by Amie Knight
I collected my purse and as I walked by the bathroom door, I paused, laying my hand on the outside of the door, praying this was all some sort of nightmare. Maybe I was still asleep. Maybe I’d awaken and Anthony would be petting some part of my body like he’d done all night. I’d purr and he’d smile. We’d talk, make love, repeat. It had been the most magical night of my life. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t.
“Anthony,” I said softly, my hand still pressed to the door.
A loud slam against the door that I assumed was his hand sent me reeling back.
“Just go!” he screamed and my insides hurt. His voice was anguished, crude, so fucking bleak.
Just like that. I was so expendable. What had happened? Why was he being this way? He frightened me, and I realized maybe I didn’t know him at all. It had only been one night. Still, my hurt was immeasurable.
I ran from the apartment and down the steps, tears leaking from the sides of my eyes and running into my hair. It was for the best. It would have never worked out. We were on two separate paths in life. We were too different. I told myself so many lies that morning when I finally got back to my friend’s house, I almost believed them. I’d be heading back to Tennessee soon, and I’d be touring with my band. I had dreams bigger than Anthony Jackson and his sparkling green eyes.
For years, I wondered what had happened that night. Who had called? Was it a girlfriend? Was he afraid of getting caught? What had made him so upset that he’d thrown me out? Screamed at me? I’d only known him a night, but it seemed so strangely uncharacteristic of him.
For years, I thought of him and sometimes it wasn’t of his screaming at me an inch from my face. No, sometimes I thought of my cheek pressed to his heart. Sometimes I thought of our young selves tangled up in the sheets, whispering to each other in the dark, and I would smile. Sometimes.
I was thirty-six weeks along and huge. I seriously felt like the marshmallow man. I was going to pop. I couldn’t breathe and every time I walked or rolled over in bed, I felt like someone had kicked me right in my girl parts. That was the truth about pregnancy, and if anyone else said it was rainbows and unicorns and shit, they were fucking liars.
I told myself this misery would be worth every moment when I held my baby girl in my arms and I knew that was true, so I pushed through, but today I was feeling particularly miserable.
And there was only one person to blame. Doc. I hadn’t seen him in two days. No texts. No phone calls. He’d just disappeared.
I told myself he was busy with patients, but he usually stopped by even if it was really late at least to check in. I didn’t call him. I didn’t want him to know how much I needed him. So, I sucked it up and entertained myself. I went about my days taking slow walks around the neighborhood, playing my drums, writing music, watching TV, and of course going to nonstop doctors’ appointments. As more days went by I found myself at the craft store, an old habit of mine I’d found again.
I loved crafts like I loved music, but living in a van hadn’t been conducive to making all the things with glitter. So, I splurged a little on myself and used the time away from Doc to start making a baby scrapbook for my girl.
I glittered. I cut and pasted. I used tiny letters to spell out things like first tooth, first haircut, first word. Hope. I still had it in spades. Because when that’s all you had, it counted for a hell of a lot.
More days passed and finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. I missed him more than I’d missed my drums. I texted him. I called. A week had passed and nothing. He didn’t answer. He didn’t respond.
And the feeling from ten years ago gushed over me like a bucket of cold water. Of him, throwing me out like I didn’t matter. And when I thought of that, it hurt, but it in no way compared to how I felt now. Because this was a million times worse. We’d had six long weeks together, not just one measly night. Part of me didn’t want to believe it. That he was tossing me away again. I couldn’t even fathom it. The man who’d held my face so lovingly. The man who’d told me he’d never leave me. I couldn’t believe he’d do this to me. Again.
In a last ditch effort to give him the benefit of the doubt, I called his office. I realized this seemed incredibly desperate of me, but admittedly I was at that point. I was desperate for my Doc. Our long talks. His way of easing my fears. I hadn’t had it in seven long days.
Lucy answered the office phone.
“Hey, Lucy. Anthony around?”
“Hey, Kelly. He’s with a patient right now. You want me to have him call you back? Anything wrong?”
