by Caisey Quinn
I tell myself that Landen probably just feels overwhelmed. Like he won’t know how to be a good dad because he didn’t have one. My stomach unclenches slightly and I focus on overcoming the sobs. Lord, this night did not go as I expected it to.
My friend Corin is the only person I’ve told I am pregnant.
“Are you worried about what Landen will say?” she asked when I told her. I told myself since she’s in California she couldn’t possibly understand what Landen and I have. How strong our connection is. I smiled and shook my head even though we were on the phone and she couldn’t see me.
But now, lying here alone with tears slipping down my face and onto my pillow, I’m thinking maybe she understands a whole lot better than I do.
I don’t sleep. Despite nearly running a marathon, my mind won’t give me rest. My body is exhausted and screaming at me to ice it or just never do that again. But I can barely hear it over the sound of my father telling me what a colossal fuck up I am.
I had a feeling it would be like this so I’m in the guest room. I don’t know jack shit about pregnant women, but I’m pretty sure anyone growing a human being inside of them needs their sleep. The last thing she needs is for me to be tossing and turning and keeping her awake.
No, asshole. The last thing she needed was for you to just walk out.
I lose count of how many times I get up and cross the room towards the door, only to talk myself out of it and lie back down. I don’t know how I feel yet, and I don’t know what she needs to hear.
When the sun comes up, I’m still lying here, trying to figure out a way to save some semblance of the life Layla and I had together. Have together. Shit.
I rub my fists roughly into my eyes and wish that I could go back in time. Wish that I had been more insistent about using protection.
But I can’t and I wasn’t. So Layla gets to pay for my selfishness. For my wanting to feel nothing between us when we made love. And if this pregnancy means she can’t have the surgery she needs—the surgery that could save her life—then I basically killed her.
The thought hits me at the exact same instant a clenching ache seizes my chest. My stomach pitches, and for a second, I’m positive I’m going to throw up.
A whistling noise from my phone pierces the air, indicating I have a new message. Probably Layla asking where the hell I am. Stretching my arm out, I grab it off the nightstand.
The screen lights up but it’s not Layla.
It’s another woman, one I’d rather not talk to at the moment. But I can see the eleven missed calls and my screen is filled with text messages. Look up relentless in the dictionary and there she’ll be. For synonyms, see pain in my ass.
“Kate,” I greet Layla’s aunt.
She doesn’t bother with a greeting. “You’ve got to talk to her, Landen. She’ll listen to you.”
I sigh and roll onto my back. Now I’m suddenly tired. Exhausted really. “Good morning to you, too.”
She huffs a breath right back at me. “We don’t have time for this. You want to make jokes? Fine. Make jokes. While you’re busy laughing, I’ll be on my way to the airport. And when I see you in California, I’m going to murder you. Lucky for me, I know enough people at the DA’s office to make a convincing case for suicide.”
My sleep-deprived brain can’t even make sense of her words. Though it does register that my life was just threatened and it’s not even eight in the morning. “Wait, California? Did you not hear what she said?” Layla’s aunt is an extremely successful litigator and is generally pretty sharp. I don’t want to insult her intelligence by stating the obvious, but clearly she’s confused.
Trying to muster the courage to say the words out loud, I clear my throat. “Uh, not to be a dick because I know you’re stressed and probably having as hard of a time dealing with this as I am, but Layla made herself pretty clear. She’s pregnant, Kate. She can’t have surgery on Monday.”
Jesus. She’s pregnant. I hear her soft, sweet voice, full of determination echoing in me head. I’m pregnant.
Since Kate has no trouble insulting my intelligence, she continues. “Yeah. Got that. Landen, listen to me. I know this is a delicate issue. But we don’t exactly have the luxury of time on our side.”
“I’m listening.” I sit up and put my feet on the hardwood floor. “If you have some miracle solution to this, I’d love to hear it.”
For a moment, she hesitates. I hear a small intake of breath and then the words I should’ve expected but didn’t. “She can have an abortion. There are several clinics in LA. I could meet the two of you at one and she could get it handled this weekend. By Monday she’d be fine for surgery.”
An intense throbbing begins to vibrate in my head. Fuck. How did it get like this? One minute I’m damn near bursting with excitement about coming home to my girlfriend after a huge win and the next…Christ. The next thing I know I’m discussing abortion clinics with Layla’s aunt before I’ve even had breakfast. Once again, I’m strangled by the fierce urge to vomit. And overcome with the need to hit something. Hard.
My jaw clenches and I breathe through my nose. “Sure, Kate. I’ll just tell her that we’re heading out today and that we’ll swing by an abortion clinic once we land. How well do you think that’s going to go over?”
“Well then let me hear what you’ve got, Mr. Can’t-Be-Bothered-To-Cover-His-Dick. Because I’m out of options over here. Dr. Kirkowitz doesn’t re-schedule. If she doesn’t get the surgery now, then it could be five or ten years before he has another opening. If she even makes it that long. Do you get that, soccer boy? Has that ever really resonated with you?”
