Chapter 6
Lexi
Days Later
LEXI: Yo
NATALIE: Who’s this?
LEXI: It’s Lexi. I lost my phone and they couldn’t give me back my old number because of something with the contract. So this is my new number. Save it!
NATALIE: Thank goodness! I’ve been texting you for days. Where the heck have you been? I’ve been calling and texting and you haven’t answered.
LEXI: Sorry! I didn’t have the money for a new phone until today. You know how it goes. I emailed you but I guess you didn’t get it?
NATALIE: No, I’ve been spending all my time with Clay. I figured if anyone needed me, they’d call.
LEXI: Well there you go. Needless to say, I’m fine. Just write this number down, ok?
NATALIE: Did you lose your phone at the party? I can ask Clay’s brothers if they’ve seen it.
LEXI: It’s all good, I promise. I have a shiny new phone no one in the world could possibly afford. Visa won’t know what hit ’em!
LEXI: Imagine me laughing maniacally at the thought of some fool giving me another credit card. Yet they do! Suckers!
NATALIE: Oh jeez.
NATALIE: I’m glad to hear from you anyhow. What’s new? How’s work?
LEXI: Slow as ever! That possible client-slash-investor I told you about bailed. Figures.
NATALIE: Here’s a thought—try being FRIENDLY. I know it’s hard but I swear you get results.
LEXI: But then people want to talk to me. I hate talking.
NATALIE: Ha.
LEXI: In all seriousness, I’m fine. Business is fine. Everything is fine. Fine all around. Want to go to lunch this week? I mean, if you’re buying.
NATALIE: I’m still with Clay. :)
LEXI: Sorry, that pause was me throwing up in my mouth a little.
NATALIE: Stop! He’s wonderful.
LEXI: I know. You told me. ;)
LEXI: I’m just glad you’re happy.
NATALIE: I thought his family was nice. Did you like them? You seemed to get along well with Knox. ;) He asked me about your number. Should I pass this one on to him?
LEXI: Let’s not and say we did.
NATALIE: Uh-oh. That bad?
LEXI: Not bad . . . but can you just tell him I have ebola or something? And my mouth is covered in sores and so I can’t talk?
NATALIE: Ouch. How about I just not give him your number.
LEXI: Or we can go with that, sure. You can give me his in case I change my mind.
NATALIE: Will do. Sorry it didn’t work out.
LEXI: You know me, I’m difficult even on the best days. Now tell me what you and Clay have been up to.
I let Natalie go on and on about Clay and how wonderful he is and how happy she is via text, making the appropriate smiley faces and commenting when I need to. I’m not paying much attention, though. I’m still thinking about Knox.
He asked for my phone number. He wants to talk to me.
I sigh, because I wouldn’t mind talking to him or seeing him again, either. But the timing is rotten. Keith’s still lurking entirely too much for my liking, so the best thing I can do is remain under the radar and go about my day as normal. He’ll eventually buzz off. He always does. Until then, I have to play it cool. I still have plenty to occupy my time, at least. I’m still canceling credit cards and trying to get new copies of the ID I lost. I could ask Keith if he picked them up . . . but I’d rather roast in hell first.
The door to my studio opens and my three o’clock enters, five minutes late as usual. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, not optimal yoga wear. But she pays on time, so I don’t much care. I text a good-bye to Nat, put my phone down, and nod a greeting at Alice. “Let’s get warmed up, shall we?”
Weeks Later
LEXI: I’m sorry to hear about Seth’s death. I saw it on the news. I’m shocked. He was such a great guy. Kid. Whatever.
NATALIE: I know. Clay’s devastated. They all are. I am too but I’m trying to hold it together for Clay.
LEXI: Is there anything I can do? Send flowers? Something?
NATALIE: No, it’s ok. I’m helping Ivy with the arrangements. But thank you for offering.
LEXI: Now I feel like shit that I blew off Knox. You think I should call him?
NATALIE: Honestly? No. I’d leave it alone. None of them are handling Seth’s death very well. Let them grieve for a bit.
LEXI: Will do. Give me the address and I’ll send flowers, though. It’s the least I can do. And call me if you need a shoulder to cry on.
NATALIE: K, thx.