I blew out a long breath into the phone. “No, it’s just…It’s just I haven’t heard from him in days. I was worried.”
“He hasn’t been by to see you?”
“Not since last week.”
“Oh.” The shock in her voice made my stomach hurt. He hadn’t even told her.
“Yeah, anyway, could you tell him I called?”
“Of course, honey. I’ll let him know. Maybe he’s just been really busy.” I didn’t like the undercurrent of pity tainting her voice.
“Yeah, maybe,” I breathed.
I hung up and paced the apartment even though every step felt like someone was kicking me right down there. I was going to kill him. I was so angry. So damn hurt. No one had ever hurt me like this—ever. Not even when Cash had told me to get rid of my baby girl. In truth, I’d expected that from him. But Anthony had completely blindsided me.
I wanted to call my momma and bawl my eyes out. She’d rush over here and console me. She was only staying at an RV park across town, so she could be here in a flash. But I wasn’t the call your momma and cry type of girl. I was the girl who internalized everything until I blew the fuck up, and I had to admit I’d been internalizing all damn week and I was feeling ready to lose my shit on Anthony. I was at my breaking point.
That’s why I waited. Because I was overly emotional. I was giving him until the next day. Lucy would give him my message. Hopefully he’d make an effort to stop by after work and clear the air. Tell me why he deserted me after that grand speech he’d given me about us being best fucking friends. But I already knew nothing was going to make this right. He’d fucked up. Royally. He’d beyond fucked up really—he’d ruined everything.
My heart ached. My stomach churned. How could I trust him to do right by my baby if he couldn’t even do right by someone he called his friend? I spent the night lying in bed and crying. I cried so much my throat felt raw, my insides, too. My head pounded and my eyes felt swollen and still I bawled my eyes out. He’d disappointed me so badly. Never in my life had one person ever let me down so epically.
I stayed up all night crying and spent much of the next day in bed, still no contact from Anthony. My sadness slipped away much like the tears I cried all night, until all that was left was anger. I was so white-hot with it, so full of rage, I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me and I’d never felt like that before. Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was the situation I was in. Completely dependent on a man who wouldn’t even return my calls. Completely at his mercy. I was livid. I was hurt. I was so fucking mad.
And that night I’d had enough. He wasn’t going to avoid me anymore. He was going to have to man up and tell me to my goddamn face that he didn’t want me anymore. I wasn’t sleeping, so it wasn’t a hardship to wait until 11:00 p.m. and take the elevator down to his apartment.
I knocked on the door calmly, rationally. I wasn’t going to lose my mind, I told myself. I wasn’t going to be the crazy pregnant lady. I just wanted him to tell me the truth. To look me in my face when he broke my heart.
I knocked again, still eerily calm. That should have been a warning to me. I should have realized I was too calm in the moment. Looking back, I realize it was the calm before the storm. The door opened and he stood there in a white T-shirt and blue lounge pants, his feet bare, his face impassive. He looked good, healthy, normal, and all my fucking calm left the building.
“How could you?” I
screamed like a crazy person. I pushed past him and in his defense he let me. He closed the door and looked at the floor and let me scream like a maniac.
“How could you do that to me?” I yelled again. I wanted his fucking eyes. I deserved them. “How could you do that to us?” I placed my hand over my stomach. Team Hope was no more. Anthony had smashed it to smithereens.
I threw my arms out at my sides. “Tell me, what kind of game were you playing? Why make me need you? Why make me adore you so much? Why? What did you get out of this? Do you know how much you’ve hurt me?”
His eyes stayed to the floor. It fueled my anger, his lack of eye contact. Every second his eyes weren’t on mine was like throwing gasoline on an already raging inferno.
I thought I was cried out, but I was so wrong. Fresh tears spilled over and onto my cheeks, and my chest, it ached. Every bit of my hurt sat there, heavy and hot, burning me up inside.
“Look at me!” I screamed.