My fist closes so hard on the phone that it’s a wonder I don’t break the thing in half. “You’re damn right it resonates with me. Every hour, every minute, every second, I’m painfully fucking aware that any one of them could be her last. Every time I walk out the door for practice or a game or camp or to go get a jug of milk down the damn street, I know. I know that it could be the last time I see her face, her smile. That I could come home to ambulances or her body lifeless on the floor. So I screwed up, okay? I get that and I’m sorry.” Bone-deep regret settles over me and I sink to my knees, weighed down by desperation. Thank God she can’t see me. “I’m so fucking sorry. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix her, how to fix this.”
“I don’t need fixing.” I hear her voice, angelic and ten shades of pissed off, from behind me. Looking up at her, I see the burning determination in her eyes. And the tears.
“Baby,” I say, reaching for her. But she steps out of my reach.
“Hang up the phone, Landen,” is all she says.
“I have to go, Kate.” Her aunt starts to say something, but I press end and she’s gone. And it’s just me and my girlfriend. Well, and someone else I can’t bring myself to think about yet.
“Talk to me. Don’t run. Don’t go for a run. Don’t shut me out and pretend this isn’t happening. It is.” A nearly imperceptible shudder passes through her and I want to hold her. To wrap her in my arms and protect her like I’ve always done. But I can’t fix it this time. Can’t fix us.
Rocking back on my heels, I slide myself down the side of the bed and sit on the floor. She sighs and leans against the wall. Waiting. Waiting for me to say whatever I’m supposed to say to make this right. Except…I don’t know what that is.
I’ve only seen him like this once before. When we first started dating in high school, his mom invited me to Thanksgiving. His dad was drinking. And awful. He hit Landen in the face right in front of me.
Later we sat alone in his basement and he was just like this. Broken. Closed off. Angry. Lost.
Somehow, I was enough back then. Our feelings for each other, his need for me, broke through the pain. But I can’t reach him now.
Because now I’m the one causing his pain. And he’s causing mine. This is unfamiliar territory for us.
I stare at him for what feels like an eternity. Our hurt feelings are swirling around us,
pummeling him farther into the ground, and backing me up against the wall. He props an elbow on his knee and stares vacantly at nothing.
I lick my lips and take a step closer to him. Pulling in a lungful of air and hopefully all of my courage, I open my mouth to speak.
“Don’t,” he says before my words escape. “Don’t say it will all be okay. Don’t say we’ll get through this together. If you…” He shakes his head and looks away once more. I hear the words he doesn’t say. If you die on me, then we won’t be getting through anything together.
His voice is dead and cold and it backs me up. “Why are you doing this? Why are you pushing me away?” My questions are barely a whisper, and he’s so far gone I don’t know if they even reach him. Until he looks up at me. His normally vibrant green eyes are dark and ringed by exhaustion.
“Because I’m afraid.”
The tension holding me rigid eases up and I relax a little for the first time since yesterday. “I know. Me too. But that’s part of it, right? I think we’re supposed to be—”
“Not of that.” He shakes his head. His eyes close briefly and I take step closer. “Well, not of just that.”
“Of what then? Of…” I crouch down so we’re face to face. “Of something happening to me? Of being left alone with a baby to raise? Of becoming your father?” Hearing all of it out loud makes my heart hurt for him. It’s a lot for anyone to deal with. And they’re perfectly rational, valid fears for him to have.
His eyes widen as they meet mine. The hardwood disappears from beneath me and I’m lost in his desperate, pleading gaze. “Of telling you the truth.”
Confusion contorts my face and has me tilting my head. “I don’t understand.”
He rubs his hand across the back of his neck and brings it around to his face. His long fingers rest on his lips for a moment, as if he’s trying to keep the words in—the ones he obviously doesn’t want to tell me.
“Layla, I always knew I wanted to play soccer. And from the first time I saw you…” The hint of a smile plays on his lips. But I’m looking into his eyes and there’s no trace of a smile in them. “The first time I saw you, my world stopped. Things I thought mattered—soccer, how much my dad hated me, the fact that I’d never really had anywhere to call home, all of it—it just ceased to mean anything. All I could see was you, and I had to know you, had to have you.”
“You do have me,” I tell him, hoping the reassurance will help him to say whatever he needs to so that we can move forward.
He nods, and the thick knot in his throat bobs as he swallows. There’s a sudden shift in the air. I don’t know how or why, but I feel it and it sets me on edge. My pulse speeds up, sending blood rushing in my ears. Whatever he’s about to say is bad. I know it way down deep in my bones. He’s going to say something awful and change everything. Ruin everything.
“Landen, maybe we should—”
“There’s something else I know,” he begins, silencing me with the cold calm in his voice. “Something I’ve always known. About myself.”
I nod. “Okay. Whatever it is, I’m sure we can—”
“There’s one thing I never want to be, Layla. Ever.”
The icy hand of dread grips me by the back of the neck. I want to launch myself at him, stop him before he says it. But I’m frozen where I stand. “Landen—”
“A father.” He closes his eyes and lowers his head. “I never want to be a father.” It’s a confession and an apology all in one. Barely spoken above a whisper and yet it feels like he just shouted it in my face. My body caves, crushing my insides.
Seven words. Seven awful words change my entire life. In that moment, the room might as well have split down the center, cracking wide and deep between us.