One Month Later
I swing my legs back and forth in the doctor’s office, waiting for him to come in. The paper gown catches my eye in my reflection and I glance over, then hop off the table and move toward the mirror. I cup my tits, because they look a lot bigger than normal. Surely that’s my imagination. Surely all of this is my imagination. I turn to the side, then frown. I’m just here to make sure, that’s all.
The home pregnancy test had to be wrong.
Dr. Keppler enters and beams at me, pretending not to notice that I’m playing with my boobs as he enters. “How are we feeling, Lexi?”
“We’re feeling a little whorey, Doc. Thanks for asking.” I hop back up on the table and immediately start swinging my feet nervously again.
He chuckles and moves to his counter, pulling out a pair of disposable gloves, and then pauses. “No latex, right?”
“Only if you want to examine my rash right after you examine my hootenanny.”
“You’re a funny one. I remember that, too.” He winks at me and opens a cabinet. “Nonlatex gloves, just for you and your hootenanny.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Normally I’d give him more shit, but I’m too nervous. “So what did my pee test say?”
“Well, what do you want it to say?” He pulls on his gloves and glances over at me.
I just glare at him. “I want it to say no, of course.”
“Feet in the stirrups, please.” When I do, he moves forward and puts a blanket over my abdomen and one of the nurses discreetly enters the room.
“Test results, please,” I say back immediately.
“What your test said,” Dr. Keppler continues in a mild voice, “is that someone remembered her latex allergy but didn’t remember her birth control.”
Shit. Shit shit shit. “I’m pregnant?”
“Yes.” He sticks fingers in inappropriate places and continues my exam. I remain quiet, staring up at the kitten posters on the ceiling and trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
Pregnant. Jesus. Me, a mother. God has a very ironic sense of humor if he thinks this is a good idea. I’m barely capable of taking care of myself, much less a baby. The stacks of unpaid bills and the sheer number of credit cards I have can attest to that. Or my fridge, considering it’s empty of everything but expired yogurt, some wilted greens, and kombucha. Even I don’t want that shit.
He finishes the exam and beams at me from between my thighs. “Everything looks great. You’re about six weeks along. Congratulations.” He pulls the gloves off and turns to one of the rows of pamphlets on the wall. “Unless you don’t want to keep it. I don’t judge, of course. It’s your body and I can’t tell you what to do with it. But if you need information on terminating it, I have some pamphlets.”
Terminating it? That sounds so . . . awful. Ugh. “I’m still coping with the fact that I’m pregnant. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”
“I’d advise you to take a few days and think everything over. Nothing has to be a snap decision.” His voice is soothing and calm, and he gives me a fatherly look. “If you’re still taking the birth control, you need to stop. Once you get dressed, you can talk to the front desk about a follow-up appointment and we’ll decide how to proceed from here.”
That’s it? That’s all I get?
I lick my lips and pull my feet out of the stirrups, sitting up. The gown’s hanging loose around me and I hug it close like a blanket. “I can’t believe I’m pregnant.”
“Did you miss any of your pills?”
“A few days.” More like a week. Okay, maybe two. I’m normally diligent about that sort of thing, but the last while has been a bit of a mess. I lost my pills when Keith ripped my purse out of my hands and I was too chickenshit to get it back. I didn’t think about the consequences until a day or two later, when I realized I didn’t have any. I couldn’t get my prescription refilled without a credit card to put it on, and my credit cards were gone. My bank account is always close to zero thanks to the monthly rent on my studio and my apartment, so I hoped that nothing weird would happen. I even had my period last month. Well, kind of. It was spotty and light, but I told myself it was because I was stressed and not eating so well.
Oh god. I bury my face in my hands. “I had sex with someone and we didn’t use condoms because of the latex. And then I lost my pills and didn’t get them back for a while. So yeah, I’m an idiot.”
“One time is all it takes. I’ve had young women get pregnant even while on the pill. It’s not infallible.”
I give him a miserable look. “You’re not helping.”
Dr. Keppler grimaces. “I guess I’m not. Do you need to talk to someone?”
Oh god, do I ever. I feel a desperate need to talk to someone. Anyone. I want to call Nat . . . but oh my god, she’d freak. She doesn’t even know that I slept with Knox, and I haven’t felt like there’s been a good time to bring it up. Not after I ghosted him and then Knox’s younger brother died. The entire situation is hella awkward. As for Knox himself, that’s another can of worms entirely. If I’m this freaked out at being a mother at twenty-eight, I can only imagine what he’ll think of being a dad at twenty-three.
