So. Long(178)
I shrug, pump a squirt of hand sanitizer into my palm, and rush to the bathroom. My stomach lurches again about the time I hit the lock on the door. I catch most of the mess in my hands; the rest splashes at my feet.
Ham and cheese doesn’t taste very good the second time around.
A knock is followed by the handle jiggling. “Mo? Let me in, babe.”
I swipe the back of my wrist across my mouth. “I’ll be all right.”
“Open up. I brought you some water.”
“Go help with the kids. I’ll be done in a few.” I rinse my face at the sink. I don’t think I’m running a fever.
Another knock on the door. I snap. “I said I’ll be out in a minute. Jeez!”
“It’s Rhonda. Just checking on you. Danny said he thinks you might need to go home. He’s going to give you a ride. I called Donna. She’ll be here in a few minutes, so don’t worry about anything.”
“No. I’m okay now.” As soon as my words are out another bout of nausea seizes me.
When I finish barfing, Rhonda calls through the door, “Just go home and get some rest. If you’re contagious we don’t all want it. Nothing like a room full of puking two-year-olds to ruin a day.”
I wilt. “Fine.”
* * *
With one hand on my knee and the other on the wheel, Danny drives while throwing looks my way.
Though he hasn’t said anything, I can almost hear the wheels turning.
Finally, I ask, “What, already? Just say it.”
He looks at the road, like he wasn’t looking at me at all. Then those green eyes come back to mine.
I cock an eyebrow. “Well?”
His knuckles go white on his steering wheel as he flexes his hands. “Well. I was curious. You haven’t had your period.”
My…? “What? You’re keeping track of my menstrual cycle?”
“No. I just, I mean, since we first—you know—made love, you haven’t had one. Maybe the puking isn’t a virus.”
My chest freezes and the cold spreads to the rest of me. I count back. Shit.
Danny glances my way again.
“Well, there were a few days when you first started at the center we weren’t together. I’m fine. Not pregnant. You don’t need to worry, Danny. I’m not out to trap you or whatever it is you’re thinking.”
His brow wrinkles. “What? Trap me? No. I was just—aw, fuck it. Good. Glad you aren’t prego.”
Women are fucked up. A guy tries to show some concern and they flip their shit. What the hell?
Trap me? What the fuck? Shit… trap me? Really? It’s not like it would upset me if—Mo and my baby?
My lungs hitch at the thought. I slide a glance her way. A vision of a sweet little green-eyed blonde with satin skin like her mama’s pops into my mind. Or, what if we had a boy, sandy hair with Mo’s blue eyes? My heart swells.
No. Stop. Don’t even go there. It’s obvious the idea is abhorrent to Mo. She’s still got to finish school. But people do it all the time; and she’d only have a year left by the time the baby came. It’s not completely out of the realm of doable.
No.
Shit.
Hell’s bells. Why am I even thinking this? She doesn’t even fucking love me and I want her pregnant with my baby?
The plastic just-in-case-she-barfs bag in Mo’s lap covers the place a baby would thrive in her womb. I can just imagine Mo’s golden skin stretched taut over our baby inside, all warm and safe.
Fuck yeah, I want her pregnant with my baby. I want it all. The house, the SUV, the kids, the dogs. Hell, even a cat, if that’s what she wants.
Now, all I have to do is make her fall in love with me.
It’s been two days since Danny scared the living shit out of me with his question about whether or not I could be pregnant. It’s all I think about.
Worry about.
I’ve been sick every afternoon. Not sick early in the day at all. Obviously not morning sickness. So, surely—
Well, we’ll find out. I lay the white stick with its accusing little window on the counter. After I wash up, I creep into the hallway, checking that Danny hasn’t come home.
Back into the bathroom.
No. Not enough time has gone by.
I sit on the edge of the bed, gnawing on my thumbnail. My stomach is full of mean and nasty butterflies, the poisonous kind. Okay, I don’t know if there are any such things as toxic butterflies, but the ones in my gut must be with the way it feels.
Please don’t let Danny return in the next two and a half minutes.
I grab a handful of crackers from the cabinet in the kitchen, munching on them as I pace into the living room. The microwave clock has to be stuck. I check my phone. Nope. Same time shows on both. Damn.