It wasn’t “I’m nervous about becoming a father,” or “I’m scared of not being a good father,” or even “I didn’t ever plan to become a father.” His words are present tense. And final. I never want to be a father. They echo off the walls, slamming into me over and over. Seven sharp daggers carving into my heart.
His confession turns the chill of anticipation to the hot burn of anger. “Well, it’s kind of late for that. Maybe you should’ve mentioned that one of the, oh, I don’t know, twelve dozen times we had unprotected sex? Or just at any point in the three years we’ve been living together.” I jerk upright and turn but he’s longer, taller, and quicker than I am. He’s on his feet and reaching for me in a split second.
Grabbing me by the arm and spinning me to face him, he pulls me closer in what feels like a hug and a goodbye all at once. My vision is blurry from the tears but I can see the intense anguish on his face.
“Layla, just…let’s just talk for a second. Your aunt said…she mentioned—”
“No,” I say, giving him a forceful push and managing to free myself from his grasp. “Don’t. Don’t say it. I can imagine what she said because she’s the kind of person who sees something in the way of what she thinks is right or necessary and misses the big picture.”
I’m shaking my head, but he continues. “It’s just that, she has a point about—”
“Don’t, please God, don’t,” I choke out. My tears fall and Landen pulls at me again, trying to hug me or hold me or…I don’t even know what. I thrust my arms out in a pathetic attempt to push him away. “Don’t say it.”
“Dammit, Layla! Just think for a second. With your medical condition and my—”
“Stop!” I practically scream at him. “Listen to me, please. Just stop. Just stop talking,” I beg. Reaching up, I place my fingertips against his lips. “Don’t, Landen. Don’t say those words out loud. Because once you do, then we’re ruined. No matter what happens, you’ll never be able to un-say those awful words. Promise me you won’t say them. Promise me.”
Understanding flashes in his eyes and he nods. I remove my hand from his mouth and back up a step, nearly slamming into the computer desk. His gaze flickers to the door and I want to slap him. He always does this. Runs. Bails when anything gets too intense. We’re having a baby he doesn’t want and his idea of dealing with it is going for a run. For the first time since we met almost five years ago, I realize I hate him. Oh, I still love him. But I hate him a little bit too. I didn’t even know I was capable of hatred. The realization makes me feel sick.
I sigh and yank myself away from him.
This is a first. This time, I’m the one who walks out.
The sound of the drywall giving way against my fist is only slightly satisfying. The pain distracts me but only momentarily. For all the years I wished to escape my father and his hatred, I’ve spent more time than I want to admit wishing he was still around to kick my ass. Apparently I’m sick and twisted and need it.
What a great parent I’m going to make.
You are worthless.
The burning heat of my rage flares inside of me. It’s red, darkening to black, and then white-hot and blinding.
You ruin everything.
Glass shatters on the floor but I don’t even know what I’ve hit. My fist connects again with something solid but I don’t feel one iota of relief. So I hit it again and again with the soundtrack of my dad’s voice telling me exactly what he thinks, what he knows, is true.
Her chance to have the ax of doom hanging over our heads removed finally came, and I fucked it up. Life as we knew it is ruined. Destroyed.
Much like our apartment.
When I come to, I’m sitting on our bathroom floor, propped against the doorframe. Surrounded by broken ceramic tiles, a cabinet door I must’ve torn from its hinges, and my own shame.
What the hell?
My left hand hurts like a son of a bitch. Glancing down, I see it’s swollen and my knuckles are caked with dried blood. My right hand isn’t much better. Looks like I clawed my way out of a wooden box.
Jesus.
Groaning, I use the sink to pull myself up. My bloodshot eyes widen in the shattered mirror.
Because it isn’t my reflection staring back at me. It�
��s my father’s.
Before I have time to fully freak the fuck out, I hear the front door open. And there’s a gasp. I turn in the doorway as quickly as I can manage, hoping I can somehow shield her from the destruction.
But I don’t make it.
When I step over the pieces of busted lamp in the middle of the living room floor, she gapes at me. The horror and hurt shine from her face so brightly I can’t look directly at her.
“Baby, I’m…” What am I? There’s nothing I can say to make this any better. I watch her take in the evidence of my rage, watch her run her hand gently over the splintered glass covering the picture her friend Corin took of us when she and Skylar visited last summer.
“You’re broken,” she whispers, eying a vase of seashell pieces she adds to every time we go to the ocean. Miraculously, it’s still intact.
Am I? Pain shoots up my arms as I attempt to clench my fists. Yes, yes I am.
My soul tears in two as I watch her grieve for every piece of damaged furniture. I’m two men now. One of them loves her so much he wants to drop to his knees, beg for forgiveness, and make a million promises—whatever it takes to keep her here. To keep her from saying to hell with this. With me.
The other one sees past the most recent destruction as the older evidence of my temper comes into view. Small cracks and dents I’ve made over the years. I don’t deserve her forgiveness. I’m never going to change.
She needs to see.
She needs to understand.
I can’t do this.
Everyone can leave. I learned at a young age that nothing is forever. No matter how pretty and shiny your life is, it can all change in an instant.