Another realization hits me and I go cold with fear. How’s Keith going to react when he finds out I’m pregnant with another man’s baby? I know it’s none of his business and I know I shouldn’t give a shit, but the thought of Keith finding out makes me break into a damp sweat. “If anyone asks, I came in here for a routine lady-business exam.”
Dr. Keppler’s expression goes from genial to sour. “Lexi, you’re my patient. What we discuss is confidential. I won’t tell anyone what this is about, because that would violate HIPAA laws.”
“Okay.” He says that, of course, but I’ve seen too many people bend the law when Keith puts on his “gosh, shucks, I’m harmless” routine, like all his cop buddies that seem to look the other way every time he amps up his harassment.
“I’m not allowed to disclose your medical records to anyone unless you give them written permission.”
“Well, no one has permission,” I say defensively. “What goes on in my vagina is only my business and your business.”
“And possibly the father’s,” Dr. Keppler agrees with a pat on my shoulder. “Bring him in next time. I’d love to meet your young man.”
“Boy, you don’t know the half of that, Doc,” I tell him, thinking of Knox. “Young man” is a little too on the nose for me.
I get dressed as the doctor heads out and I’m barely paying attention as I offer the front desk my credit card. Me. Pregnant. So not only do I have to worry about what I’m going to do about this—and Knox, and Keith—but I also need to think further ahead in the future, like how I’m going to run a one-woman failing yoga studio when I’m obscenely pregnant, or after I have the baby.
“This one’s declined.” The girl in pink scrubs behind the counter gives me an apologetic little grimace. “I’m sure it’s just a glitch in the system. Do you have another we can try?”
“More like a glitch in my wallet,” I tell her, and hold out three more credit cards, all of them near the max limit. “Pick a card, any card.”
Luckily, card number three is a winner, and I leave the doctor’s office with a follow-up appointment, a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and dread churning in my belly. Pregnancy is the last thing I need.
I have to amend that statement when I get to my apartment and the door’s hanging open. I can hear someone moving inside and whistling. I glance down the hall, but there’s no one around, and I sure wasn’t expecting a visit from maintenance today. “Hello?”
“Lexi? Come in.”
It’s Keith. Motherfucker. I head inside, my mind whirling with a mixture of anger and confusion and hormones. “How nice of you to invite me into my own apartment.”
He looks over at me in surprise, a wounded expression on his face. He’s wearing a handyman belt and has the cabinet under my kitchen sink pulled open, pipes spread on the floor. “I’m sorry, Lexi. Did I scare you? Was talking with Jim today and he mentioned that his knees were hurting him, so I thought I’d help out.”
“Help out with what?” I clutch the book closer to my chest, trying to protect my hammering heart. Keith is in my apartment. In my apartment. God knows what he’s peeked through. I feel the urge to wash everything in my lingerie drawer just in case. “Why are you taking apart my sink?”
“Oh.” He glances back at it. “Like I said, Jim needed some help, and you know me. I like to help out.” He’s all smiles, as if he’s not stalking me or anything. “Jim said that the pipes aren’t up to code and some of them have to be replaced. Told him since I was off duty today that I’d be happy to help out, and here I am.” He spreads his hands, a wrench in one, and does his best to look helpless.
I’m not fooled. My entire body is tense and alert. I’m not going to relax until I have the door shut safely behind me and the dead bolt thrown. “No one told me the sink needed to be fixed.”
“He was trying to do it while people were at work.” He turns back to my sink and squats on the floor again. “I’ll be done soon enough and out of your hair.”
“Just like a lice combing. Neat.” I keep my voice flat. “I’ll just be sitting over here staring uncomfortably until you leave, then.” I sit at one of my bar stools and slap my purse on the counter, giving him my best glare. I’m close enough to the kitchen knives to grab one.
Keith looks back at me and gives me a grin like we’re bestest buddies. “You have the weirdest sense of humor, Lexi. You shouldn’t say shit like that.”
“Can’t help it. It’s the demons inside me.”
“Or shit like that.” He frowns and then nods at the book I’ve slapped down on the counter. “Who’s pregnant?”
