Stuck with You: A ONE WEEK Novella

by Carmen, Roya

  My heart is bleeding but I know we need to do this. “Well, you know me… I’m pretty open. No life. But come September, I might be in school.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking at college programs right now. I’m thinking Publishing. You know how I’ve always loved books.”

  “That’s great, Corrie,” he says, and he sounds sincere.

  “Thanks.”

  “Listen,” he goes on, pausing for a beat. “I also wanted you to know that I’ve joined Match.com. Going on my fist date tonight, actually.”

  His words sting but I’m happy for him. He’s finally moving on.

  “That’s great,” I say. “Actually, Gabbie’s been talking about setting me up with a friend of Eli’s. You think I should go for it?”

  “Why not?” he says, and there’s enthusiasm in his voice. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

  “True.”

  “Okay… well, I’ll set something up and text you the info,” he says. “You let me know if you need to reschedule.”

  “Yes, thanks, Jacob.”

  “Have a great day.”

  “You too,” I reply, and as soon as I end the call, I fall into sobs.

  * * *

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’ve let Gabbie talk me into this. A date with a complete stranger — I’ve never done this before. It feels weird as hell as I sit by the hostess desk, waiting for this mysterious man. I have to admit that the restaurant he’s picked out is very nice. The ceiling is glittery and the black chandeliers are gorgeous. I’m staring up at them when I’m startled by a voice, a ‘nails scratching down a blackboard’ kind of voice.

  “You must be Corrie,” he says.

  I stand to greet him. He’s tall. Too tall. Despite the fact that I’m short, I like tall men. Heck, Jacob is tall. But this guy is too slim to pull off his six foot two-ish frame. I can see how some women would find him attractive, but he’s not my type. One eye is covered by a blond fringe, and the other one assesses me unapologetically, from head to toe, and back up again. I wonder if he likes what he sees. He’s probably judging me too: too short, tits and ass too small.

  Whatever.

  We exchange quick pleasantries, and he approaches the hostess. “Table for two, under Richard Gladman.”

  She smiles and consults her digital tablet. “Yes, come with me.”

  We follow the curvy hostess to our table. He doesn’t pull the chair for me, but that’s okay. I don’t think anyone does that anymore. Except for Jacob. Chivalry is dead.

  “Your server will be right over with menus and water,” she tells us, and as she turns to leave, I catch him stealing a glance of her ass. Actually, glance is not the right word, because he stares at it until she’s out of sight.

  Finally, he turns back to me. “So what do you do, Corrie?” are the first words out of his mouth. I hate this question. It’s so superficial. He’s assessing me, making a mental list of my pros and cons.

  “Well, I used to work as a paralegal, but presently I’m not working, and am looking to go to college in the fall to study publishing.” It’s a good answer. It beats, I do yoga, shop, watch Netflix and walk my dogs all day. I’m a kept woman.

  “What do you do?” I ask, turning the tables on him.

  “Actually, I’m an orthodontist,” he tells me proudly. “You’ve had some work done, I can tell. You have a beautiful smile.”

  I can practically see the start of his list in my head.

  Pro: Beautiful Smile. Con: Small tits.

  “So how do you know Eli?” I ask, doing my best to keep the conversation going.

  “I bought a piece from him,” he tells me. “He’s very talented. I’m decorating my condo right now and I only want the best. I just spent five thousand on my sectional but it’s worth every penny.”

  “Nice,” I deadpan. It’s so uncouth to brag about one’s money. Jacob has money but he never gloats about it. I stare down at my shoes, wishing I were anywhere but here. I need a drink.

  I order the avocado shrimp salad, and he orders a steak, medium rare. We chat mostly about him, about his practice and his new condo. He doesn't ask any questions about me, but I don’t care because I’ve already written him off. I’m pretty sure he’ll offer to pay for the meal. How could he not, after bragging all night about his money.

