his life was his business. Why did I want some sort of answer or insight into why he is marrying a woman he has known for such a short time?
Kitty is raising her hand like an overeager student because she has all the answers. Teacher’s pet! I shut her down and send her to detention. All this is her fault anyway!
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 a 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 cell 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 caused Vicky is downright inexcusable. There is no logical reason for him to call Vicky, apart from wanting to bang her one more time, then send her off on a shame parade down the highway to hell.
“Patrick? Your ex? The man who was married with kids and fucked you till all hell broke loose? Patrick?”
She grins, and automatically I worry that she will (if she hasn’t already) jump on the boat to Brokenheartsville. Again.
“Vicky, don’t go there again. You were a mess last time,” I gently warn her.
“But this time I’m over him. I’m just curious to find out what he wants,” she tries to reassure me.
This isn’t good. I have half a mind to call him up and tell him to fuck off or I’ll chop his balls up and feed it to the snappy dog that lives next door. But of course, I try to be the mature and ever-so-caring friend. I was there through it all, from the snotty sobs to plotting the ultimate revenge. What I didn’t expect was to be back here two years later, and for Vicky to so eagerly jump back in.
“What else would he want but to get you into bed?”
“Closure,” she replies.
“Guys don’t want closure. They just go find some new jackrabbit to fuck . . . or something along those lines,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Never mind,” I tell her. Stupid jerk.
Vicky continues to justify her reasons for responding to him, and I continue to play the friend that tries to stop her from making another wrong decision. But it’s her decision, and no amount of persuasion from me will change her mind. Mental note: stock up on ice cream because it’s all downhill from here.
“I’m guessing we will continue this conversation tonight. Listen, I love you, but if he hurts you in the slightest way, I will go all psycho on his ass.”
“I know you got my back.” She simpers, leaning in to kiss my forehead as reassurance. “Are you going somewhere now?”
“The Jerk stood me up this morning so I missed my appointment. The ultrasound place has another opening this afternoon, so once I finish this report I’m working on, I’m heading out.”
“Uh oh. I need the whole story.” She glances at her watch. “But I’ve got a meeting I need to get to. I’ll call you tonight, okay?” She raises her eyes, then quickly says goodbye and disappears. Weird, but then again, her head is probably clouded with thoughts of Patrick and his wandering dick.
***
I make it to the appointment with only a minute to spare. The sonographer, Sandra, invites me into the room, and just as I’m about to close the door behind me, I hear chaos in the waiting room.
“Am I late?”
Panting and out of breath, the Jerk bends, resting his body against the door and trying to redeem himself. His hair is a wild mess and sweat is visibly dripping down his forehead.
“Why are you here? I didn’t tell you . . .”
Damn Vicky! That conniving little witch!
“I’m here, okay? Quit giving me grief.”
Secretly, I am glad he is here. Whatever reason he felt the need to see our baby, I don’t care. It’s the first moment throughout the pregnancy where I feel normal, and when I say normal, I mean with a partner right beside me. Sure, it’s all fantasy, but just for this short time I can pretend it’s real.
But, of course, I wouldn’t think of telling him that, and instead, I poke fun at him.
“Geez, Jerk, wouldn’t hurt you to hit the gym once in a while.”
“I ran ten blocks,” he responds, exasperated. “In an Armani suit.”
I roll my eyes at his melodrama and walk into the room. My cheeks start to flush as I think of having to change into the gown. Thankfully, Sandra senses my embarrassment and leads me to the bathroom inside the room where I quickly change into my gown. Walking back into the room, my bare body lays beneath the thin material and feels extremely exposed.
Ignore that he is right beside you, because it’s not like he has X-ray vision!
I cross to the other side of the bed as Sandra assists me with getting comfortable. The sheets are placed strategically over Kitty, and the Jerk takes a seat beside me as the warm lube is spread all over my belly.
“That’s a lot of lube,” he snickers under his breath.
“So mature, Jerk.”