Oh, fuck me. I’ve been so rattled at the sight of him in my kitchen I forgot I was carrying a pregnancy guide. “One of my clients,” I tell him, keeping my face expressionless. “I need to know what stretches she can do without rupturing something.”
“For your dance class?”
Now I’m about to rupture something. “Yoga.”
“Right.” He turns back to the sink. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’d be better off teaching dance around here.”
“I do mind you saying. I mind you being here, too. In fact, I pretty much mind all of this, and I think I’m going to complain to the office that you’re in here without my permission.” I dig through my purse, looking for my new phone, and pull it out with a wave.
He just shrugs his big shoulders. “You can call Earl, but he knows me. He knows I won’t do anything to harm you. He knows I’m sweet on you.”
“Is that what we call ‘stalking’ now days? I’ll update my lexicon.” But I put down my phone, feeling helpless. He’s right. Earl’s the owner of the building, and he’s a volunteer firefighter. They’re drinking buddies, which I didn’t know until after I moved into this building.
This town is too fucking small. I need to leave . . . except any apartment would be first and last month’s rent up front, and I’m pretty much tapped out on my credit—not that they’d take it. And I have a business here.
And I’ve got a bun in the oven.
So I grit my teeth, slide a knife under my purse, and wait for Keith to leave.
He putters around for a half hour and replaces a bit of pipe under the sink with something that looks like the same sort of pipe. Ten bucks says he made this up just to get into my place. I answer him with one-word responses until he finally leaves and then I bolt the door behind him and push a dresser in front of it for good measure. Then I go hunting through my bedroom to see if anything is missing or has been touched.
I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Violated.
I feel like I need to cry, but I’d rather punch something. And my boobs fucking hurt. Furious, I tear apart my lingerie drawer, but I can’t tell if anything’s missing. I check the bed and then peek into the bathroom. There’s a bud vase with a rose in it on the counter.
That cocksucker.
I grab the entire thing and fling it against the tile wall of the shower. It shatters into a million pieces, which just makes me cuss even more because I’m going to have to clean it up. Pissy, I glare at it, shoulders heaving. Where is my fucking Zen today? Keith stole it, just like he’s stealing my privacy and making me lose my mind. I want nothing more than to relax and do a couple of calming asanas to set my brain straight, but if I get sweaty, I’ll have to shower. For all I know, Keith’s sabotaged the plumbing so he’ll have to—oopsie—come back and “help” once more.
God, I hate this. I hate this so much.
I sniff back the tears that threaten to well up and march into the living room, grabbing my rolled-up yoga mat. My studio. I’ll go to my studio. At least there, I can turn on some soothing music and not worry that Keith is going to show up. For some reason, he avoids my workplace. I guess he doesn’t like the thought of women outside of the kitchen or some sexist bullshit like that.
But if I get sweaty, I don’t have any place to shower. I don’t feel safe doing it here. What if Keith put a camera somewhere? Or what if I’m midshower and he finds a way to come back inside? The thought gives me goose bumps.
I pick up my phone and text Nat.
LEXI: Hey, you busy? My shower’s busted and I was wondering if I could go over to your house and use it.
LEXI: Your dad’s house, I mean.
Up until she shacked up with Clay, my poor, sweet, too-innocent Natalie lived in the ranch-slash-museum with her decrepit old asshole dad and basically took care of him and his museum. Of course, now that she’s with Clay, he’s got her dad living in an assisted place and she just moved in with him to some house that came with an obscene price tag. She’s now in the outskirts of San Antonio and I miss her like crazy. I mean, I’m happy for her, but at the same time, I’m a little resentful of Clay for stealing her away from me when I need her.
NAT: Hey
NAT: Might not be a good idea. The new staff gets a little wigged out if someone comes over without notice.
NAT: I can text the manager and let him know a friend’s coming by to shower if you want.
NAT: Or you can come visit me for a few days. :) The new place has a guesthouse! It’s practically screaming for someone to come give it a gothic makeover.
God, I would love to escape for a few days and hide over at Natalie’s new place. I don’t even care that I’d be third wheeling it and they’d be all shmoopy all over each other. There’d be no Keith. I’d have room to breathe.