  He annoys me. I stare at my empty glass of sangria. It’s full of ice. It went down quickly because there was probably only about two ounces of it. What a rip-off. I’m probably not paying for it, but it still pisses me off. They charge twelve dollars for that shit.

  “Did you want me to order you another sangria?” Richard asks.

  I do need one. “Uh… I’m not a drunk, I swear. There was barely any sangria in there.”

  He stares at the glass. “I can see that. That’s a lot of ice.”

  He waves the server over, and orders me another one.

  “Hopefully, the next one will be better,” I say with a smile.

  We’re polishing off our meals when the server arrives with another sangria. It’s just like the other one — delicious but full of ice. After three sips, I’m done. I want another one, and I’m peeved.

  “This is bullshit,” I scoff. The words shock not only Richard, but myself as well. “They’re basically charging twelve dollars for ice!”

  I want him to agree with me. I want him to stand up and scream, What a bunch of thieves! They’re robbing us blind! But all he says is, “It’s just the way it is. All these restaurants are the same. That’s how they make their money.”

  I’m not going to accept this. I’m making a stand. This is wrong, and someone needs to speak up.

  As soon as I see our server, I wave her over. I spot the mortification wash over Richard’s face — he’s turning crimson.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I start off very politely. “But look at this drink. It’s all ice.”

  The server stares at my glass with a blank expression, not sure how to respond.

  “It’s a rip-off,” I go on. “Don’t you think?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure the bartender pours the sangria first, then adds the ice, so…”

  “So what?!” I snap.

  “Uh… I can talk to the manager,” she says kindly. “See what he says.”

  “Yeah, you go do that,” I scoff.

  “Corrie…” Richard says. “Don’t make a scene.”

  “I’m not making a scene,” I snap. “I’m just getting what’s coming to us. You like getting ripped off, do you?” I’m speaking a little too loudly, and heads are turned toward us.

  “Corrie, please,” Richard pleads, completely mortified.

  Pro: Nice hair. Con: Crazy

  When the manager comes to see us, he apologizes and offers me another sangria at no charge. I accept politely, and when the server arrives with it, it contains three cubes of ice. I’m impressed, but a bit afraid that someone may have spit in it.

  “There you go,” Richard says, and I know he’s already written me off too. This date was a disaster.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m going through a divorce, and my ex is dating again,” I explain. “I’m a mess.”

  He nods politely.

  As if I haven’t embarrassed myself enough, I go on. “I think I may also be having PMS.”

  He smiles. “Oh yeah… PMS. My old girlfriend used to get that pretty bad. It’s probably the reason we broke up.”

  I smile and shut the hell up. He pays for the meal, which I appreciate. I thank him for the date before I head off to my car. I think we both know there won’t be a second date.

  As I’m walking back to my car, I go over the night’s events. I don’t know why I’m so bitchy. I know I wasn’t really happy about Jacob going on a date, but that was a week ago, and I’m glad he’s moving on. It must be PMS. My breasts are sore, and I feel bloated — telltale signs.

  I check my phone calen
dar, and I almost trip over my own feet when I see when my last period was — six weeks ago. I’m late. I’ve been late before. A day here. Two days there. Three days. My cycle has been irregular, and it devastates me because that kind of thing is a sign of peri-menopause, and I’m way too young for that shit. Peri-menopause doesn't usually hit until the forties.

  But what if?

  It couldn’t be.

  I won’t delude myself. It’s probably just my hormones out of whack. Regardless, I know I won’t be able to get a wink of sleep unless I know for sure.

  I zoom to the closest drugstore and dash in. I run right to the contraceptives aisle, and grab a pregnancy test. The cashier smiles at me when she rings it in.

  I stare down at the small bag in my hand, knowing this will probably end badly. Let’s face it, chances of me being pregnant are next to nil. I can’t do this alone. I need someone by my side. I think about heading to Jacob’s, but I really shouldn’t be seeing him, and I don’t want to get his hopes up. I can’t go to him.

  I hop into my car, knowing exactly where to go.