His head flew up, the hurt in both of our eyes clashing together like a clap of thunder.
“The apartment? The drums? What kind of game are you playing?” A sob erupted from my chest and it made me angrier. The fact he’d made me so upset. I rubbed the spot over my heart where I hurt. “You made me need you.” I choked the words. My throat felt thick with emotion, my insides raw. I didn’t want to feel this way. It was all his fault.
“Twice,” I whispered through my tears, and he looked confused.
“Twice, you bastard. Shame on me. I let you hurt me again, but mostly shame on fucking you! Shame on you! You said we were best friends.” My voice grew louder, crazed.
He reached for me, his eyes tortured, and I almost believed it. He looked so sad, almost to the point of tears, but I couldn’t trust him. I wouldn’t let him hurt me again.
“Don’t touch me!” I screamed, moving away from him. “Don’t you dare touch me, Anthony.”
He stood straighter, looking like he was ready for a fight, too. “Doc,” he demanded.
He moved to me and I moved toward the dining room, farther into the apartment and away from him. “What?” I breathed.
He reached for me again. “Doc. Not Anthony, it’s Doc.” His face reflected my pain, and I didn’t want to see it. I couldn’t care about how he felt right now. He’d broken my heart.
“No,” I cried. Torrents of tears, now cascading down my face. “No, my Doc would never do this to me. He’d never leave me when I needed him most.”
He had me backed into a corner and I squeezed in, feeling like a caged animal, ready to lash out. He reached out to me again, and I shirked away from his hand, slapping it with my own.
“Please don’t touch me.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling me into his arms.
“No, please, leave me alone,” I cried and sobbed, pushing him away, trying to keep the last bit of sanity and dignity I could, and I couldn’t do that if he had his hands on me, his arms around me. I was so devastated.
“Christ, just let me touch you. Let me hold you, please. I can’t stand your tears. Please, baby, please.”
My attempts at keeping him at bay were futile. He picked me up like I weighed little more than a feather and carried me to the couch. I beat on his chest with my small hands until I was too tired, too worn out, too emotionally spent to do anything anymore. I fell slack against him. He held me in his lap, rocking me, soothing me with whispered “sorrys and please forgive mes.”
“Why? What happened?” I questioned softly into his chest, his heart thundering under my ear.
He kissed my forehead, the top of my head, and said into my hair, “I was scared. I’m sorry.” He used his thumb to wipe the tears from my face and rocked me in his lap. “I was so scared.” He repeated the words over and over, chanting them softly in my ear like a prayer.
I closed my eyes, exhausted from the emotion of it all. The sleepless nights and my outburst caught up with me, and I wilted against his body. I let him hold me. I breathed in his scent. That smell wasn’t just the hottest thing I’d ever smelled before. Now, it meant something to me. That smell was the best. It was the sweetest, too. It was the smell of my Doc, my best friend, so I let him clutch me to him one last time. I wanted all of my one last times. So I smelled him. I listened to the beating of his heart. I wrapped my short arms around his thick neck. Just one last hug. Just one more listen. Just one more of everything.
The sun was creeping up. I was thankful it was the weekend. I didn’t have to get up and run off to work, and I had no surgeries scheduled. Which was good, because I would have been pretty damn worthless in the operating room anyway. I’d hardly slept all week. I was like a walking zombie. I didn’t sleep last night either. Instead, I held her in my bed for the first time in ten years. I breathed in her scent and spent the night debating what I was going to do now. Because, clearly, what I’d been doing hadn’t been working worth a damn for either of us.
The last week had been hell. Every night, I’d come home from work and taken the elevator up to her floor and stood outside her door, staring at it. I wanted to go in there so damn bad. Some nights I’d hear her banging on her drums and I was like a wild animal. I wanted to tear down that door and ravish her mouth—tell her I loved her.
