by Malcom, Anne
My period had come on time, lighter and shorter than usual, but I had been too busy with work, too busy trying to forget Wyatt that I barely noticed.
My boobs hurt. I put it down to PMS.
And something felt...different. I couldn’t explain it, but there was an intuition that something in my body wasn’t the same.
I thought it was just residual effects from going through the realization I loved Wyatt and the heartbreak of rejection in such a short amount of time. Plus, jet lag from pushing myself as hard as I could these past weeks. My boss was impressed at the amount of commission I’d earned. I was impressed that I was still standing considering the little amount of sleep I was operating on and the amount of pain I was pretending I didn’t feel.
But the small plus sign staring at me through my own pee told me it wasn’t just jetlag.
“I’m not keeping it,” I said to the empty bathroom. “Of course I’m not.” I chewed my lip, continuing to stare at the little plus sign, not realizing my hand had gone to my stomach, cradling the flat skin protectively.
“I’d be a terrible mother,” I continued speaking to the empty bathroom. “Look at my track history. I’m not fit to take care of myself, let alone another human.”
I got up, snatched my phone, started dialing my doctor so I could schedule a procedure to erase this moment. This evidence of a pain so visceral I was surprised every time I breathed around it.
I paused. My hand was still covering my stomach.
Then I put the phone down.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
There were dark shadows under my eyes, my skin was pale but still clear. My hair was a mess of curls that went down to my bra strap. It was blonde right now, and I guessed it had to stay that way for awhile since I’d heard hair dye was bad for babies.
I glanced around my bathroom. I’d had it completely renovated when I bought the apartment. An irresponsible expense, since there was technically nothing wrong with the master bathroom in the first place. But I’d always had the fantasy of an all-white, princess type bathroom when I was forced to live in a moldy, dirty and rank one for almost eighteen years.
I had enough money, and I did it. The entire floor was white tiles, a huge claw-footed tub was to the left of my vanity, a walk-in shower to the right. The mirror I was currently looking into took up half the wall, it was huge and ornate. All of my fastenings were gold, a theme that carried through my house.
I created the bathroom I’d always dreamed of, all on my own.
I’d yanked myself up from the gutter, pulled myself from the clutches of poverty. I owned a two-bedroom apartment in L.A. Had a job that paid me more than I ever thought I’d be worth. Yeah, I drank too much, slept with too many guys, said the word ‘fuck’ far too often, argued with everyone, and flew to some of the most dangerous places in the world in the name of art, but no one was perfect.
And I knew better than anyone, you didn’t have to be perfect to be a mother.
Which was what I was going to be.
And I had to figure out how to tell the father since he didn’t even remember the act that conceived his baby.
* * *
I didn’t tell anyone for almost a month. Anyone apart from medical professionals, who all informed me my baby was healthy, unaffected by the tequila I’d slammed the day after it was conceived, and prescribed me folic acid that I started to take regularly. I went off the pills that I’d been taking regularly, even though the doctors said they were safe to take while pregnant. A drug which made me even the littlest bit numb from the pain of my past was too fucking strong to be in my bloodstream while I was growing a child inside of me.
I’d just have to deal with the ‘transition’—a doctor’s word—of going off mood stabilizers. I didn’t exactly feel very stable carrying the illegitimate child of a rock star I realized I was in love with two months ago. It would’ve been healthier for me as a mother and me as a human being to get therapy in lieu of a pill bottle, but no way was I opening that can of snakes.
I did everything else I could to turn myself into a healthier mother and borderline healthy human being.
I switched to decaf coffee. Stopped drinking tequila, and champagne. Gave up deli meats. Sushi. Fucking sushi. Who knew that a California Roll could be so damaging to a baby?
I stopped sleeping with random guys to try and fill a hole inside of me that would never heal.
I didn’t realize being pregnant would stop me from enjoying so many of my favorite things.
But even though I was cranky enough to shout at the drive-through operator for forgetting my extra fries and threaten his entire family if he didn’t give me them, plus a free shake for my trauma, I was content. I was scared shitless. But I had no doubt about my decision.
Though there was the case of telling the father.
The father that happened to be a world-famous rock star, whose life was defined by lack of rules, lack of roots. Who had told me he’d never wanted kids as we shared a joint and looked at the ocean a lifetime ago.
Before that, there was the case of telling him he’d had sex with me in the first place.
That was when I wished for tequila.
My hands shook as I closed the door to my car and walked toward the front door of Wyatt’s house. He and Sam used to live here together—despite the fact they could afford their own places—before Sam got married and left Wyatt to be the bachelor of the group. Well, not counting Noah, who I was sure was the most sexually active of them all. He didn’t broadcast it for obvious reasons. Well, obvious to him. None of us cared he was gay, each of the band members openly supported him. But it wasn’t about outward support, it was the inward demons that stopped him. I got it.
I’d been to this house—this mansion—plenty of times before. Spent three nights there, tangled in Wyatt’s arms when we both had to entertain the thought of life without one of our best friends.
It wasn’t like I didn’t have experience going through shitty times in this opulent mansion. It wasn’t like I didn’t have experience going through shitty times, period. But I almost vomited knocking on the door.