Unless he followed me. And then I’d have to explain to Natalie and Clay both why Keith won’t leave me alone, and someone will want to step in and “help” me out with my life, and I’ve had enough of that shit to last a lifetime. I can do this on my own. Mostly. But the thought of getting away for a few days is super tempting.
LEXI: Unfortunately I have clients.
NAT: Maybe this weekend? I haven’t seen you in forever.
LEXI: Maybe this weekend! Sure.
NAT: I’m glad you texted. So . . .
LEXI: What?
NAT: How do you know if you’re pregnant?
I stare at my phone in horror. How the fuck does she know? I haven’t told anyone—
NAT: Because I puked this morning and I missed my period!
NAT: !!!!
NAT: Do you think I could be pregnant?
Oh, thank god. I can feel my entire body unclench as her excited texts roll in. For a moment there, I thought somehow that Keith had found out, and I was picturing how angry he’d be . . . I shiver and fight the urge to vomit myself. Instead, I focus on typing a response.
LEXI: You might be. Do you have the urge to wear cardigans and wander around the kitchen barefoot?
NAT: Ha. Very funny. And you know I always wear cardigans. :)
NAT: But seriously, I haven’t gotten a test yet. I’m scared to.
LEXI: Do your boobs hurt?
NAT: They feel a little sore. Is that a thing?
LEXI: So I’ve heard.
I touch my own throbbing tits and wince. “Heard,” my ass.
NAT: I’m so excited!!!
NAT: Clay and I have been wanting to try.
NAT: We’ve wasted enough time apart, you know?
LEXI: Fingers crossed you’ve got something growing inside you and it’s not a waterborne parasite!
NAT: Ew, thanks for that.
LEXI: You know I’m here for you. ;)
NAT: I’m going to the pharmacy right now to get a test! Should I say something to Clay or wait to get results?
Her excitement is practically palpable. I know my Nat. I know how excited she must be about the thought of babies with Clay. It’s like she’s had a miserable experience for so long and now all her happiness is exploding around her like a mushroom cloud. Good for her. I’m genuinely thrilled that she’s so happy. I just wish my own shit was a little more together.
I ponder her question, then text my answer.
LEXI: Depends. Does Clay know you’re trying for a baby?
LEXI: Or will he be upset if you’re preggo?
NAT: Omg, no. He’ll be thrilled! He tells me all the time he wants to see me pregnant with his baby. Isn’t that sweet?
NAT: I love him so much, Lexi!!
Puke. I ponder my own baby daddy. Would Knox want to know that I’m knocked up with his bun? Or will he be horrified? Should I tell him? I want to ask Nat, but I’m not sure how to phrase it.
LEXI: Hypothetical question: what if he didn’t want a baby and you were pregnant? Would you still tell him?
Nat’s reply is pretty much immediate.
NAT: Well, yeah.
NAT: Of course.
NAT: He’s the father. He deserves to know. I mean, it wouldn’t affect how I feel about things but I’d feel like a jerk if I didn’t tell him.
NAT: But he wants it. I promise you he does!! :)
NAT: Omg I’m so excited! Should I get more than one test?
NAT: No, don’t answer that. I’m buying one of everything! Just in case.
I send back a smiley face, distracted again. He’s the father. He deserves to know. I don’t think she’s wrong. I think the father deserves to know, even if it’s going to be a terribly awkward, painful conversation. Ugh.
It’s going to be even more awkward when he finds out I’m keeping it and I don’t need his involvement. Getting rid of it isn’t an option. It’s in my body, so it’s mine. The thought of getting rid of it hasn’t even really been in my mind. It’d make things easier . . . but it’s not who I am. So I’ll figure this out, baby and all.
But I guess I should tell Knox. How? I wonder. Text message? Phone call? Should I show up on his doorstep? Oh, ugh, the thought of doing that makes me feel all squirmy, because then I think of his beard on my thighs and how sexy that was. I think about his beard a lot, actually. Especially late at night, when I’m feeling lonely and I’m in bed alone. It’s my new favorite memory to masturbate to.
If I show up on his doorstep, though, he’s going to think this is a team effort. Oh yeah, that’s a bad idea. As nice as Knox is, this isn’t his problem. I remember him asking me about a condom and me practically telling him to shove it in me already. I don’t need him to participate. I can do this on my own.
So I need to think of a good way to tell him. Somehow.