I pull back and grab my keys off the counter. I can’t do this right now. “Jesus Christ, Layla. Are you serious? We talked about next year, not next month.”
“January is a new year.”
“Well, it doesn’t work for me right now. Get your apartment back.” I stalk to my room and grab a clean shirt. Mine is sweat soaked and stinks.
Layla follows me down the hallway, to the bathroom, and watches me put on my deodorant. She waits for me to face her before saying, “I can’t. They’ve already got a new tenant lined up.”
I set my hand on her hip and slip past, heading for the front door. “Then get a new place because you can’t live here. Not right now.”
Layla chases after me and grabs my arm, stopping me from getting into the truck. “Why are you being like this?
I grip the door until my palm hurts. I’m already late and Layla is forcing my hand with this conversation. I don’t want to fight, but she’s not understanding that I have to leave! “Because I didn’t ask you to rearrange your life for me!”
“Josh.” She sucks in an audible breath. “I…”
“Layla.” I frown, not meaning to have hurt her feelings. “If you’re still here when I get back, then we can talk, but I have to go. Don’t wait up.”
Mom takes my hand and squeezes. I told her everything minus the particulars of how the baby was made. She made a good point. Amanda said she was on birth control, but she could have lied. And she supplied the condom. That girl was hell bent on us being together; she could have poked holes in it.
If that’s the case, there’s a good chance this baby could be mine.
“Everything will be okay,” Mom insists, but I’ve got a sinking feeling that everything is going to change.
From the moment that woman at the hospital called me, I felt it. This blanket of dread. Walking under the yellow lights of the hospital hallway, that blanket gets heavier with each step. I take a breath, unable to fill my lungs, then attempt to let it out.
“How can I help you?” the triage nurse asks.
The room spins. I can barely keep myself upright, let alone answer the question. I grip the counter and suck in another ragged breath.
“We’re here for a paternity test,” Mom answers for me.
“Oh!” The nurse perks up. “Baby McGee. I’ve been waiting for you. Can I see a photo ID?” She reads over my name, matching it to the one on her paper. “That little guy is a trooper.” She tells the other nurse at the counter she’ll be back and buzzes us through the doors. “Do you want to see him?”
“I… uh…” No. No I don’t. Seeing Bryson makes him that much more real. Right now he’s a dark cloud looming over my future. But seeing him, hearing him cry… nope. No thank you.
“We’d love to.” Mom smiles up at me with hopeful eyes. I nod, feeling that invisible blanket wrapping itself into a nuse.
The NICU isn’t what I expected. Babies aren’t in clear bassinets, waiting to be adored like in the movies. Most are in covered boxes, unable to be seen. Rows and rows of those boxes with monitors and machines attached fill the room. It’s scary.
“Here he is.” The nurse stops in front of a clear box without a cover.
My heart squeezes looking at Bryson. Wires stick out from his chest and arms, there’s tubes in his nose, and another going down his throat. The scariest is the IV. It’s sticking out of the little guy’s head, tapped to a scraggly mass of dark hair.
“What’s wrong with him?” I touch the box, knowing without a doubt the kid is mine. He looks like I did when I was born. Half the size, but just like me.
“He’s doing better than most babies his age, but he needs help breathing because his lungs aren’t fully formed yet, and he doesn’t have the coordination to eat on his own.” The nurse grabs a cover and places it over his cubicle thing. “I was hoping you’d want to see him, so I was ready. Babies this young like to be in the dark, they grow better that way.”
“Like they’re in the womb.”
The nurse nods and smiles. “Exactly.”
“We appreciate being able to see him.” Mom squeezes my arm. Tears pool in her eyes and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing as me. We’re still going to do the paternity test, but Bryson is mine. Amanda was right all along.
I follow the nurse to her vampire station. In less than five minutes, my blood is drawn and we are free to go. Mom stops at Bryson’s box again. I need a better word. Box reminds me of a coffin and the last thing I want is for him to end up with Amanda.
My throat burns, growing tighter with each swallow. I leave Mom with Bryson and hightail it to the truck. Every instinct in my body tells me to run, but I force myself to walk and maintain my composure. I smile and nod at the nurse near the door.
Left foot.