Though that could’ve been from morning sickness.
I had my first bout of it yesterday.
Not fun.
Wyatt opened the door not long after I knocked. He knew it was me since I had to announce myself to the security on the property before being let in. Though he didn’t have a violent stalker bent on killing him like Lexie had, there were still thousands of girls who wanted to break in and steal his underwear or whatever.
I wondered what the aforementioned girls would think when they found out he was a father—and they’d find out.
I hadn’t given that any thought. Which was insane. When a rock star impregnated you, the first thing you should’ve thought of was the fact that a rock star impregnated you.
But he’d never been a rock star to me. He’d always just been Wyatt. I’d been too busy trying to figure out my new position as a mother, and stressing about telling Wyatt he was going to be a father, I forgot about his position on the world stage. About the fact he was plastered in magazines when he was just walking into a fucking Walgreens.
My stomach heaved with the knowledge of just how public Wyatt’s life was. How little privacy he was afforded. How everyone in and out of his life was splashed all over the media, pulled to pieces so society could inspect them, judge them.
Gina had gone through that when she and Sam first got together and it had almost torn them apart.
The thought of having to go through that, having the world take me apart and measure me—to find me lacking, it was terrifying.
And for a helpless child to go through that?
Wyatt interrupted that vile thought by yanking me into his arms. “Em,” he said into my hair. The way he said it, it was like an exhale. Like seeing me was some sort of relief.
But that was a wackadoodle thought.
Must’ve been pregnancy hormones.
Wyatt let me go and pulled me into the house.
Even though I’d been before, it was still jarring to think that my apartment—the one I was proud of, the one I’d worked my ass off just to afford a down payment on—could almost comfortably fit inside the yawning foyer of his house.
There were two separate staircases on either side of the entranceway. And a chandelier. Matte black. Ostentatious. A leftover from Sam’s residence. The house had been originally built by old money, opulent, elegant in style, but the boys had made sure it was apparent the place was owned by rock stars now. Famous instruments and records were framed on walls. Some art that I’d cultivated for them were scattered through. A huge, bright red grand piano sat in the middle of the foyer, covered in what looked like scribbles. When you got closer—or if you knew better—you’d see that the scribbles were autographs of some of the most famous musicians in the world.
“You don’t write, you don’t call,” Wyatt said. “I’ve almost forgotten what you look like.” He let me go to run his eyes up and down my body.
My skin electrified with his gaze.
“Yeah, still gorgeous,” he muttered. He tilted his head, inspecting me. I almost squirmed under his gaze. I’d taken care with my outfit today, all black of course. Tailored wide leg pants, my highest heels, and a Metallica tee, ripped to show my midriff. It was still flat, without evidence of the human growing inside of it, so I was making the most of it. My hair was curled and let out, tumbling down my shoulders. My makeup was always the same, minimal—though more concealer than usual to cover up my eye bags—red lipstick and a winged liner.
“You look different, though,” Wyatt continued.
Probably the thin sheen of sweat making my forehead glisten, or the terror no doubt whitening my already pale face.
“I’m taking multivitamins and drinking water,” I shot back self-consciously cursing myself for wearing the cropped top. Maybe the angles in my mirror weren’t as truthful as I thought. “I hear that’s what adults do.”
He grinned and rolled his eyes. “Since when were we adults? Beer or tequila? Wait, it’s you. Both.” He winked.
“No,” I all but screamed at him before he walked away. “I didn’t come here to drink, I need to talk to you.”
Something must’ve registered in my tone because his smile dimmed slightly. “A conversation without tequila? Wow. Please don’t tell me you’re gettin’ married.” He glared at my naked finger. “If that’s the reason you’ve avoided my calls for two months then I’m gonna have to meet the dude.” His tone was iron, eyes hard with an anger that was unfamiliar. He’d never had anything to say about guys I’d dated in the past. Then again, I fucked guys, didn’t date. And the few times it was mentioned in front of him, he got a milder version of this look.
“No,” I said. “I’m not engaged.”
“Thank fuck,” he muttered.
Silence yawned on after he spoke. I wasn’t quite sure how I was meant to start this. It wasn’t exactly a conversation that I had experience in. And it wasn’t one I’d ever thought I’d had to have with Wyatt.
But it needed to be done. I couldn’t hide my pregnancy forever. Even if I didn’t tell him he was the father, Wyatt would’ve made it his business to find out.
“Do you remember that night?” I asked finally, not making eye contact. “The one where you got really drunk—”
“And you didn’t tell Sam anything embarrassing about me?” he said, grinning. “Yeah, I remember. My liver definitely still remembers.” He winced at the memory.
I bit my lip, my nausea so strong I worried I was gonna barf instead of speak. “Well, there’s something you don’t remember...” I trailed off, trying to find the words and coming up short.
“Oh, fuck, I knew there was something,” he said, his grin disappearing. “You’ve been ignoring me since that night. What did I do? I swear I’d never—"
“We had sex,” I blurted.
He blinked, his face blank. “Come again?”
