Chapter 8

Eight

With the Jerk away in London, I slowly piece my life back together again. Jason still hasn’t contacted me, yet every week a realtor shows prospective buyers around. I am not in a financial position to buy him out, so I settle for apartment hunting in a more affordable neighborhood. Nevertheless, I started packing my belongings and getting rid of items I no longer need like my MC Hammer pants from the nineties. There’s nostalgia, and then there is just plain hoarding. Hammer pants fall into the hoarding category though my mother would argue that in a heartbeart.

As Marcus promised, we had fun. Fun is hitting the clubs, late-night dinners, and of course, hot sex with a confirmed twenty-seven-year-old. He didn’t tell me directly, but when he took a shower at my place, I ‘stumbled’ upon his license. On a drunk bender one night, he asked my age. I wasn’t going to lie, and when I asked him if he had a problem with that, he replied by taking me back to his place and making me come on his roommate’s expensive leather sofa.

He told me only after that his roommate is his cousin, Haden.

From that moment, we only ever have sex at my place.

The Jerk virtually disappeared, and occasionally, Mr. Sadler would send out a group email in which Haden would respond. That was it in terms of contact. He never once tried to text or send me anything work-related, so it was easy to assume that the drunken night in the alley was all in the past and could easily be forgotten.

Marcus is fun, he makes me forget the stresses of everyday life, including my bad bout with the flu a couple of weeks back. I am not sure I saw it going anywhere, I simply enjoy his company, and for once in my life, I am happy to go with the flow. Very un-Presley like.

Then it all went pear-shaped—he said he loved me.

It happened last week at the Bon Jovi concert. The third beer of the night and halfway through ‘Bed of Roses,’ he pulls me into an embrace and whispers into my ear, “I think I love you, Presley Malone.”

My instant reaction was to dry heave, which ultimately had me running for the bathroom, so I could projectile vomit my fears into the dirty toilet. How do you tell someone, “Oh, hey, thanks for saying I love you, but I don’t feel the same way? However, it’s nice to know you care.”

I remember walking back to him and the puppy-dog look on his face when he saw me. It was the look of being in love. I simply smiled, told him thank you, and changed the subject by telling him that I wasn’t feeling too great. He didn’t seem to think there was an issue, so after the final song, we made our way home, and I pulled out the ‘Period’ card. He understood and left me alone.

It wasn’t a complete lie. I was almost due, and this month I was predicting a bitch of a cycle since the past three months had been light.

That bitch never came, and the emergency sirens were ringing, sending Vicky to the rescue.

It happened too fast. Starting off with a joke, then an impromptu trip to the drug store which lead to the moment of disabelief.

“It’s blue.”

Frozen on the spot, I stare at the little blue line and its evil twin. My skin tingles in discomfort as my chest tightens, restricting my ability to breathe so effortlessly.

This cannot be happening.

I am not irresponsible!

I got straight-A’s in sex education class. I paid close attention to that condom being placed on the banana. In fact, I even took notes.

“No shit, but are there two lines?” Vicky is panicked, walking back and forth in the confined bathroom, or what I like to call my personal hell.

Without saying a word, I hand it over, wrong end first as Vicky snatches it away from me.

“Oh gross, I’m touching your pee.” It falls to the floor, not that it matters—the damage is done.

“Is it Marcus’?”

Mental calculations of who you were sleeping with at a specific time scream ‘slut’ like nothing else. With Marcus, I stuck to my five-month-rule, minus four months, two weeks, and four days. Turns out the older you get, the shorter the timespan.

“Okay, let’s take it into the living room with some Chinese takeout and get to the bottom of this,” Vicky reassures me.

An hour later, the Chinese delivery guy has delivered our food, and Vicky is wearing her Sherlock Holmes’ cap and glasses. When it comes to sticky situations, Vicky Flinders is the person you want by your side. Despite nausea sitting in the pit of my stomach, I shove food into my mouth, not allowing myself any air to breathe.

“When did you last get your period?”

“Like, a month ago? It was an odd color and lighter than usual.”

“You can still get your period while you’re pregnant.”

“Marcus and I only started sleeping together not long ago, and to be honest, he has an obsession with blowjobs, so we don’t really have intercourse as much as you might think,” I mumble, in confusion.