  Kayla swings the door open eagerly. “What’s going on, Corrie? Why are you popping up in the middle of the night?” She’s already in her PJs, her cat, Mitzy at her feet. Oscar is lounging on the sofa, watching sports. “Come in.”

  “It’s personal,” I whisper.

  Her eyes grow wide. “Let’s go to my room.”

  I wave hello to Oscar. He’s cuddling with his cat — the sight is kind of sweet. “Hey, Corrie. How’s it going?” he asks.

  “Good,” I say, my voice small.

  As soon as the bedroom door closes, I blurt it out. “I’m late.”

  Kayla is pleasantly shocked. “Really?” She already knows all about my weekend at the lake. She knows that I’ve relapsed and slept with Jacob three times.

  I fish the test out of my purse. “I bought a pregnancy test.”

  We both just stand there, staring at each other for a beat or two.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” she finally says. “Do you have to pee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, get to it,” she urges.

  “But what if it’s negative?” I ask, pleading with her to say the right thing.

  “If it’s negative, you’ll still have me, and all your friends. We’re right here. And I happen to have your favorite movies on DVD, and a tub of Haagen-Dazs in the freezer. And Oscar has a huge bag of Doritos, which I’m sure he’d be willing to share. I know how you love those.”

  I give her a huge hug, and dash to the washroom, my heart beating a mile a minute.

  I’m squatting over the toilet, my hand between my legs, holding on for dear life to the pee stick. I’m shaking, wondering what will happen next.

  I’m in tears as I wash my hands, as I stare at the test, at the small window. It’s simple — a plus sign means pregnant, and a minus sign means not.

  When I see the plus sign appear slowly, I think I’m imagining it. I’ve taken pregnancy tests before but I’ve never seen a positive. I fear my mind might be playing tricks on me because I want this so much. But as the sign deepens, I have hope.

  I dash out of the bathroom, stick in hand. “What do you see?” I ask Kayla.

  She screams. “Woo-hoo. You’re pregnant, Corrie. You’re really pregnant.”

  She sees it too. It must be real.

  We hug each other and jump up and down like school girls. Her cat eyes us curiously.

  “What’s going on?” Oscar asks, confused.

  “Corrie’s pregnant,” Kayla cheers.

  Corrie’s pregnant.

  I never thought I’d ever hear those words. Not in a million years.

  17

  The last six weeks have been pure agony. I’m convinced that I can’t possibly carry this baby to term, that I’m sure to miscarry. After years of looking at my body as a failure, how can I not be paranoid.

  Every morning, I breathe a sigh of relief when I stare down at my panties and see nothing. I count down the days. I’ve been to see Doctor Riley and she assures me that everything seems to be running smoothly, and the fact that it’s taken me so long to conceive does not indicate in any way that I’m more likely to miscarry. Although she is very diplomatic when she does point out that women my age have a higher chance of miscarriage.

  I’ve been dodging Jacob’s calls, avoiding him at all costs. I just know that if he sees my face, he’ll know that something’s up — he knows me too well. I don’t want him to know. I don’t want to let him down again. I don’t want to get his hopes up. So I cross off another day, I eat healthy and take my prenatal vitamins, and I try to keep busy to distract myself. And despite the fact that I’m not religious, I say a little prayer every day.

  I’ve sworn Kayla to secrecy — no one else knows. She promises not to say a word until I’ve reached twelve weeks — the magic number. Once you've reached twelve weeks, the chances of miscarriage are very small.

  Abby and Baxter know all about it, of course. I’ve promised them that nothing will change when the baby gets here — they’ll still be my babies too.

  * * *

  I’m dreaming, and I hear a loud ring in the distance. It gets louder and louder as I inch closer to the sound. I startle awake — my home phone is ringing, the sound grating. No one calls my home phone with the exception of my mom, Jacob and telemarketers. I shove a pillow over my face and let it go to voicemail. My heart skips a beat when I hear Jacob’s voice.