I took a breath, trying to make sure I wasn’t going to be sick. “When I got to the beach house, you were drunk but no different than your usual. I was also drunk, but not that drunk. I decided to try and play catch up, but even I couldn’t match you that night. I still have my memories intact, though my common sense was not. I don’t remember who came onto who. We were both drinking away some demons, so I’m sure it was mutual. I didn’t think you weren’t...in control. I thought you...” I stopped myself from saying, ‘I thought you wanted me.’ “I didn’t realize it was something you didn’t want to do while sober.”
Wyatt’s body was taut, and his gaze never left mine. “No, Emma,” he growled. “It’s something I’d only want to do while sober. No way would I want to be drunk enough to forget something like that.”
My heart skipped into my throat. I swallowed it with effort. “Well you were, and you did.”
He folded his arms, frowning. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I rolled my eyes. “Well when I came back with coffees I knew we’d both need and realized you had no memory of it, forgive me for not announcing to Sam, Gina, their infant child and your publicity team, how utterly forgettable I am in bed,” I snapped.
He jerked like I hit him. “No fucking way would you be forgettable.”
“You have literally proved yourself wrong on that score,” I shot back, impressed I was able to keep my tone sharp.
He stepped forward, his eyes dark. “Well, let me make sure that I’ll prove myself right this time. I’m stone cold sober.”
I scuttled back, putting my hand up to stop his advance, despite the fact my panties dampened at the sex in his gaze, in his voice. The way he looked at me, unlike anything he’d ever hinted at before.
“No, there’s more,” I said, my voice more than a whisper.
He froze. “I didn’t...hurt you?” he choked the words out.
I forced myself to laugh coldly. “No, Wyatt, if anyone’s gonna do the hurting in the bedroom, it’s me.”
I regretted that the second it came out, since Wyatt’s gaze darkened once more, sex saturating the air. I needed to stop this before I forgot what I was here for and let him make good on the promise his eyes gave me.
“I’m pregnant,” I said. I made sure to keep my voice flat, my expression blank.
He blinked. Then he looked down at my stomach. Then back up. He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile, no outward signs of joy. If anything, he looked like I’d just told him I had some kind of terminal disease.
I pretended that didn’t hurt.
But it fucking killed.
“It’s yours,” I clarified. “I know you’re a big star and you probably have hundreds of girls trying to trap you into a pregnancy so I’ll be happy to do blood tests—”
“I believe you,” he cut me off.
I nodded. “Well, good, ‘cause I don’t like needles. Um, I have no expectations. If you don’t want to be involved in the baby’s life then—”
“You’re keeping it?” he cut me off again.
This time I couldn’t pretend that didn’t hurt. I flinched. His shock, his disdain that I wasn’t terminating my pregnancy scored at my flesh. At my soul. “Yeah, I’m keeping it,” I yanked the words out with effort.
I had an urge to cradle my stomach, to protect the being inside from the words. I’d been brought up where I wasn’t wanted, my mother had told me more than once she’d wished she’d “taken a coat hanger to me.” Never would I let my child think for a second they were unwanted.
And that’s what Wyatt was communicating right now.
How unwanted this news was. How unwanted I was. My baby was.
He sighed, ran his hands through his hair, the hair that girls screamed over, the tattoos hands that thousands of women imagined on their skin. Hands that had touched their fair share of women—he was a rock star after all and voted the sexiest man of the year. He was living up to his reputation.
And by the looks of it, the sexiest rock star
did not want to add ‘father’ to his list of titles. I didn’t know why I was disappointed. I didn’t understand why the hurt from that sigh, that expression cut through my fucking bones. What did I expect? Throwing an unplanned pregnancy on a man who lived a life like he did?
I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking I’d be the woman that changed him. In that secret heart of mine, I was hoping I’d create some sort of family with this man who I’d known since a teenager and just realized I was in love with three months ago.
“Fuck, Emma,” he said finally. “This isn’t...” He trailed off, seemingly unable to find words. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m not cut out to be a father.”
I swallowed glass. “Yeah, I’m not cut out to be a mother, but it seems that’s what I’m gonna be in about seven months.” The words chilled me, sent me into an emotional spin at the reality of it. A mother. Me. The woman who swore she’d never bring a child into this ugly, brutal, and painful world. A child fathered by a man she’d sworn she’d never let get tangled up in her ugly, brutal, and painful world.
Wyatt didn’t speak for a long time. Nor did he look at me.
I thought I wanted him to do that, to give me some kind of eye contact that wasn’t this sense of rejection, of dismissal. Worse because he wasn’t just dismissing me, he was dismissing my baby.
But when his eyes met mine, I longed for the lack of his gaze. Because his face was empty, guarded. Detached. “I thought you didn’t want kids.” His words were as two dimensional as his gaze. There was accusation in them.
“I don’t,” I replied. “I didn’t,” I corrected.
He waited for more.
I couldn’t tell him that I was already inexplicably attached to the being inside of me that was little more than a collection of cells. I couldn’t tell him that the thought of getting rid of something so helpless turned my thoughts into razors, cutting at my insides.
“This isn’t me trapping you. I can do this quite sufficiently on my own. I’m not asking you for anything,” I said instead.
He stared at me for a long time. “I’m sorry, Em, I just don’t think I can give anything.”