Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Of course,” Micky says.
“We won’t be back too late,” Seb adds. “Just message us if you need anything. We can be back in less than twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, even as I want to rest my hand on my belly and tremble at the prospect of the life growing inside me.
“Okay. We’ll talk later,” Colby says, shifting uncomfortably. “We’ll make a plan together.”
Of course, that’s what he’d want to do. Colby can’t cope without everything being set out in an orderly way that he can manage. Life isn’t like that, though. It’s messy and filled with curve balls that smack you on the side of the head when you are least expecting them.
Hasn’t he realized that? He plays enough football.
“Sure.”
My hand is on the doorknob, ready to shut them out, but Micky puts his foot in front. The memory of Colby doing the same thing the day after our seven minutes in heaven almost knocks me off my feet. So many events connected like a chain have brought us to this place. “We will talk later, Ellie, because we’re a team now, and that’s how teams work.”
A team? Team fucking disaster.
“Sure,” I say again, and this time, they allow me to close the door.
Mom appears seconds later with an offer of chicken soup that makes me want to hurl all over her feet. I shouldn’t be ungrateful but having anyone in my space right now is invasive.
After a few hours, Dornan calls me, and it’s only when I see his name emblazoned across the phone screen, I remember we were supposed to meet. Shit. I hate letting friends down, but I can’t face hearing his jolly voice right now, even if it’s just for long enough for me to make excuses.
I go for most of the day, curled up in a ball on my bed, hiding under my favorite blue spotted fleece blanket, staring at the wall. Nausea comes and goes, but with a few sips of water, I manage to get through it without needing to use the bathroom. I don’t notice time passing until shadows creep across my room, and I hear the rumble of Colby’s car outside and their footsteps when they enter the house.
They’re going to want to talk, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what to do.
I’m a kid. A glorified child whose mom still washes her underwear. What the fuck do I know about raising another human being? I’m not even raising myself yet. And the three men who want to be my support are glorified kids, too. What the hell kind of parents could we make?
Well, Micky would be really caring. He’d know all the baby’s distinct cries and be able to tell exactly what they need to be content. He’d be the best at getting them to sleep.
And Seb would be the fun dad. He’d make up silly rhymes and be the first to hear the baby’s laugh. He’d be able to diffuse tantrums and turn everyone’s frown upside down.
Colby would be outstanding at keeping track of milestones and knowing what activities our baby would need to thrive. He’d have their college fund set up before they’re born and have them reciting their ABCs and 123s before any other kids the same age.
Really, now I think about it, they’d be awesome fathers in all the ways that count. They’ve already shown the men they are with all their voluntary work and the way they’re so responsible within the family.
It’s me I can’t picture within any of that. It’s me who has no substance.
They’d be great fathers, and I’d be a terrible mother.
Would they have to dare me through every decision just to keep me moving? I’m a shambles. A person with no backbone. Someone who needs a sharp object placed at the small of their back to do anything.
When there’s a knock at the door, I tell them to come in, and they all lumber into my dark room, scanning for me until they see my pathetic curled shape on the bed.
“Ellie.” Micky is the first to reach my side, his face drawn with worry as he kneels in front of me. His hand presses against my forehead, and he looks up at Colby and Seb, who stand behind him.
“She’s not hot.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just tired and sick.”
“That’s totally normal,” Micky whispers. “I’ve done some research today. This stage of pregnancy can be tough, but it rarely lasts more than a couple of months.”
“Months?” I gasp. “Are you serious?”
“Dry crackers and cookies with ginger will make you feel better,” he says. Of course, Micky would know that. Of course, he’d be the first to find out the things that would help.
“We need to tell our parents,” Colby says out of nowhere.