Part I
She’s Having His Baby
1
Jimmy
Present Day. Early November.
Ifeel the slap of my Nike’s on the dark road as I run and track my heart rate. The sun’s not up yet, but I am. I always am.
The air’s getting fresher. It bites at my skin when I step outside in the mornings, and the puffs of white fog race ahead of me in the same pattern as my interval sprints.
I run along my usual route around our small town, cut through the park, and past the swings that have no children on them yet. I run past our gym like a self-appointed security detail, then around the high school; my old high school. My new little brother’s current school.
I do a quick lap of their running track and hurdle the low fence. My headphones pump Linkin Park into my ears; the bass so loud, so deep, I’ll probably have a headache later, but for now, I like it. It makes me run harder, faster.
I need to keep going.
I need to be lighter.
Faster.
Better.
Then I need to go back to the cage and reclaim my belt.
I turn onto Main Street and sniff the air. The baker has already been up for hours. The delicious scents of sweet bread and pastries waft in the soft breeze, and a few doors up, a diner roasts their own coffee beans daily.
The caffeine smells even better than the bread.
I sprint along Main to escape temptation, but slow again as I pass the photography studio. Tina’s place. I do a quick visual exam to make sure it’s all locked up and secure. She belongs to the girls now, which means she belongs to us. Which means, she’s been added to my morning security run.
I turn down the alleyway that runs behind her studio and check that door, too, then I continue on my way. It takes fifteen minutes to run from my house to Bobby’s. I do this every single day, and every single day, I have to mentally prepare.
Every single day, I tell myself I won’t do it.
Bobby’s there, they don’t need me to check in on them. But I do it, anyway. And every day when I should be sprinting, I slow and stare up to the guest room window.
Because I’m an idiot.
Some days I see light shining through the curtains and her silhouette teasing me. Other days, the room’s still dark.
Both options hurt me.
I don’t know why I can’t get over it.
Overher.
I try. I’ve tried really fucking hard.
I try to think of her as a sister. I try and think of her baby. Notmybaby. I remind myself she has Bobby and Kit under the same roof. She doesn’t need me. And I don’t need her.
But I do. I need her so fucking bad.
If I stick around just to be near her, I think I’ll die a slow and painful death by heartbreak. But if I go, I’ll also die.
So basically, I’m fucked.