The party dies down, until only Rachel and my sisters are left to help clean up. Jenny hasn’t said one word to me but I’m just too tired to worry about it right now.
“Sit down,” Mom tells me when I help toss paper plates. “Put your feet up. You look tired, sweetie.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I go into the living room and lay on the couch, feeling like I’m to the point of exhaustion where I just want to cry myself to sleep.
* * *
Once the house is clean, Mom and Dad help load stuff into my Jeep. Ella is sitting low in my ute and I’m waddling as I walk, carrying bags of clothes to the door for Dad to grab. The last parcel is in my Jeep when Colin pulls in the driveway, here to pick up Jenny and eat whatever is left over. Noah is in the passenger seat. Oh, right. His bike is at the bar and his Charger is still parked at his apartment. I wonder what he told Colin when he picked him up.
I stand in the threshold of the door, waiting for Noah to get in the house.
“Your mother already left, and you missed the baby shower.” I say each word slow and quiet as soon as Noah is in earshot.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says and tries to hug me. I might be acting childish, but I turn and walk away.
“Oh, Noah!” Mom says. “Glad you’re feeling better. Lauren said you thought you had the flu.”
“Yeah … the flu,” he mumbles and comes inside. “Do you need help with anything?”
“No,” I snap. “We got it all without you.”
Katie narrows her eyes, watching and noticing something is off. Dammit, she’s too observant. I make myself appear relaxed, and take Noah’s hand. Yes, I’m pissed at him. So incredibly pissed. But I don’t want the others to know. Not yet at least.
We stay and talk about babies and parenting with my family for a bit, then leave when Rachel does.
“You told everyone I had the flu?” Noah questions, getting into the driver’s side of the Jeep.
“What else was I supposed to say? The truth? You were shit-faced drunk, puking in the bathroom all night.”
“I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “And thanks for not telling them.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
Noah lowers his head, sighing, and pulls onto the street. A few minutes pass before he speaks. “I only got drunk because I was stressing about you and Ella.”
“Like that’s supposed to make me feel better? I’m exhausted, Noah. You have no idea how bad my back hurts every day. I cannot do this. I can’t work and deal with pregnancy symptoms, try to have a life, and take care of you. There’s no way I can go back to school with two people to take care of. I was up worrying you were going to choke to death on your own vomit. You promised me this wouldn’t happen again, and here we are—again. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…” I look away, tears in my eyes. Why can’t he see this is the last thing I need? “You missed our baby shower. Don’t you care? If not about being there for me, then for Ella?”
I put my hand over my stomach, feeling our baby kick up a storm. I don’t think she likes hearing her parents arguing, even if she has no idea what is going on.
I hate it.
I hate feeling like we’re not enough. I hate being afraid to raise my daughter on my own. I close my eyes, pushing out tears that roll down my cheeks. It’ll be better in the end. Yeah, it’s going to suck and be hard as hell, but I’d rather be a single mom for as long as it takes than be in a relationship that’s full of disappointment and hurt. Ella deserves better than that. She deserves to see her mom happy, to see what a healthy relationship looks like.
Noah parks in front of my house. We unload the gifts in silence, putting everything in the living room.
“I can help organize the nursery,” Noah offers.
“No,” I say shortly. “I just want to lay down. Please go.”
“Lauren,” he starts.
“Stop,” I say, holding up my hand. I can’t hear what he has to say, because I might cave. My heart is threatening to overrule my head right now, and I can’t have that. My worst fears about Noah have surfaced, and this proves how much he isn’t ready to be a father. “Please go, Noah.”
Noah looks at me, brow furrowed with hurt. His jaw tenses. “We don’t have to—”
“No!” I turn away, tears streaming down my face. “Go. I’ll call you when I’m in labor. Just leave.”
I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. I want to. I want to tell him it’s okay and he can have a second chance. I want him to hold me, kiss me, tell me he’s sorry and it won’t happen again.