I shouldn’t have even gone up there. That wasn’t the point of all this. The point was to distance myself, but I couldn’t seem to do it. She called to me, this pixie of a woman with her smart mouth and her kind nature. Somehow, over the last month and some odd days she’d become so much to me. I should have known it was going to happen. After all, she’d stolen my heart in just one night years ago. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, her ability to totally obliterate my soul. And she had, a little at a time, day by day, until she owned me. And I’d never wanted to be owned by somebody before until her. So, I let her take bits of me, and I gobbled up pieces of her until there wasn’t a Kelly or an Anthony anymore. There was just an us. It was wrong. I saw it coming, but I was helpless to stop it.
I knew it had to have been her knocking so late last night. I’d been worried something was wrong with the baby, so I’d opened the door in a panic only to find her there so angry, so hurt. I couldn’t even look at her. I was being a pussy. Every pass my eyes made over her anguished face made me sick. I’d done this. I’d caused her and the baby undue stress. I just wanted to hug her and tell her everything was going to be okay, but she wouldn’t let me touch her. God, that had destroyed me. Even weeks ago, when I wasn’t even sure if she liked me, she’d let me touch her. Rub her feet. Hug her. All I could think was that she hated me now. She couldn’t stand me. That should have made things better, right? But it didn’t. Because I still loved her. And that was where we had our problem.
I couldn’t love her and save her baby’s life. It was unethical. It was wrong.
I had to tell her.
I pulled her closer to my body in the bed and twined her legs with mine and laid my hand on her stomach. It was large now. She’d be here before we knew it. We had to be ready. We had the fight of our lives ahead. I wanted us to be armed with every available resource I had. I couldn’t do the surgery myself, but I could make sure we had the very damn best. And I would.
She stirred beside me. She was going to be pissed this morning. I knew her through and through, so I knew she was going to wake up raging mad that she’d fallen asleep. That I’d carried her to my bed and cuddled her all night. But she’d exhausted herself. She needed to sleep and I needed to hold her. It seemed like a win-win to me. She wouldn’t see it that way, of course. She was just going to have to get the fuck over it. I was done playing games. I was done wishing I didn’t love her. I was done messing around. She was mine. That baby was mine now, too. It was time she knew it.
She pushed her face into the crook of my neck and I pulled her even closer, until most of her small body was draped across mine. I’d removed her sweatshirt and pants last night so she’d be comfortable. All that she was left in was a pink cami and some panties. That
was going to piss her off, too. I didn’t care. Besides, she looked beautiful. Pregnancy looked damn good on her.
I was readying myself for the inevitable argument. Yes, and when I got her ass calmed down I’d tell her everything. We’d figure it out together. We could do anything as long as we did it together.
Moaning a little, she stretched and I became very still, waiting for her to realize where she was, who she was with.
Her body went from languid and lazy to ramrod straight and that was my sign. She was awake and pissed.
Untangling her legs from mine, she sat up, eyes narrowed on me. I ran my hand across the stubble on my chin, trying to hide my smirk. I loved her fire. I would’ve stood in it all day every day if I wasn’t so sure it would burn me.
She flung the covers back and looked at her legs before glaring down at me again. “Where the hell are my pants?”
I motioned to the chair in the corner. “Over there.”
She shot up and over to the chair. Well, as fast as a woman that was heavily pregnant could shoot up.
She sat in the chair and started to hustle herself into her black leggings and I wanted to laugh. It was pretty damn cute.
I sat up and put my feet to the floor but stayed in the bed. I thought if I got up, she’d forget about trying to put her pants on and just take off for her apartment. “We need to talk, small fry.”
She shook her head, breathing hard from pulling her pants up. “No, you don’t get to do that, Anthony.” She gave me an eat shit look. “You don’t get to call me adorably sweet short girl nicknames anymore. Only my friends get to do shit like that.” She grabbed her sweatshirt.
Her head popped through the neck of the hoodie, her angry eyes still on mine.
Finally, I stood up. She was going to leave. I couldn’t let that happen. Walking toward her, she took in my bare torso and boxer briefs, and I hoped that meant she was attracted to me like I was to her.