“Okay, that’s a lot of information for me to take in. What is it with men and blowjobs? You know, it could be Haden’s or Jason’s—”

“Wh… why would it be Haden’s?”The anxiety is curling in my stomach at the mention of his name. I hadn’t even thought of him being part of this equation. My immediate thoughts went to Marcus. Even Jason seemed so far-fetched. Yet it would be my preferred option if given a choice. I am barely containing my tears, choking them back trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

“Uh, because he stuck his GI Joe in your Polly Pocket?”

I almost choke on my eggroll. “You’re getting cruder with age.”

“I prefer the term ‘wiser,’” she corrects me. “So?”

“Look, Vicks, he wore a condom… I think.” God, I sound like a whore. “But if I didn’t come, then he probably didn’t.”

Vicky spits out her drink all over my coffee table. Disgusted, I quickly grab some paper towels to wipe it down, mumbling under my breath at her disregard for a sanitary environment though it should be the least of my problems.

“You can’t be that gullible. If I know Haden, the jerk blew his load and left you hanging, wanting more.”

“I don’t know,” I barely admit. “As for Jason, we hadn’t had sex since his trip back from Chicago. That was so long ago. Surely, if it were his, I’d be showing right now.”

My mind is reeling with all this information, all the while reminding me how unbelievably stupid and irresponsible I am. I take a step back and ponder the scientific side of things, but Vicky interrupts my thoughts.

“So that was like…” Counting her fingers, Vicky does the math that my brain refuses to compute. “That was like five months ago, right? And you fucked Haden four months ago? So, it’s simple, you get your blood test done and see how far along you are. Then you’ll know who the baby daddy is.”

Oh, dear God, baby daddy. This is not supposed to be how I bring a child into this world. I should be married, or at least living with the man. Love should have been the reason for this lifechanging moment—not some careless rendezvous fueled by desire.

“Vicky, it has to be Marcus’ baby. I’m not ready for this, plus he’s so young and not ready to be a father. How can this happen?” I yell in frustration.

“Well, you weren’t exactly being responsible.”

“I was on the goddamn pill back then! Besides, we always use condoms.”

“Oh,” Vicky mouths. “Well, it says on the warning label that the pill is only ninety-nine percent effective and condoms can break. Maybe you’re one of those super fertile women, and Marcus has super sperm, and together it can break through anything.”

“This isn’t a joke. I can’t be that one percent, Vicky.”

“Someone has to be,” she points out. “Why would you stop the pill?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see the point since I wasn’t in a relationship anymore,” I sulk, burying my face into my hands. “I have no idea who I am anymore. I got so caught up in having fun and didn’t think it would be a big deal since we used protection anyway.”

I sink into the sofa, smothering myself with cushions and praying they would turn into monsters and suffocate me to death. Instead, I sit here feeling like a cheap hooker from some reality TV show. How could I not know who the father is of the baby I’m carrying? This isn’t how I was raised or who I am. I know better than this.

“It’s okay to cry, Pres.” Vicky rubs my shoulder.

My hands are shaking. “I don’t want to cry. I’m so angry at myself. How could I be so irresponsible? I planned to have kids with the right man when we were married. I didn’t sign up for being a single mother. What will my parents think? What will everyone think?”

“It doesn’t matter what everyone thinks, Pres. This is your life, not theirs.” She continues, “As for your parents… they’ll get over the initial shock, and I’m sure they’ll be excited to have a grandbaby. It’s not like Gemma is popping one out any time soon, you know, eating pussy and all.”

“Vicky!”

“What? It’s true. You’ll look back at this moment one day and be thankful you’re blessed with a child. Think about all those women trying their asses off… well, not their asses, but you know what I mean.”

“So, in the meantime, can I wish I could climb into a time machine and stay celibate?”

“Yes, but first you need to find out who the baby daddy is. Then you can revert to OCD Presley and plan your life away.”

* * *

Stupid doctor’s office with its sterile walls that make you feel like you’re in a nuthouse.

It took me a week to find the courage to make an appointment and have my blood taken. In that week, I avoided Marcus at all costs with every believable excuse I could muster. He understood but warned me that if he hadn’t fucked me by Saturday, I was in major trouble.

What does a pregnant woman say to that? I had no response but to send him a smiley face.

“Miss Malone, I have your results here.”

Dr. Taylor procrastinates in the most annoying way possible. He’s pushing close to a hundred— okay, exaggerating a little—and even the way he writes everything on paper versus using a computer bugs me.

Hormones—blame the hormones.

“You’re definitely pregnant, and the blood work shows you’re about four months along.”

The lump in my throat is the size of the planet, Jupiter. My chest tightens, constricting my ability to breathe, and my eyes start to twitch followed by the room spinning. Dr. Taylor is concerned, calling my name in the distance. I focus on his face, mumbling the question that is bursting to come out.