  “Hey, Corrie. I know you’re around, and you’re avoiding me again. What’s going on, Corrie? Tell me what’s going on. I don’t get it. One minute, you’re telling me to move on and get this divorce rolling. And the next, you’re avoiding my calls and cancelling meetings. It’s kind of hard to get things finalized when you won’t come to a meeting or sign anything. We need to talk, sweetie…” His words trail off, and then he adds, “Hope you’re well, Corrie. I love you.”

  I sit up on the bed and count the days in my head. Three days. In three days, I’ll be officially twelve weeks. I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning.

  I bounce off the bed and call him right back. Abby and Baxter are already at my feet.

  “Hello, Corrie,” he answers. “Well, what do you know… you’re alive.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

  “What’s going on, Corrie?”

  “You want to meet for lunch on Friday?”

  “This Friday?” he asks.

  “Yes, this Friday… in three days.”

  “And you’ll tell me what’s going on?” he asks. “I’m worried about you.”

  I smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay, bye. Looking forward to it.”

  I can barely contain my excitement. “Me too. Bye, Jacob.”

  * * *

  I’m dressed to the nines; a pretty red shift dress, a little snug at the waist, paired with red peep-toe heels. We’re meeting at our favorite spot. I can’t stop fidgeting as I wait for him by the entrance — I feel like I’m on a first date.

  Finally, I see him in the distance. He’s beautiful in his usual suit. His beard is trimmed neatly and his hair is slicked back, in need of a haircut again. His face lights up as he eyes me, from head to toe. “You look amazing,” he says before planting a sweet peck on my cheek.

  “You too.”

  He smiles. “I look exactly the same every day.”

  “I like the tie.”

  He tears his eyes from me to speak with the hostess. She leads us to our table. When she leaves, he turns to me again. “Seriously, there’s something about you… you look really healthy… happy,” he says with a dash of concern. I can almost see the gears turning in his head — he’s probably wondering if I’m seeing someone.

  “Well, I’ve gained a few pounds,” I tell him, smiling wide.

  “Well, it looks great on you. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

  I bite my bottom lip, not knowing how to make the big announce
ment. I haven’t thought this through. All I know is that I want to tell him in person. And now, with him sitting in front of me, his beautiful eyes on me, I’m frozen.

  “What’s going on, Corrie?” he asks again, concerned.

  My eyes well up. I can’t help it. I’m just so happy, I could explode.

  “What is it, Corrie?!” he asks. Now he’s really worried. “You know you can tell me anything. Whatever it is, I’m here for you.”

  I’m full-on sobbing now, sniveling into the palm of my hand. I swallow hard and finally choke out, “I’m pregnant.”

  His jaw drops, and for a second, he’s speechless, which is very unlike him.

  I nod at him repeatedly, confirming what he’s heard. I know he doesn’t believe it.

  “How far along?” he asks. He’s worried just as I was.

  “Twelve weeks today,” I tell him. “I would have told you sooner but I was so afraid to miscarry. I didn’t want to get your hopes up for nothing.”

  He presses his lips together, trying to hold back the tears but it’s no use.

  “I guess one of those three times was the winner,” I say, all smiles. “I’m so glad I let you have your way with me.”

  He rubs his face, still speechless. His eyes are brimming, full of emotion.

  “I’m so sorry, Jacob. I’m so sorry for what I’ve put us both through. I just thought you’d be better off without me…”

  He shakes his head, still in tears. “How could I be?”

  “I love you so much,” I try to explain, “and I just wanted you to have everything you deserve.”

  “All I ever wanted was you, Corrie.”

  Now I’m sobbing too — we are quite the sight.

  The server comes our way, oblivious. “Oh, um… I’ll give you folks a minute, and come back later.”

  “I know you went though a lot growing up, Corrie, but you never have to worry with me. I’m not your dad. I won’t ever leave you. I’ll always be there for you and the baby.”

  My heart swells — I’m so glad I haven’t managed to screw everything up. “Does that mean… that you don’t hate me?”