The volume is turned up on the machine, and Sandra moves around my uterus until the baby’s heartbeat echoes throughout the room. It’s like music to my ears, and my eyes move towards the screen as I watch the images of what looks like a happy little baby cooped up inside.
“So the baby is measuring correctly,” she tells us, typing in the measurements as she speaks.
Haden is staring at the screen, fixated on the baby. “Can you tell us what the sex is?”
“I sure can.” She smiles.
“Don’t tell him. I don’t want to know.” I shake my head.
“You can’t decide that for me.”
“Seriously, what the hell is your problem? You think I’m hormonal, what about you? You’re such a jerk!”
Sandra pauses and looks at the both of us. “So yes . . . no?”
“No,” I say at the same time he says yes.
I speak up again. “Absolutely not. If you want to know, then I’ll leave the room.”
“Not yet, Miss Malone. I just wanted to talk about the position. The baby is breech. However, there is still time to turn.”
In a blind panic, I ask, “Is there anything I can do to help the baby turn?”
“Your obstetrician may be able to assist, but the best thing you can do is relax and enjoy the rest of the pregnancy. Any previous concerns we had don’t seem to be an issue anymore.”
She spends longer checking the baby and its progress, and I forget the Jerk is even in the room. I only remember he is here when I hear him clear his throat. Something about the way he is amorously staring at the screen consumes me. He’s lost in a moment where his soul becomes an open book, and I see a man who is capable of loving this unborn child more than himself. It moves me, yet I break away from these thoughts. This line of thinking is dangerous, because deep inside, my walls are breaking down and he is the giant wrecking ball ready to do damage.
It takes every part of me to turn away from this beautiful sight and move myself off the bed.
Haden reaches out his hand to help me, but stubborn old me refuses to touch him, and I almost fall off the bed.
“Jesus, can you seriously stop being so stubborn and allow me to help you?”
I hold onto my stomach as a small cramp hits.
“I told you. I don’t want anything from you. My goddamn mailman is more reliable than you!” I snap, unsure of where it’s coming from after such a special moment.
In his typical signature move, he runs his hands through his hair, disheartened. I am tired of arguing with him, and something tells me this is only the beginning. The two of us just can’t get along, it’s that plain and simple.
“I didn’t tell you that David, or as you call him, Mr. Sadler, is my stepdad because I don’t like anyone knowing.”
Thrown off by the change of subject, I attempt to listen rather than open my big fat mouth for once. Sandra gives us some time alone to gather our things and leaves the room to attend to another appointment.
“Today is the anniversary of my dad’s death.” He falls into a digestive silence, eyes staring at the screen where the picture of the baby remains frozen.
I’m never sure what to say in these circumstances, never having experienced the death of anyone close to me besides my grandparents. This is why Hallmark runs a successful business; they sell a card for every occasion when you have nothing appropriate to say.
I need a Hallmark quote right now.
“I’m sorry, Haden,” I apologize quietly.
His eyes focus in on my stomach, then move towards my face. He’s like a little-lost boy, the vulnerability and sadness weighing heavily in that one glance. I want to reach out to him, but I know it’s inappropriate. Instead, I keep my distance and try to offer some support by listening.
“He died when I was fifteen. A car accident,” he tells me in a low voice. “Presley, I run away from this because I’m scared I will never be the dad he was to me.”
Oh crap. He’s opening up to me. I have no choice but to be nice now, because I’m not a cold-hearted bitch. I hate the way my feelings towards him shift. I knew there was a reason why he acted like a jerk all the time. I just never expected it to be this.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” I offer.
“I have to attend this dinner with Eloise.”
I don’t say anything and he quickly adds, “But I can cancel. Can we go back to your place?”
“Sure.”
***
Eloise doesn’t take the cancellation well. The argument in the cab ride home echoes through the speaker. Some mouth she has on her. His patience is wearing thin and the grinding from his teeth is audible, not to mention his repetitive tapping of the door handle, which is driving me insane. When he directs the driver to stop at the corner pizza place, I welcome the interruption.
When we walk through the door of the apartment, the exhaustion of the day hits me like a ton of bricks, and I fall onto the sofa effortlessly.