“So, when you say four months, I fell pregnant around…”

“March,” he confirms.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

This. Cannot. Be. Happening.

“But it was only one time,” I beg, almost in tears. “I was on the pill back then, and we used condoms.”

“Miss Malone, I always advise my patients that the pill is only ninety-nine percent effective. You did the right thing using a condom, but even condoms aren’t one hundred percent.”

“Why does everyone say that?” I raise my voice. “I can’t be pregnant! If nothing’s one hundred percent, then why are people having sex?”

“Abstinence is your one hundred percent,” he reminds me.

What a stupid remark. No one is going to abstain from having sex.

“I was with the same man before that for five years. I was on the pill, but that’s it. How come I didn’t fall pregnant with him?”

“It could be several things. Perhaps you weren’t actually having intercourse during ovulation, but most likely you’ve found a male partner with strong sperm that’s extremely compatible with your eggs.”

Dr. Taylor retrieves a pamphlet from his desk, sliding it in front of me. The front has a picture of a woman, and clearly printed are the words, What You Need to Know About Abortions.

A sudden reflex, and I slide it back to him. “I can’t do that.”

“I understand. It’s an option, one we don’t encourage, but sometimes it helps to know your options. You don’t have long, though, if that’s the option you want to take.”

“I’m thirty-two, Dr. Taylor. I have a secure job, money saved, and my own place. Well, kind of. I didn’t plan this, I’m not sure the father will take this well nor will he be present in the child’s life, but I do know one thing for sure…” I say without taking a breath, “… I was raised in a religious family. My sister is a lesbian, but my family accepted her choices. My parents will be disappointed in me, but I know deep down inside, this has to be counted as a blessing.”

At that moment, I realize this is not a therapy session, and I’m not quite sure why I brought up that my sister is a lesbian. Then it dawns on me that I need validation. I can’t be a single mom without the support of my family. Gemma was eighteen when she told my parents she wasn’t interested in men. At first, my mom cried for a whole week and even tried bringing nice boys home. Of course, it didn’t work. Gemma was not switching teams. My parents eventually accepted her decision, and now they are persuading Gemma and her partner, Mel, to get married.

If they accepted homosexuality, they can accept I’m going to be a single mom.

“So, I take it you’re not in a relationship with the father?”

“Three words for you, Doc. One. Night. Stand.”

I see pity or maybe even a little bit of judgment in his eyes. He carries on about prenatal appointments, supplements, and other things that are flying in one ear and out the other. In my head, I only see the look on the Jerk’s face when I tell him.

Or maybe I don’t tell him?

No. No, I have to tell him.

Then there is Marcus.

This is too much to think about, so I opt for a quick escape, head to the nearest supermarket, and fill my cart full of chocolate. The checkout lady is definitely judging me, and I am quick to ease her curiosity.

“I just found out I’m knocked up after a one-night stand. I work in the same office as him, plus he’s a jerk.”

“You eat that chocolate, girl, and you enjoy it,” she tells me, even discounting my total at the end.

It’s a long walk back to my apartment, and as soon as I open the door, the boxes packed against the wall remind me of what’s to come.

How can I have a baby when I soon will have no place to live?

How can I continue working, and who would take care of the baby?

The questions keep flooding my brain until I’m forced to sit down with a migraine of epic proportions.

I fall asleep, and when I wake up, it’s dark outside.

My phone lights the room, and I pick it up to read the text.

Marcus: Raincheck tomorrow night, babe. Haden’s back in town and boy does he have a surprise.

The phone slips out of my hand and onto the floor.

Running fast to the bathroom, I vomit profusely into the toilet. My unruly hair is mangled in my face, forcing me to turn the shower on. As the steam fills the bathroom, I undress and stare at my naked body in the mirror. My stomach still looks flat, and even as I turn to the side, nothing appears to be different. My breasts, however, they look like giant balloons. How did I not notice this before? There is a swell just underneath my nipples. When I touch them, my body jolts at the unpleasant tingle that follows. Even the color looks slightly different, darker.

The steam soon covers the mirror. I climb into the shower and allow the hot water to wash my worries away.

I have to be the adult here. He deserves to know the truth, even if he doesn’t want anything to do with us.

Us.

I will tell him in person.

Tomorrow.

No, maybe Monday.

Or maybe I’ll wait until I’m showing, and he works it out for himself.

Yep, I’m screwed any way you look at it.