“How is that even going to work, Mom?” I whisper beside her. “He is getting married. Does the baby stay at his place on weekends? What about when they have their own kids?”
“Honey, you’ll work it out. You always do. You’re my little planner,” she reassures me. “And besides, have you thought about moving back home so Dad and I can help you?”
I try not to laugh. Living with my parents again would only highlight how pathetic my life has become. I am used to being a strong, independent woman, even in my relationship with Jason. I don’t need a man. Hand me a toolbox and I’m Miss Fix-It. Turn the TV to ESPN and I’ll talk stats with the best of them. No, I don’t need a man . . . except for sex. Greedy Kitty needs more than a flick of the bean.
“The offer is here, Presley. Pride aside, think about what is best for your child.”
I place my hands in the water and think about what Mom just said as I listen to the conversation at the table about baseball. When Dad starts to talk about the Yankees and Haden expresses his love for the team, I can hear the shift in my Dad’s voice, and soon he’s calling him
“son” and inviting him out to the range tomorrow.
They both ramble on, the conversation turning to extreme fishing. Haden whips out his cell and loads a video of it from YouTube. Really? Extreme fishing.
With the final plate put away, my mom calls it a night with my dad at her tail. Haden follows me to the living room to join everyone else. Gemma has decided to put on a Stephen King movie (much to my disapproval) and the only seat available is on the two-seater sofa beside Haden.
I take a seat beside him and brace myself for the worst. Honestly, I could kill Gemma and Haden right now with the nightmares that will plague me because of this damn clown. I swear I am so close to shitting in my pants. The moment the face pops up from the drain, I jump in fear, and at the same time that familiar flutter pokes my belly and I’m almost one hundred percent certain the baby just moved.
“I think the baby just kicked,” I say.
Gemma pauses the movie, rushing to my belly and placing her hands across it. Melissa, is also waiting and places her hands near Gemma’s. I feel like a science project with all hands on me but Haden’s. He looks uncertain, and waits for me to allow him to place his hands on there too. I tell him it’s okay and I guide his hand to the part where I felt the last flutter. Of course, nothing happens, and everyone grows bored (including me), so the movie is turned back on. With the lights turned off and the volume cranked up so loud, my body tenses in anticipation. Then again . . . that little prod.
I wasn’t going to waste the moment, so I inch closer to Haden. Grabbing his hand, I place it on top of my stomach, and within seconds the baby kicks again.
I hear him gasp, followed by a heartwarming, on-top-of-the-world type of smile. His hands still on my stomach, we watch the rest of the movie until the credits start to roll. When the lights turn back on, he removes his hands and I feel an instant loss.
Don’t get attached, Presley.
We all call it a night, especially because Haden is waking up early the next day to go out with Dad.
In my room, dressed in my tank and boxers, I toss and turn, unable to sleep with the face of that fucking clown taunting me. Stupid Gemma. Even as a child she would do this to me, and the worst part was, she never got scared.
I try to busy myself with my cell, reading some articles and re-tweeting funny tweets, until I look at the clock and see that it’s past midnight. Everything in my room is freaking me out, from the shadow of my curtains to the swaying tree outside. I need to pee but dare not get up for the bathroom. When I am sure my bladder is on the verge of exploding, I run to use it but refuse to look inside the drain, paranoid about a certain clown murdering me. I am no closer to falling asleep, so I decide to do the unthinkable and send him a text.
Me: Are you awake? #FuckingPennywise
That little bubble appears on my screen.
#Jerk: Yes #LOL
I jump out of bed and, without thinking, walk down the hall and tap on his door. He says to come in and when I enter the room, I’m surprised to see him shirtless and reading a book; I’m not surprised it’s a Stephen King novel.
Don’t look at his abs, even though they deserve to be looked at.
“I can’t sleep.”
“I figured since you were on Twitter for the last hour.”
“You follow me?”
He nods and pats the bed beside him. I move closer to the edge of the bed, trying to create some much-needed distance between us.
“I hate that movie. Who writes a book about clowns killing children?”
“A very talented author.” He chuckles.
“Our kid is never watching that movie,” I tell him.
He keeps still and I turn to look at him, wondering why he remains silent. Okay, avoid the fucking six-pack because you know it’s only the hormones that made Kitty just spurt Niagara Falls down below.